I have to say – scoring this one was hard. That’s always somewhat true, but this week was exceptionally difficult. The top three, for me, stood tall, but the remaining seven were all so close in my mind that it was awfully difficult to get these scored. It would have been nice to have a non-submitter to make the scoring not so important. I’ve always said I love the non-submitters, right?

Enjoy, readers. We’ve got comedy, drama and even some dabblings in horror.

You’ll also notice that after last week, where DK and I agreed on basically everything, you’re now going to be treated to the strongest score differentiations you’ve seen all season. That’s because you were all really good.

Andy Rustleund, I’m With Stupid

Dear Whoever is Reading This Right Now,

If you are reading this right now, then you know better than I do that I, world-famous and renowned actor and director, Bill Paxton, am dead, having taken my own precious life, at such a young age (56).

You’re asking yourself: Why? Why Bill? Why give up a life most people could only dream about? A life where you’re on Jim Cameron’s speed dial, married to three women, and get to direct movies such as Frailty (2001), starring Bill Paxton?

I wasn’t always an amazing actor, you know. Growing up in Fort Worth, I always saw myself getting into the lumber wholesale game, like dad. Maybe things would be different now if I had. Only Stephen King can know the answer to that. Anyway, after college, something drew me to the City of Angles, where I met Roger Corman. He saw my talent right away, and practically begged me to go into acting. “Bill,” he said, “You really should move out to New York right away. As in, right now. Please get out of my office.” Little did I know it was the first step in a journey that would end in my tragic death.

After I finally got my big break, playing “Main Character” in the Fish Heads short on SNL, I knew I had what it took to make it big back in Hollywoodland. As we all know, a string of major worldwide blockbuster successes followed me for the next 15 years: “Clyde the Bartender” in Streets of Fire (1984), “Billy Joe Bob” in Fresno (1986), “Howard ‘Hojo’ Jones” in The Last of the Finest (1990), and “Jack Belston” in Indian Summer (1993).

But those mega-hit movies were nothing compared to what came later. Though every child in America could name them, let me just remind you: Mighty Joe Young (1998), U-571 (2000), Vertical Limit (2000 – two in one year!), two Spy Kids movies, and the underrated Thunderbirds (2004) (based on the TV show [1966]), directed by Jonathan Frakes (Commander Riker on Star Trek: The Next Generation). Now you’re beginning to understand. How was I ever going to top myself?

Like every young actor in the biz, I’m ashamed to say I turned to drugs, booze and women. I just wasn’t ready for the pressures that came with being 250-300% better than most other actors of my generation. But, as you now know, gentle reader, nothing worked.

In desperation, I decided to take a break from movies, and try to settle down in TV, where no one cares whether you’re a good actor or not. But as you most certainly know, even television was no sanctuary for my blinding talents (3 Golden Globe nominations!).

Finally, last year, out of desperation, I tried making what appeared to be a slam dunk bomb with that two-bit hack Steven Soderbergh, but it seems that with me on board, even a steaming pile of shit like Haywire (2011) could not fail.

That is where we find overselves now, I’m afraid. Last stop. I had a conversation with myself this morning in the mirror, as I always do. You know who was staring back at me? Pvt. Hudson, from James Cameron’s Aliens (1986). You know what he said?

“I say we grease this rat-fuck son-of-a-bitch right now.”

William Archibald Paxton
29 January 2012

K: Okay, so the unfortunate strength was a little embellished, but it was embellished by “Paxton” and not the Survivor, so it qualifies. I giggled a lot, especially about the part where nobody cares if TV actors are good. 2

DK: Funny, but it wore me out after a little bit of the same joke over and over. I admit it picked a good subject for this just to be able to deliver the last line. 1

Brooks Maki, nibbish and his Vogons

“It’s another letter from Dreadevil, sir.” The clerk laid the letter on Chief Sanderson’s desk delicately, as if he was afraid that either the letter or the chief were about to explode.

He wasn’t wrong. “Goddammit, is this one any more readable than the last few? This crackpot has been sending us letters for months, but has he ever actually done anything? Why are you wasting my time with this?” The chief fixed the unfortunate clerk with an impressive glower.

“This… This one is different, sir. Almost legible.”

The chief snatched the letter off the desk and read:

Greetings to the good officers of our fair city,

I have retaiined the services of Williaam Firestone, five-time city-wide spelling chammp, in order to overcome the ccrippling dyslexiaa that has pplagued my career from tthe beginning, when I was inspiired by that Ben Affleck movvie to beecome a superhero. Iit is truly amazinng how acccurate this young maan’s spelling iss, I have been sittting enthralled for a couplle hours alreeady today, just watching him write out woords others wouuld break down when faced with the ttask of trying to sspell them. With that stumbliing block in my communication removedd, I seee great things for Dreadevil on tthe hoorizon.

Perhaps you already knoww of the disappearance of all the cats in the city. They have all beenn quartered in my ssecret hideout, wheere I will shortly begin to implemennt phase two of my ddiabolical plan (here’s a fun hhint: hair balls and static eleectricity). I don’t want to give everything away, the llack of specificity only makes my pplan more sinister!!

Yours,
DREADEVIL (and W. Firestone)

After ten minutes of work with a pencil and paper, and the chief reached for the phone. “Get a team together. We’re going after Dreadevil. I know where he is, at least tonight we’ll make these awful letters stop.”

K: This one could look confusing if I wasn’t the type of guy to look for hidden meanings. I found it, and suddenly the story comes together so perfectly it transcends the comedic tone and gets the “bravo” hand clap. Readers, if you haven’t caught the message yet, I won’t spoil it. I’ll spoil it in the comments later for any stragglers. 4

DK: I chuckled at this idea, too, and I appreciate the hidden message, but there’s not much more to the story here compared to most of the others. 1

Beau, nibbish and his Vogons

Graham Michaels was a dead man.
Not in the figurative sense, though he had also been that since last Thursday. At this moment he was genuinely dead. And in sixty seconds he would realize this fact.
Graham’s net worth was 1.9 billion. He did not live lavishly. He did not care about status. He made money because he was good at it. Really good at it. Being a hedge fund manager was sheer joy.
While he would publicly bemoan every new regulation placed upon his work by the government, Graham secretly relished each new change to the game. While he had the talent and the stamina to make money within the system, finding ways to game it was his primary hobby. And for nineteen years, he had never been caught.
Last Thursday he was caught.
No charges had yet been pressed, but a close friend tipped him off that the SEC had proof of insider trading. Graham did not fear death. Death was just the end of the game. But he feared prison, where the game continued without him.
Five minutes ago he met his friend at a villa outside Riga. Sipping on some wine, his friend extended his hand out, inviting Graham to have a seat. He obliged, resting his attaché case on the wicker table. Perhaps it was a bit conspicuous, but Graham had to carry as much cash as possible with his bank accounts soon to be worthless.
“You know,” his friend greeted him. “Lugging that thing around could get you killed.”
Graham raised his brow. “By you, perhaps?”
His friend grinned, pulling out a pistol. “Perhaps.” Graham let go of the case. “You see ol’ friend. What I didn’t tell you was that the SEC found a little Ponzi scheme you ran in ninety-nine. I lost half a mil that year.”
“I’ve made you back twice that,” said Graham, ignoring the weapon.
“So you did,” he replied, opening up the case. “And now, it appears, twice that again.”
Not only did Graham not fear death, he did not fear living. Sewn into the lining of his suit was enough money to keep him comfortable for a long time. He took a sip of the Sauvignon and considered opening a winery.
“Guess I no longer need this,” his former friend said, putting away his gun. “Hope your soul is prepared.”
Graham put down his glass. “The wine?” He laughed. “Classic.”
Sixty seconds later, Graham opened his eyes. A red mist clouded most of his view. He did not know what to expect from the afterlife, but he was surprised to find all of his senses still in working order. The smell of sulfur nearly knocked him back.
Never one to hesitate, Graham strode through the mist. As it cleared, Graham was aghast to see dozens of grayish souls wandering, sulking. He expected spirits, yes. But the sight of people resigned to their fate was abhorrent. He didn’t pity them. He hated them. And he had no time for them.
Ahead, he saw what looked like a river, black and uninviting. As he approached, a ferry came into view. Its operator stood erect, but otherwise appeared calloused, bereft of life.
Graham accosted the spirit. “Do you take me across the river? Is my soul to be judged?”
The spirit lifted his arm, pointing to a sign. On it, a picture of a coin.
Graham felt around inside his suit. Bingo. “I have cash. Will a hundred thousand do? After all, I can’t take it with me, right?” The spirit nodded, and beckoned him to the ferry. The trip was long, especially since Graham’s companion was not conversational. However, before eternity passed, they reached the other side. The spirit extended his hand.
“Oh, right. Your payment.” Graham removed everything stitch of clothing that held money, leaving him in his briefs. He handed his clothes to the spirit, who donned them and stepped off the boat. He handed Graham his oar.
“What’s this for?”
The spirit finally spoke. “I finally have enough to pay my dues. I sincerely thank you. Now I must be going. I am through with this world.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” sputtered Graham.
“You are Charon,” the spirit replied. “You pay your dues.”

K: There’s actually a fable like this, where the oarsman is replaced, but that’s trickery rather than punishment. This reads like a cautionary tale, but isn’t ham-fisted enough to be annoying. I dug the mood…though I would have taken it even darker. 3

DK: I like the development of this character and the ending packs a little more punch for me because of that, I think. 3

Peter Bruzek, nibbish and his Vogons

“I’m sorry to bother you…” the frail woman began. They were always sorry. They were usually scared, too, but mostly, they were just apologetic. Sorry to inconvenience, sorry to impose, so sorry to place the burden on Christine. If they were really so sorry, she thought, they wouldn’t be asking. They’d be looking into aromatherapy or herbal treatments – anything but this.

“You do understand what you’re asking for, don’t you?” Christine cut the woman off. “Can you live with what’s going to happen?”

They always, without fail, said that yes, they could live with it. Some of them actually could. Maybe they just didn’t understand the nature of the Balance, or maybe they understood it, but simply didn’t care what about the implications.

“Gather up a couple of Frank’s personal effects and procure a single vial of his blood. Bring those things to me three nights from now. You’ll need to spend that night in this house, so bring along a change of clothes.”

Some of Christine’s clients would then begin to worry about how they were going to get a vial of blood without their loved one suspecting anything. Some of them began to realize the full weight of what they were asking for around this time. If this woman did, she resigned herself to it with a sigh and a weary nod. They made their arrangements and the woman left.

Thursday came, and Christine set the basement up for the ritual. The woman came over at the appointed time and the pair went descended into the darkness.

“Do you ever feel badly for what you do?” the woman asked. Christine loathed conversations like this. What they about to do was soul-wrenching enough as it was without having a great deal of attention cast upon the particulars of it.

“I generally don’t think about it too much. If you’re ready, we ought to begin.”

“Why do you do it? You didn’t ask for much money, and you can’t possibly enjoy the heartache your actions cost.”

Christine opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t find the words for an explanation. This woman was just as complicit as she, what was there to be gained from discussing it further?

“I don’t think we should talk about this any more.”

“I just don’t see how a human could…”

“Enough. Do you have the items I requested?”

“Yes.”

“Then if you have nothing further to say, let’s begin. I will transfer your husband’s illness into this loaf of bread. Whichever eats the bread will take on his illness.”

“Alright.”

The ritual was completed with no further incident. Christine gave the woman the cursed loaf of bread, instructed her that the sooner she found a target, the more effective the transference would be.

The woman nodded, she took the bread out of her purse and began to eat it.

Christine stared in disbelief as the woman took the curse upon herself.

“Why did you do that?” Christine asked. She had entertained a suspicion that others had done similar things throughout her time, but never had she seen a client do so in person.

“I couldn’t bear to see him slip away.”

“But you’ll force him to do it for you?”

“No.” replied the woman, as she briefly showed Christine the pistol she had hidden in her purse. With that, she left.

The next day, Christine’s new client was sitting at her table. “I’m sorry to bother you” he began…

No, Christine thought, you’re not, and after this time, I won’t have to be, either.

K: Wow, another fable. Don’t play God, people. I like the concept and would like to see it extrapolated further, though it does seem somewhat familiar. 4

DK: Another good idea (these are all pretty good ideas) but something about it played out a little too familiar for me. It didn’t really grab me and keep me interested like some of the others. 2

Matt Novak, nibbish and his Vogons

“Guess a number.”
“4.”
The door swung shut and darkness took over. Mary heard the solid sound of the lock falling into place and she cried.

The air was musty and Mary felt it in her lungs, felt how each breath wasn’t quite enough. The walls were stone, and cold. The floor felt like dirt, but when she’d tried to dig she split her nails. The last time he’d come to the door she made a point to check it over. It was concrete; old, and covered with dirt. She didn’t hear many noises. No water through pipes or air blowing through vents. No voices. It felt like a cellar, cut off from a house. She knew it had been there a long time, but she couldn’t fight the dread that this room had been built for her. She ached with fear, with dirt, with cold.

Mary felt for the bread she knew she’d saved. She had started rationing her food. It was a small thing, an illusion, really, but the illusion of control. She didn’t know how long she’d been there. Maybe a week. Maybe less. He’d only fed her three times. Just set a paper plate on the ground when he came in, and demanded her guess, leaving her to eat in the darkness. Now, there was nothing left of the beef, and the bread had hardened, but it tasted alright, and eating it calmed her.

He seemed to be testing her. Asking just one number at a time, seeing if she could prove herself. She wondered if she’d even gotten any of them right. It hadn’t ever worked that way.
———————————————-
Mary had been born the Wednesday after Labor Day, and was cursed with being the oldest in her class. She was tall and broad, but hadn’t been graced with any athleticism to speak of. There weren’t many boys interested in a girl like that, but she had her friends. They called themselves “The Cast-offs.” They weren’t popular, they weren’t unpopular, they weren’t jocks, or geeks, or dramatics, or bible thumpers, or burnouts. They weren’t really anything at all. But at least they were nothing together: Her, and Denise and Tina and Becky, who lived in subsidized housing. Their senior year had just started when Mary discovered her skill.

“We’ll split it,” Denise pleaded, asking Mary to buy them all a lotto ticket, the wrinkled green bill jutting towards Mary’s hand, still warm from Denise’s pocket.
“What’s the big deal?”
“You’re eighteen now, you’ve gotta do it.”
“So what? You’ll be eighteen in November.”
“That’s like 3 months away. Besides, Tina won’t be 18 until May.”
Tina nodded in agreement, unballing a wadded up bill of her own.
“Ok, but only if we’re all in.” Mary looked over at Becky.
“I’ll get a dollar,” she confirmed.
“We all split it, evenly,” instructed Mary. She had a strange confidence about this. It was the reason she had resisted. Confidence wore awkwardly on her.
The next day they all wrote down their numbers and handed them to Mary. Becky gave her a dollar in change. After class, Mary walked to the gas station around the corner from the school, and filled in the bubbles on the sheets, matching them with her friends’ notes. She hadn’t given much thought to her own picks, but glancing down at the sheet, the numbers seemed to come to her. She penciled in the digits. It felt strangely like taking a math test: scantrons and logic.

They planned a sleepover at Denise’s. Everyone was there early. They ordered pizza, and watched the balls drop before it got there. Denise and Tina were skunked. Becky had one.

Mary hit four. A hundred bucks. Twenty-five dollars apiece. The girls polished off three two-liters of coke in celebration.
———————————————-
That was how it went for Mary. Like other people filled in crosswords or played Sudoku, she played the lottery. There was certain pattern to it, a logic Mary experienced, seeing the way the puzzle fit together. She couldn’t explain what she had tapped into, but that didn’t make it any less real: She was good at picking lottery numbers. She’d tried scratch offs, and pull tabs too, but it wasn’t the same. Those were games of chance.

She didn’t always win, of course. Usually she lost. But she almost always hit at least two numbers. She had been skunked less than a dozen times over her career, which now stretched back some fifteen years. And of course, she’d matched them all three times. She had calculated her winning percentage. 1 in 500. She liked that. She liked being good, but not perfect. It made the whole thing feel more normal.

The winning didn’t change Mary. She kept her job at the garden, she hung out with her friends, she volunteered at church. She tithed a bit more, and she leased a new SUV, because she hated dealing with car stuff. Mostly she just kept to her quiet way, twice a week stopping at the station on State Street, to pick her numbers. Maybe she’d take up the crossword next, she thought.

The first two had been smaller pots. The last one, the one that got her noticed, had been the second largest jackpot ever. Every news station came to visit her. All of coverage had been the same. The same handsome reporter, the same lead-in story about a fire in Waterville, the same awful questions.
“What’s your secret?” they asked.
Mary just smiled and said, “clean living.”
“There you have it folks,” they had all said, “sound advice from a very lucky woman.”
———————————————-
Now, trapped in this cellar, the words seemed to bounce off the stone walls. “A very lucky woman.”

Mary wept silently, tears rolling down a dirt-stained cheek. She wondered if she’d ever get out. Wondered when he’d ask her for all the numbers. Wondered if winning would be a good thing.

Lucky.

K: Hmm. I like it, but the concept is a little hard to buy into, particularly when the narration admits there’s no way to explain it. It’s a tough thing – I mean, the cursed bread is easy to buy into because the story immediately puts me in that world, but I would like to have found out why Mary knew the numbers. That missed piece of information makes all the difference in a strong week. 1

DK: This one did grab me. I really thought the characterization of this subject had depth and I like this idea for a strength, as well as a tragic outcome because of it. 5

Colin Woolston, SPOILER ALERT!

Tatiana Eretskaya smiled. Each corner of her perfect mouth, if her mouth was pictured separately and analyzed, while being perfectly symmetrical, would belie the radiance that seemed to emanate from her perfect teeth, and tell of a broken soul. She was seated, naked, her arms tied behind her and her ankles taped to the chair. The man in front of her was beginning to tire. No matter how many times he hit her, no matter how bloody her face, she was still beautiful.
Tatiana had been born to a functional but poor family in Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine. The moment she had burst from her mother’s womb she had opened brilliant green eyes and the midwife had dropped her. This incident had cause quite a stir in the community, but fortunately for the midwife the focus turned to Tatiana’s eyes. For a baby to have their eyes wide open at birth is not uncommon, but for those eyes to possess color so brilliant is quite unusual. The entire neighborhood, and eventually the entire city learned about and speculated about the baby with the green eyes. Whispers of Baba Yaga and Domovoy over tea, crossings of breasts in the dark, and suspicions of the family that bore the child were the focus of the months following her birth.
When Tatiana was a young girl the family had moved from the Ukraine to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to London, from London to Cairo, and finally from Cairo the New York. As she grew, she gained worldliness and understanding well beyond her years, and her maturity was only surpassed by her beauty. This facet of her being came not only from her stunning eyes but also her perfectly symmetrical features and ample figure.
Her beauty was a blessing to her, as she rarely had to ask for anything, and never had to lift a finger when she was in want. It was a curse to her family, as she was constantly pursued and harassed. In each city they lived, eventually there would be a man, and the once in London, a woman, that would not desist, and the family would be forced to move again.
As a result of always having to be on her guard with other people, she had become detached. In conversations with people, because of this detachment, she learned the signs of someone who wanted something from her, and the body language and speech patterns of the people she encountered taught her of their desires, their insecurities, and their dreams.
Once, when she was nineteen, she had been speaking to a young man outside of Washington Square Park, and had realized that she had been anticipating his thoughts and had begun manipulating the conversation. She had been shocked by this, but she hadn’t stopped. With little effort she led the man to think that she was sent from God to save him. He had kissed her feet. Suddenly afraid of what she had done, she fled the park and ran most of the way to her family’s apartment in Queens.
It had taken Tatiana nine months to try her skill again. She had been at her neighborhood market, and the clerk had been someone she hadn’t seen before. She had been tired and that morning, and the man behind the counter was an unfamiliar face, and his eyes darted from her lips to her breasts with barely a glance at her face. She had, for the first time since the park, found herself gently guiding the conversation. Tatiana had left the store with four bags of merchandise that she hadn’t paid for, as well as some money from the register, and a follower.
The man that had seen her in the market that day, had been standing unnoticed in the corner, and had followed her to her apartment, also unnoticed. Tatiana only knew that he had followed her when she had reached her door, and he had stepped up to help her with the groceries and introduced himself. She knew within moments that he was different, but she was not frightened. His pupils weren’t dilated, telling her that there was no adrenaline in his system. She had invited him in and they had shared tea, and then vodka. He had spoken of his childhood, and his life that had brought him to the United States from Scotland, and he had spoken of his work.
‘Work,’ she thought, and scoffed. Work described sweating in a field or laboring in a mine, not this. She had never had to try, in any of her missions. In each she knew her moment would come. She just needed to rely on her beauty to get her where she needed to be, and to speak with the right person.
The man in front of her had been hired to get information from her. She saw that his eyelids were lowered slightly, and his pulse had quickened, and his shoulders were hunched forward more than a few minutes ago. He was weakening, and as he grew more tired, her beauty was getting the best of him. He was becoming aroused.
“Mmmph,” she said.
“No,” he replied, “The gag stays on.”
‘Only a matter of time,’ she thought. She tossed her hair to one side, a little further than necessary so that her breasts bounced. He smiled.
“I’m not going to let you talk your way out of this.”
She smiled with her eyes, and shifted her knees a little further apart. His eyes never left hers as he reach behind himself and drew a knife from sheath in his waistband. As he approached, his eyes locked on to hers, she noticed that his arousal wasn’t the same as the other men and women she had controlled. The body language was the same, but the eyes were dull and seemed far away. Only when the knife passed by the gag and went for her throat did she understand that his lust wasn’t to possess her beauty.

K: Whoa, what a drag. I wanted to see Tatiana win here, I mean REALLY badly, which is a testament to how powerful this was. In a way, this isn’t supernatural – beautiful women can control men like Tatiana can. That’s probably the writer’s intent. This is yet another female character this season that I want to read for several hundred more pages. 5

DK: Might suffer a little compared to the last one, the strength here is the descriptions of the situations. I don’t feel for this character like I do for some others, although reading this again, I think perhaps I’m not supposed to. 3

Shawn Ashley, SPOILER ALERT!

Phillipe LaRose had worked very hard all throughout culinary school. His organizational skills and sheer determination helped him rise to the top of his class at Cordon Bleu in Paris. After school, he decided to travel around the world, in search of his inspiration.
He found himself eating gnocchi and drinking Barolo in Sicily. He found his love of flavors and Rioja wine in Spain. He spent three months in Japan to try his hand at different types of fish. Phillipe discovered that he was a very, very good chef.
When he returned to France, the heart of cuisine, he decided it was time to get into the business of being one. He found an apprenticeship under Chef Pierre Rousseau, who had been successfully running a four Michelin star restaurant for ten years.
He worked day and night, making barely any money, as most chefs seldom do. After a few years of this, he was promoted to Executive Chef, where he stayed for five years. During these five years, Paris media was all abuzz about his food and sparkling personality. Yes, in the kitchen he was a beast and yelled as if he were a military captain. But out on the floor, he was charismatic, charming, warm, and people were drawn to him. He did many interviews and he was known as the Chef to watch.
One day, he decided it was time to open his own place, where he would reap the benefits of all of the things that he did right. He said goodbye to Chef Pierre and bought a little spot across town.
He spent the next two years planning. From the food to the little butter forks, he stressed over it all. When it came down to hiring people, he hired only the best waiters in the city and he even went through fourteen managers and fired all of them before the place even opened until he found the perfect one.

Phillipe knew that preparation was key and he trained his staff hard, making them train and test for twelve hours a day for three weeks. He knew they were ready. He could feel it. Opening day happened to rave reviews. For the first few months, it was the hottest spot in town to go. Only the crème de la crème of Paris could get a table. Phillipe was one very happy man. He was making money hand over fist, he was in all of the papers, and was being asked to make appearances all over town.
Phillipe LaRose was a happy man.
One day, after about a year or so, he came into the restaurant around ten a.m. He used to come in at the crack of dawn to make sure that the place was prepped and ready to go. But now, the Sous Chef he hired for the morning prep was doing such a great job, that he didn’t feel he needed to come in. In fact, he used to leave at the very end of the evening as well, making sure everything was closed properly. First one there, last one to leave. Now, he didn’t need to do that. His closing manager was very efficient.
He wondered into the kitchen on this day and walked into the prep area. “Need any help back here?” He asked, with a smile.
“No, Chef!” The prep guy answered.
He wondered onto the line as the cooks were setting up. “Need any help here, gentlemen?”
“No, Chef!” A chorus of replies.
He wondered out to the bar. “How are you doing behind the bar? Need my help?”
The bartender smiled and shook her head. “No thanks, Chef. I have this routine down now.”
Phillipe went back to the manager’s office. “Bonjour, Michel. Anything I can do to help? Surely there is some paperwork that you need me to do.”
Michel smiled. “That’s ok, Chef. We pay someone to do the paperwork and I’m almost done with my opening duties. Why don’t you take the day off? We’ve got it under control here. If we need you, we’ll call you.”
Phillipe didn’t know how to respond. His whole life was the restaurant. He didn’t take “days off”. He left, went home, and took a nap. When he awoke, it was only two hours later.
He didn’t know what to do with himself.
They had said that they would call when they needed him. However, when a week went by and no call…he became worried. So he hurried to the restaurant to see what was happening.
As soon as he walked in, people were saying hello and greeting him but no one looked like they were in duress or that they needed anything from him. When he went into the kitchen, his Executive Chef actually shooed him out, stating that he would only be in the way.
He swore a couple of people passed by him that worked there that he didn’t recognize.
Phillipe realized that he wasn’t needed. He was obsolete. He had built such a well-oiled machine that he had pushed himself right out. Sure, he saw all the money. He made the appearances. But his life was in the restaurant…so where would his life go now?

K: This feels a little like The Twilight Zone, with Phillipe becoming all but invisible in a world he’s supposed to rule. Unfortunately, the reader sees where it’s going very early on, and the narrative repeats itself a lot to get to where it’s going. 1

DK: I think I like the way this undesired outcome plays out as much as any of them. It’s not tragic, it’s not a big loss, but I empathized a lot with this guy’s quiet concern as it built up. Solid execution of a good idea. 4

David Larson, SPOILER ALERT!

Geoff took a deep breath. Glancing at his table, he took a couple quick swallows of water from the plastic bottle on his right, and then straightened up his pages of stats on his left. The Target Center crowd was electrified, and he felt an inward excitement. The T-Wolves were making a game of it, and the Lakers were visibly rattled. He took another deep breath as the game came back from commercial break.

The Lakers’ hard-fought loss at Milwaukee last night appears to have taken a toll on them here in the waning minutes of tonight’s ballgame, but I think they’ve seriously underestimated the local team. Love and Bynum, #2 and 3 in the league in rebounding this year, are putting on a clinic this evening, but it’s Rubio’s ball handling and fast tempo on one hand and Kobe’s mediocre 3-pt shooting that have kept this a one point game.

Ricky Rubio takes the ball up court and is met by Steve Blake. Rubio passes to Johnson…back to Rubio. He looks to Love but Gasol has him covered well. Across to Ridnour, who looks, fakes once, and shoots…off the glass and rim! Darko and Bynum wrestle for the loose ball…it goes out of bounds – Lakers ball! Referee Stafford indicates it was off Darko’s foot. Lakers call timeout, with 23 seconds to play. This one is going down to the wire!

It was games like tonight that made Geoff glad he decided to announce Timberwolves basketball this season. He knew he was good – really good. And the fact that he maintained his own stat sheets and did his own research showed in his ability to quickly put the information into play during the quick pace of the game. Add to that the improved play of the Timberwolves, a coach whose philosophies made sense to this team, and the excitement of a rookie assist machine with a flair for the thrilling, and this season so far had been, relatively speaking, magical. Geoff flexed his fingers and his arms, shook them for a couple seconds, and then composed himself.

Coach Adelman has been doing a good job with his bench management tonight. Pekovic is in now for Darko. Milicic matched his 4 points tonight with 4 blocks. Minnesota is looking to try and maintain their single point lead here as Blake inbounds the ball to Kobe, who returns the ball to Blake. Blake is taking his time as the Lakers try to run out as much of the clock as possible. The pass goes in to Gasol, who pops it back out to Bryant. Rubio almost with a steal…Kobe picks up the loose ball…off-balance shot over Love and Johnson – it’s in! Timeout, Wolves! 98-97 Lakers, with 3 seconds remaining. Don’t go anywhere!

Once more Geoff took a deep breath, and mentally willed himself to relax while waiting for the commercial break to end.

Only 3.2 seconds remain in this exciting match up. Johnson looks first to Rubio, then inbounds to Love…Peace gets a hand on it though and it goes by! Pekovic takes the errant ball of the chest, takes a half-turn, and throws up a two-handed jump hook…IT’S GOOD, AND THE TIMBERWOLVES WIN A WILD ONE, 99-98 on a last-second basket by Nikola Pekovic! The T-Wolves find themselves at a strange frontier, 10-10 and a .500 record for the year. Wow! We’ll be back in a moment with the final wrap-up.

Geoff sat back, eyes closed, exhausted. What a game! His heart was pounding, arms and hands ached, but he was satisfied that he had called another great game. The flashing of the lamp near him broke through his reverie, though, letting him know that someone was at the door. He reached under his stats pages on the coffee table for the remote and turned off the TV, heaved himself up off the couch, and went to answer the door. It was Steve, his apartment neighbor from a floor above.

“Pek!! Dude, did you see that game?!” he excitedly asked, as Geoff read his lips.

In the high, slurred voice of someone who had never heard human speech, and unconsciously signing as well, Geoff replied, “Yes, I certainly did.”

K: Oh, wow. I thought this was pretty ordinary, but instead it’s a heartbreaker. I don’t want to encourage concepts that completely bank on the final line, but man, this one had some power. 3

DK: I like the idea a lot, and the true nature of this guy’s strength. Something about it doesn’t seem to rise up like a lot of the others do; I care about this guy but I’m not sure it develops into what it could. 2

Will Young, I’m With Stupid

“Daddy . . . Daddy . . . ,” Ellie whispered from the side of the bed. I tried to remain silent and still to avoid giving Ellie instant gratification of her success. As I opened my eyes, I squinted as I tried to focus and caught a quick glimpse of the alarm clock: quarter after four.

“Can’t your mother help you tonight?” I finally asked, despite already knowing the answer.

“She’s not as good as you and just makes me count sheep,” Ellie responded. “Your stories give me the best dreams.”

At that point, my wife gently nudged me towards the edge of the bed. She was awake enough to nudge me towards the edge of the bed, but her movement was imperceptible to Ellie in the darkness. I paused to gather my thoughts, to rub the sleep out of my eyes, and to shake the cobwebs out of my head. As I started to take a deep breath, my wife found my right hand still underneath the covers. She gave me three quick squeezes, informing me, in our hidden code, “I love you.” She might as well have squeezed twice to say “thank you.”

“OK, Ell – give me a minute,” I said while sitting up. “Go back to your room and get under the covers.”

“I will, Daddy,” she gushed. She turned exuberantly and shuffled down the hall.

I grabbed a t-shirt and my pajamas and wondered whether I should go down to the kitchen and grab some coffee. I tried to remember where my story last ended, but, as always, it was difficult to think clearly at such an odd hour. Regardless, Ellie would correct me tonight, as usual, if I started back up in the wrong spot. After a couple of sentences, she would likely chime in and explain, “Daddy, last time you told me that Princess Sabrina had just moved away from the Schee Forest with her friend Sylvester the Moose, and they were trying to go to Foggy Mountain to meet her long-lost sister Marisa,” or “Daddy, Princess Sabrina went to the birthday party for Alex a few days ago.” Thankfully, no matter how little I could remember from my previous story, Ellie never seemed to forget exactly where the story should resume.

As I stepped into my slippers, I wondered again about this predicament. After Ellie’s first birthday, she routinely slept throughout the night. About two years ago, I began telling her a bedtime story each night filled with whatever convoluted plot and quirky characters I could concoct. Ellie absolutely loved these stories and has imagined an entire world based around these characters. Slowly, she started needing more of a fix than just once a day. First, a couple times a month, then, once a week, she would wake up in the middle of the night and ask for the next chapter to help her fall back asleep. So far, I have been unable to find any technique to gets her to fall back asleep quicker than if I just tell another story.

I opened the door and stepped into her bedroom. Ellie’s head was resting on her pillow, and she had pulled the covers up underneath her chin. The room glowed from the stars affixed to her ceiling. I leaned over, kissed her gently on her forehead, and took my frequent seat near her bed.

“Ok Ell, are you ready to hear more about Princess Sabrina?”

“Yes, Daddy. I promise to sleep the rest of the night if you will tell me what happened after she escaped from the cave full of hungry bears.”

“Oh, is that where I ended last night?” I asked having no recollection of ever imagining such a situation.

“Yes. She escaped and was going to try and find her cousin Caitlin who went missing a few days ago.”

“Oh, that’s right. Ok, now do you remember that when Caitlin went missing, two little elves wrote a note to Sabrina’s family telling them they saw her leaving the cottage?”

“No.”

“Oh, it must have been right when you were falling asleep a few days ago. Ok, so let me get you caught back up. Let me start by reminding you about the little elves.

“Deep in the Schee Forest, there lived a village of elves. They were tiny creatures who lived in the trunks of the Ichie trees. Each family of elves had their own tree in which they built houses with lots of rooms for the baby elves, the sister elves, the brother elves, the mommy elf, the daddy elf, the grandpa elves and the grandma elves. Some elf families were even lucky enough to have the great-grandpa and great-grandma elves living with them. The elf families were all really happy.

“In one of these families was a little-boy elf named Ailen. Ailen was the happiest little-boy elf. Of all the little-boy elf activities, his favorite was riding around the forest on the back of his pet squirrel who he named ‘Squirrel.’ Ailen was a lucky little boy to have a pet squirrel. Not many little-boy elves had pet squirrels, so Ailen loved riding Squirrel to his friend Baxter’s treehouse. Baxter was Ailen’s best friend. In fact, they had been friends since both were baby elves. Baxter and Ailen were inseparable and all the other elves knew this. If Ailen was not home, Ailen’s mom knew to call over the Acorn Line to Baxter’s house. Baxter’s mom did the same thing whenever she had trouble finding Baxter.”

I glanced over at Ellie and saw that she was riveted. This was going to be a long story.

“One day, Baxter and Ailen were exploring with Squirrel and found a place within the Schee Forest they had never seen before . . .”

K: This is adorable as hell, though it doesn’t have the one big moment anywhere. I was into the idea but felt a little unfinished, as if maybe some twist was supposed to come. Of course, that might be the fault of all the people who used them. 2

DK: I don’t think this kind of subject matter usually hits me in a particularly distinct way, but this one sure did, for some reason. Maybe cause when I was 3 I had my parents read or tell me tons of stories. Maybe I should go apologize to them for putting them in that undesirable position. Anyway, this just really sweet and very well-executed. 5

John Wreisner, nibbish and his Vogons

It started small, like the good Reverend would tell me all great things do. Pa had been butchering a hog that day and his skinner, slick with gore, had sliced a furrow down the length of his forearm. It was deep enough to make the muscles stand out like lengths of rope, strange red machinery that functioned in the endless dark now laid open and made alien by the broad daylight. Pa was a tough old bastard and said nothin’ as he walked towards the porch where I had been standing- he just motioned inside and I knew without speaking what had to be done. I suppose he would have preferred if my sister was home that day, as she had better stitching and a gentler touch, but the stitching came to me, and so I did it. Pa smoked a cigarette as I sewed him up and winced occasionally, sometimes saying “Not so damn deep, boy, you’re fixin’ my arm, not making a goddamn quilt.” I bandaged him up best as I could and all was forgot about, least until the next morning.

When I went out into the yard, headed for the chicken coop, I saw Pa, bent over under the hood of our old truck. His left arm, the one I had sewn up the day before, was holding up the battered old rust pocked hood. Where there had been a bandage not twelve hours before was a new pink scar, shining underneath a thin sheen of grease. I dropped the basket I had been carrying to collect the eggs and the noise made Pa turn around.

I didn’t even have to speak. I stood there with my mouth partially open, and was suddenly aware of the high wailing of cicadas. “I can’t reckon it neither, boy.” Pa said as he swung his sinewy arm around in a broad circle, as if it had been broken instead of cut and he was testing the range of motion. “I don’t understand, Pa…I saw it yesterday and…” I walked towards him, grabbing his arm and pulling it in close for inspection. It was healed completely, of that there was no doubt. “What did you do?” I asked. “Not a damn thing, son. Didn’t touch it after you wrapped ‘er up yesterday, ‘cept for this mornin’ when I took the bandage off to wash. She healed up like this. It’s a damn miracle.”

The next few days passed without any particular incident. Pa and I eyed each other with something like wariness, afraid, I thought, to discuss the miracle healing and ruin the spell. The crops were starting to come in, and Ma was busy pickling the few crops that had come early, and when she spilled a bucket of hot brine on her bare feet, the mystery, like it or not, was laid bare.

My sister screamed louder than Ma did, and when I rushed inside it was clear to see the damage. Her shins had already started to look like pork cracklins’, and she was on the floor, adrift in the middle of a growing puddle of steaming brine, waving her hands over the blisters like the air itself would heal her. I got some burn salve and a roll of bandages, and as I began to smooth the ointment over the blisters, they began to disappear, the redness of her skin fading as if on a dimmer switch. Within five minutes her legs looked as they had before.

Later that night, we sat around the dinner table, trying to wrap our heads around this phenomenon. We went to church like everybody else, but I wasn’t particularly religious. My sister bemoaned the fact that it wasn’t she with this remarkable gift, and wondered aloud if the same power would work on injured animals. Pa thought we should just keep it quiet, but Ma, the arbiter of all things religious, insisted that we go see the Reverend. I reluctantly agreed, and about three hours later Pa and I walked out of the stifling confines of the small church into a late summer sky the color of gunmetal. Pa stopped to light a smoke, winking up at the sun. “Son” he began with a tone that could only suggest he was about to impart some wisdom, “The next time you’re doin’ business with a religious son of a bitch, get it in writing.”

The Reverend had argued that the gift, as he came to call it, was from the Almighty, and not mine to dispense. It was my duty as a Christian, he said, to minister to the sick and injured, but he agreed that for now, only those within town would be helped. What we didn’t count on was a revival show rolling through town. Caught up in the rapture of the Holy Spirit, it took about twenty- four hours after the foot-stomping pronouncement by the Reverend that we had a real live miracle in our midst that people began arriving from all over the county- all over the state.

They looked like soldiers returning from the front. Arrayed in long lines of dilapidated vehicles, radiators blowing steam in monstrous vents, scabrous arms holding Bibles aloft, an army of the diseased. They were bandaged and bleeding, opening mouths crooked with misery and offering praise to God. The ground outside the revival tent was stained with vomit and effluvia, turning the dirt into a cesspool of feces and blood and discarded prayer cards.

I was given a folding chair and told to work my miracle, and I did. With a towel on my lap to catch the vomit and the pus and the blood, I laid hands on hundreds, thousands, until my nail beds were stained with gore, knuckle deep in open lesions on arms that looked like kindling. The air filled with the babbling of tongues, praises to God, and as the sun began to set, I fled into the cornfield, smearing the stalks with the blood of strangers.

K: Okay, since this is awesome – and speaks a bit to my mistrust of all things churchy – let me come up with the few criticisms I can: the southern narration is a little inconsistent (I LOVE it when it’s there; it lends the story a lot of credibility) and…well, that’s all I can think of. Pa makes the one spoken line count, and this is a hell of a way to end the week. Another great job, everyone. 5

DK: Seriously, I bow to your mastery of the English language. Every week I see words I never expect to see someone use in Spookymilk Survivor stories. I actually thought this one ended a little abruptly for the setup; I would’ve liked to see this guy’s predicament play out a little more, or (if you ran up against the limit, I didn’t check) balance that out a little bit with the amount of setup. 4

——————————————–

Alright. This is one of those weeks where I wish I could have more judges, because this was tough.

SPOILER ALERT!: 2.5/2.5/4 = 9/3 = 3
nibbish and his Vogons: 3/2.5/3/3/4.5 = 16/5 = 3.20
I’m With Stupid: 1.5/3.5 = 5/2 = 2.5

Uh-oh.

The two-person team was beaten here, and I have the spreadsheets handy for the head-to-head scores, and can make this elimination now:

Tenth Place in Spookymilk Survivor X: Will Young

No man is an island, except Andy. No pressure, man.

It’s a tough time to go down since scores were so nip and tuck, but that’s what happens when everyone remaining is so strong. We’re down to single digits, and this game isn’t getting any easier.

Sorry to lose ya, Will. Good game, man.

New challenge tomorrow. Cheers, Survivors.