Alright, gang. The first post-merge vote is always pretty exciting to get to, and from there, some of you will see the road to the end, and others will feel hopeless and powerless. Awesome, right? Let’s get to it.

Vote One: Beau.

Vote Two: Roman Feeser. “This vote was built in a day”

Vote Three: Roman Feeser. “Alas, I think I could have loved you, for I love Italian food and the Pope.”

Vote Four: Roman Feeser. “Let’s see what happens here.”

Vote Five: Roman Feeser.

Vote Six: Beau.

Vote Seven: Beau. “Colin made me do it”

Vote Eight: Roman Feeser. “I’d prefer to vote for a different player whose name starts with ‘R’, but you’ll have to do.”

Vote Nine: Beau.

Vote Ten: Beau. “Because I know he’s good.”

Vote Eleven: Beau. “So it Beaus…”

Vote Twelve: Beau. “Blame Brooks.”

That was exciting! However, I shan’t have Brooks besmirched in this house.

Seventeenth Elimination from Spookymilk Survivor XV: Beau

Ahhhh, blindsides. They’re a thing of beauty. And, of course, they suck for others. Beau has only played this game three times (does that seem possible?) and this is the first time he won’t finish in the final four. Overall he’s always a favorite of mine (both as a writer and player; he was one of my two pre-season picks), so I’ll have to put my chips in someone else’s name.

The next challenge is called Kumite. By Monday night at 8pm Central, have a story to me about a secret tournament or competition. The word limit will be 600 on this one. After that we’ll chuck someone out and then have a very quick turnaround for the next challenge, due Thursday, which will be to write a Shakespearean Sonnet. Some of you will hate me for this and I understand that. A Shakespearean Sonnet follows the rhyme scheme ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. Here’s one of the bard’s sonnets:

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

The sonnet can be about anything. I’d like to force a prompt upon you, but asking you to do a sonnet is going to be difficult enough for some. This one is the rare exception to the rule whereas I’m not asking for a complete story. You can write one, surely, but this will be judged more on beauty and meter and feeling and all those soft and fruity things that poetry fans like me love. I’m actually pretty sure I read that Gilman disliked poetry, now that I think about it, so I hope I’m thinking of someone else.

Gonna be a wild week, Survivors. Keep up the good season. Cheers.

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