The Editor Speaks
Hello and welcome to Issue 37 of the Quill.

Let me start with an apology. This was originally intended to be the Christmas Edition of the Quill! Unfortunately a series of RL events have got between me and my editing duties. However, now I'm back and I am hoping to make partial amends for holding back the good work of the Quill writing team for so long by presenting you with the really quite good Critic's Quill Issue 37!

We have a special feature on the Scriptorium Summer Writing Competition winners, plus the usual news on competitions, reviews of our favourite AARs and essays on creative writing.

There have been a few changes since last time, not least a new set of banners from the Content Art Department. I would also like to welcome some new writers to the Quill: Maximinus Thrax, Adamat, Tigellinus, The Kybrothilian and The Forgotten. I hope you enjoy their work and please encourage them to future successes with your rep.

Since the recent introduction of VBulletin 4, the Jump facility seems to be temporarily broken. Should clicking on the links in the table of contents below take you somewhere strange, then please just press the back page arrow on your browser. Also nested Fieldset boxes are not currently showing up, but hopefully the layout is still reasonably clear. I'm sure that in the fullness of time I will come to terms with the Brave New World of VB4 and begin to use its features properly.

Juvenal (Editor)

Table of Contents

Monthly AAR Competition Section

MAARC XLI & XLII
Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Following on from the intense AAR of the Year, the winners of these competitions have secured themselves a place to enter next years round! Competition has been fierce, with close results and even ties in some cases. The quality if AARs across the site has really improved.

MAARC XLI

First Place
The Wolf Among Dogs by Radzeer
Radzeer's third AAR is already proving to be as popular as his previous two! With a win convincing more than half the voters and four more WSCM points, bringing his total up to 22 - ever nearing that prestigious gold medal, we are all wondering where it'll go from here and how long it'll take...

Second Place
Times full of Distemper by Geoffrey of Villehardouin
Claiming his first WSCM points Geoffrey of Villehardouin is halfway towards a bronze medal! His AAR lost out on the top spot by only vote, but managed to exactly 50% of the voters on his side. Watch out, for it may reach first place any time soon.

Third Place
The Saga of the North by Ganbarenippon
Earning a bronze medal with this win Ganbarenippon's AAR is off to a flying start. Again the results were so close with him being only a vote away from second place! I suggest you keep an eye out for this, I have a feeling it will shoot up the points table.

MAARC XLII

First Place
To Change Our Fate: Reforging Sicily with Steel and Heart by Swaeft
The new kid on the block! This relatively new AAR has proven to be a big hit, and the victory in the MAARC has just proven that. I haven't read this one, I'll admit, but I will most certainly make a start on it after this huge victory.

Second Place
One Single Man by Paragon
This AAR has gone from strength the strength, shown by the fact it was in the tie-breaker for second place - which it won. Convincing over 50% of the voters it was worthy we cannot wait to see where it goes from here.

Third Place
With the Lions of Caesar - From Siscia to Bathinus by chaplain118
Causing a tie-breaker for 2nd place this AAR was a strong entry, with an equally strong story. It promises a great read as the voters show, so if you haven't already I'd suggest you start following it now.


A massive congratulations to all of the winners, and of course a big hand for all the other authors that entered the two competitions. We all wish you the best of luck for when you next enter... which could be very soon as submissions for the MAARC XLIV are being taken! So if you have an AAR head over there -remember you will need to have provided two updates throughout February to enter so hop to it!

Coverage by Shankbot de Bodemloze



Tale of the Week Section

Tale of the Week: November/December News
Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 


For this issue my trusted colleague HeirofAlexander and I bring you the latest coverage from the Tale of the Week Competition, providing you details of the theme and winning tales! It has been a brilliant period for the TotW with lots of submissions, lots of votes, and lots of winners so be sure to get involved if you want a friendly atmosphere where you can work on your writing skills - as well as being in with the chance of winning the famous Writers' Study Competition Medals.

We've divvied the coverage between us so I can't claim all the effort; but I must really crack on with the news. So without further ado feast your eyes on this issue's coverage:

Tale of the Week 160: Resurrection
The first competition with the conspicuous title ‘resurrection’ promised much in terms of creativity. Some rather contradictory keywords did not dull the expectations. And indeed it was no disappointment. With a total of seven entries, though one disqualified, the a hundred and sixtieth tale of the week competition was off to a good vote.

The Winning Tale
With an indeed brilliant poem, Strengelicher out wrote the rest of his competition by a single vote. The poem does – in my opinion, though poetry appeals to all in its own way – describe the aftermath and regret of defeat.
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Far, far away, in a strange land
forgotten long by me and you
remains the fortress Xanadu,
asleep, deep under the sand.

‘Twas there we fought, and side by side,
with sword and shield and folk withal.
While men would fall like raindrops fall,
what we fought for our hearts would hide.

For many days the walls would hold,
those mighty walls of Xanadu.
Like me and you, these walls would, too,
not falter, or so I was told.

Alas, we know ethereal things
are hidden well, and hidden deep.
A fortress sleeps a lover’s sleep,
deceit from deep within it brings.

‘Twas weak now, what was strong before.
And so one day the mighty wall
would tremble, crack, tumble and fall,
and Xanadu would be no more.

What was it we were fighting for?
Alas, my dear, I can’t recall…
the memories have left us all,
the mighty fortress is no more.

And still, wherever I may be
I dimly dream of Xanadu.
And know that I had faith in you,
and you, in turn, had faith in me.

Poem from an ancient inscription on a wall in the ruins of the legendary palace of Saba, Yemen (author unknown).

Tale of the Week 161: It’s a New Dawn, It’s a New Day…
A man greets the rising sun as a new day is made. That is the theme and picture of this week’s TotW competition, giving many a different side to write stories for. In all five contestants entered this week's Tale of the Week, several great submissions among them!

The Winning Tale
Lord Inquisitor Derpy Hooves claimed victory with another impressive tale from his conworld, the World of Gaiisha. The story brought him another WSCM point and he is now up to four such points. Not long until a medal now!
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Anhalan woke. It was the dawn of a new day, and he had barely slept a wink. War cries, death cries, musket fire and fires had kept him awake, which was why he went into an alleyway. Did it help? Well he thought so; he was able to get a little rest. Well maybe if he removed his breastplate he could have slept longer and better. As one of the one million War Volunteers, he did not really have an officer that would look for him, so few would have thought it odd to see him lying around in an alleyway.

Despite all of the death that had happened and was continuing to happen as well as his lack of sleep, Anhalan was happy. The light shining from sun as it was climbing higher into the sky mixed with the early morning mist, giving it a golden color. The mist was almost the same color as the golden sand that he was when he and his comrades had landed yesterday. Of course he loved it, he should love it. The golden colors that filled the air and covered the ground were the colors of his people’s homeland, this land. This was what the fighting was all about, the reclamation of the Janakan homeland…and Regia’s punishment too.

The latter reason Anhalan did not agree with. The way they were punishing Regia was absolutely barbaric. The order was to exterminate everyone who lived in the city, every man, woman and child, regardless of innocence. He was fortunate that he had not encountered any living civilian yet, but even if he did he would do everything in his power to prevent himself from taking an innocent life, but what if one of his comrades were going to do so? As he thought about this, his happiness was replaced with sadness.

Anhalan shook his head trying to get that thought out of his mind. “No! No, I shouldn’t think about it. It will only make life complicated.” He said, grabbing his musket as he stood up. Walking out of the alleyway, a soldier approached him, “Shouldn’t think about what?” he said.

Anhalan looked at the soldier, “Well I have been wondering what I will do if I encounter an unarmed person.” He said reluctantly.

The soldier stared at him. “You’re going to worry yourself to death. Look, I get it, you can’t bear to kill some innocent person, but that’s not going to change anything. All of the Regians in this city will die. Your only option is whether that will be a quick or an agonizing death, and if you’re a decent man you will choose the former.” The soldier said.

“Instead, focus on the positives such as a new home when the war is over. Now come on, I hear the Janak Legionnaires are planning on taking the castle today.” He said as he started walking away. Anhalan smiled and followed.

Tale of the Week 162: The Passenger
Six submittors jumped on the train and joined the competition this week in an enthralling struggle to the weeks best short story writer. The theme and keywords gave leave for a great variety of storylines and the contestants delivered to great applause from me.

The Winning Tale
Confederate Jeb wins the a hundred and sixty second and a bronze medallion with a truly great story and does so with quite a margin considering the number of votes, claiming 85 %. Jeb writes with great accuracy (much like his character) and his description is awe inspiring. So go on, read it, you’ll enjoy it for sure.
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Can't think. Body numb. Heart throbbing, pounding inside my chest. A bullet whizzes over the top of the crate I'm crouched behind, clinging to my side where I have been stabbed. I don't know who is after me, but the events of last night stirred something up. The blood on my hand let me know that my normal life was over. I was part of something sinister now. The train blows its horn as it speeds past a small station. They control the train. Pain. More gunshots. Time and space beginning to blur. I had to make a move, or I would bleed out. I get in position and make a dive for the cluster of barrels on the other side of the car. A clear shot at a startled gunman. One bullet, simple and clean, to the head. Years of practice at the range taking their toll. With him dead, and the man who had stabbed me falling down the winding paths of the mountainside, I was at last alone in the car. I eagerly run over the the body to gather cloth to wrap around my wound, as well as making sure to take the dead man's gun. I didn't know the maker, but it was a beautiful gun. Would it serve me better than its old master?

I decide that staying on this wild ride is too much danger for one day. After a few minutes the whistle blows once again, letting me know it is time to jump at the station. My timing is good, and I fall into a snow bank a hundred feet shy of the concrete. I can see no one at the station, waiting for either me or the armed thugs. The train continues on. Some service, I should've taken the subway to Carlton. Then again, my attackers had to be after me, and there was nowhere to jump out at in those old underground tunnels. The town that I walk into is called Dunesbury; a strange name for a little town situated on the side of a snowy mountain. It is named after an explorer, no doubt. Still nobody comes to greet me. My dress is ill suited to the temperature, and I begin to grow faint once more. At last I see the sign of a hotel, and manage to stumble up the front steps into the lobby before collapsing.

I wake in a small bed with light blue bedsheets over my freezing body. As I come to my hands feel my body over, finding where my wound had been the last time I was conscious, and where I now found proper bandages. The cut is not too deep, but in the heat of the moment I had not been able to take a good look at it. My eyes search the room for any clues as to my situation, only to find a pair of soft green eyes staring at me from a head to

Tale of the Week 163: Skyfall
A theme that not only proved relevant to most people’s evening plans, but also chose the soundtrack you would write it to (Skyfall by Adele if you wondered) hinted at a set of great submissions. And not unlike the film, the entries were spectacular. Though only five decided to enter the fray, the quality proved more valuable than quantity.

The Winning Tale
The winner of Skyfall and proving to be the best secret agent of the entire Writer’s Study was Aonghus G. Friedhold. A story that, while perhaps not most befitting the world’s most famous spy, proved of solid caliber as it described the feeling of rejection.
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Grasping at Heaven

I watched her move across the room – more a glide than a walk, the diaphanous folds of her dress concealing the lithe movements beneath, cat-like and ethereal. She seemed to me a spirit, intangible in her grace, and as this spirit floated towards me, I felt the visceral urge to seize her, to cover her with my body, press my flesh against hers, shielding her from the crude, lascivious glances penetrating her near-translucent form. She slid up to the bar. I didn’t catch what she said, so enraptured was I with her passage. A martini appeared before her, seemingly as a perfect metaphor for the tall, slender form so near my own. She did not drink. She toyed with it, turning the olive about in its embryonic puddle, and in her action I sensed a desire – neither animal nor conscious – for companionship. I realized, in that moment of epiphany, that I was meant to engage her and in so doing lift this spirit away from her mortal troubles. I was no mere spotter, an inconsequential bar-watcher doomed to mediocrity of action; I was elevated above the din of the cacophonous bar, a valiant knight bearing a holy gift which would rescue this maiden from the engulfing crowd of gloom that might have otherwise swallowed her into its womb. Spying opportunity, I whirled to face her, offering my gift of conversation, daring her to be free of the chasm surrounding her. Suddenly I could see her eyes, startling sapphires, set in a visage of the purest ivory. She regarded me, her look a cool ocean breeze, the salt practically pressed upon my lips.
“I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

I watched heaven crumble around me.

I was in a seedy bar in a lower class part of town. The drinks, the people, the women, were cheap. As I looked at the girl occupying the seat next me, I was struck by her plainness. Her dress, made of cheap fabric, didn't do her any favors, and the makeup which caked her face made her look like a fairground caricature. I finished off my drink, gathered my coat, and stepped out into the wet and muggy night air. With my coat draped across my arm, I set off into the night. As I passed a short, pudgy little man, it came to me that a quick right turn would take me towards a place I hadn’t visited for some time: the home of an old friend. Thinking about her for only a brief moment before pushing away the memories grasping to take hold, I turned left and made my way to my house.

Tale of the Week 164: Genius
With keywords that are certainly not the ones that come to mind swiftest when thinking of true genius, this one would prove a tough one for our dear contestants. But maybe that is the genius of it? To find the genius by setting a hard task must indeed be genius. I shall move on to avoid confusion.

The Winning Tale
Rex Anglorvm arose as the genius of this competition, following a nail biter of a tie-breaker that was. A story of a dream, a weird one at that, is what Rex used to claim the place of genius. Though one could argue his very long experience a vital reason…
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Genius
I had the weirdest dream the other night, I could remember almost all of it clearly; I remember that I was standing in front of a board with a football pitch stencilled on it and a series of moves chalked onto its surface.

Not that odd you would think, I was just dreaming of being a football manager and what’s so weird about that?

Well I will tell you.

The team was comprised of food.

My star striker was a squat fast food burger; my tall lean central defender was a bottle of English Mustard; my goalkeeper was a solid and reliable stick of Blackpool rock and my silky skilled tenacious tackling central midfielder was a chocolate bar of Nestle crunch.

And when I looked at the rest of my team it was no different, the rest of the squad was made up of an apple, a custard tart, a jar of coffee, a banana and a host of other products that would have been available at your local supermarket.

Now I’m not fixated on food, in fact I’m one of those people that view food as a necessary evil, fuel for life, not meant to be enjoyed, just consumed. In fact I could work for hours before even thinking about taking a bite to eat.

And I don’t like football, I’m a rugby man.

That was why the dream was odd, but not why it was weird.

No it was weird because I was a sausage.

Yes you heard me right, a sausage.

Now I’m sure that a psychoanalyst would have a great time decoding why I dreamt myself into a Lincolnshire sausage; but I can tell you that I had a normal childhood, normal parents and have no unusual hang-ups.

I shall tell you why I dreamt of being a sausage, its my new girlfriend, I met her in a wine bar, an unusual place for me as I prefer old looking boozers with old nicotine stains on the walls and peeling paint and rotten looking furniture that looks like it will collapse if you sit on it, but no I was in the wine bar because I had forget to eat…again.

So I had dived in the wine bar, grabbed a quick drink and some bar food and had met a girl.

I had made a pass at her; not that unusual after all I’m quite lucky with the ladies.
But she had turned me down.

So I came back day after day, cracking corny jokes, having a drink and ordering the only palatable thing on the menu - a sausage sandwich.

So I guess it doesn’t take a genius to work out that was why I dreamt of being the greatest of British inventions – the banger.

But the weirdest thing of all and the pure genius of the dream is that Sophie is a vegetarian.

Tale of the Week 165: Nothing Is True
Nothing Is True... that was the theme for this week. The image said everything was true, so it was muddle up from the start. However the keywords were true, the 7 submissions were true, and the winner was true as well.

The Winning Tale
Confederate Jeb claimed the top spot this week with what I found a rather mysterious, descriptive tale about a theatre production. I wouldn't of said no to a few more paragraph breaks in the main body to help make things slightly easy to follow, but on a certain level maybe the author wanted the reader to interpret it in their own way? I'll let you decide for yourself:
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The theater is empty now, with not a sound piercing the silence save for a lone clock ticking away somewhere in the rafters. Not an hour before the building had been the stage of life and merriment, of joy and peace. A comedy was being performed, a brand new one at that, and as always the citizens of the city didn't fail to miss opening night. A talented rising star played the lead roll, his voice carried throughout the theater and his singing was filled with magic. An old favorite, Theodore, played the part of an old beggar with much wisdom and foresight in a land of mischief and error. He had hinted that this piece would be his last production and he would finally retire once the rounds were completed. But nobody believed him; acting was in his blood and soul. He would keel over on stage before he ever truly retired. A young damsel, naught but sixteen years old, was making her debut as the leading lady. Her casting had been followed with much scrutiny, for nobody so young had ever received such an important part. So many other regulars could have performed the part, but once she was chosen she became the darling of the whole city. The patrons had too much love for their theater to bicker and fight over who should play what or what play should be performed. "Oh, he'll get the part next time around, or be the leading man in the next piece no doubt!" "Honestly I feel that the directors should be following this production with a musical, but this tragedy they are planning sounds simply fabulous." The theater takes in all the joyous cheering and applause as if it feeds of it. If it truly was a living thing it would have no shortage of sustenance. Comedies always brought out the loudest crowds, eager to laugh at a good joke. The dramas and tragedies brought out the ones ready to clap in proud admiration at the work of a blade or poison. And yet everyone made sure they attended every play, regardless of their preferences. There were simply too many reasons to go to the theater to miss a musical, an opera, a comedy, a tragedy, a documentary, a history...

As the clock continues to click away, a sound can barely be made out in the calm silence. Soft, faint footsteps walking along the rafters pace back and forth, as if observing the theater. Nobody is ever around to hear them, but the patrons hear its works every day. And that makes it happier above all other things.

Tale of the Week 166: The Sword and Quill
The quill is oft mightier than the sword, and this is what this week's TotW set out to prove - of course we left the sword option available for people who wanted it. A selection of keywords which were mostly related to writing in some form proved to be a great hit with 7 top-notch submissions.

The Winning Tale
A first-timer won a convincingly this week, gaining 90% of the votes! This truly amazing feat was accomplished by Mors Vigilia, whose tale fitted perfectly with the theme. It is about two men fighting to the death over words, as they vie for a position of power. Sophisticated vocabulary and a knack for description makes this tale stand out, although a tenser atmosphere could have been built up as the duel drew nearer.
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The Sword and Quill

The swords were drawn and the two combatants eyed each other warily. The dawning sun had done its best to pierce through the misty fog that lay low upon this duellist’s field, though thin wisps still remained, occasionally dispersed by tentative swipes of a hand or sword. Nevertheless, the pale orange rays that penetrated were enough to light this grim scene, grim as so many other things that came about in the name of honour.

Dravik now claimed that he had been wrongly accused of villainy in Nathaniel’s thesis. To think that two friends would come to such vicious blows over mere words. This is the power that words could wield. The two had both been confidants of the late Viceroy and each one was hotly tipped to replace him. Some now thought that the winner of today’s duel would also win the Viceroy position, though the simple truth was that the on-going argument over Nathaniel’s thesis had discredited both of them in the eyes of the electoral consulate.

Whether he intended it or not, a parchment that contained part of the controversial thesis had gone missing from Nathaniel’s quarters. Soon it had been found and passed around by many different hands before returning to its writer. As such words would, they multiplied, passing from hands, mouths, and yet more papers as people gossiped amongst themselves with the possible future Viceroy a tempestuous yet popular topic of conversation. Soon all knew of these certain accusations against Dravik and even his own boot boy dared to voice knowledge of it as he went about his work in his master’s very presence. It was this that had finally riled Dravik into violence, though a dark and imposing man, he was also usually very calm and temperate, therefore adding credence to his claim that Nathaniel’s words were lies. However, Dravik had been riled and here he stood opposite Nathaniel as his second checked his weapons and clothing. Would the consulate vote for a man who could be angered enough to want to kill a former friend? Could that man be trusted with the liberties of his people? Furthermore, Nathaniel’s writings – true or not – were highly accusative but somewhat petty in places, perhaps too petty for a man who would be expected to deal with great and pressing matters of state.

Judging that the weapons were fair, the officer of the duels stepped back and ordered the seconds to stand behind their principles. By custom, he asked the combatants whether they would consider either ending the duel now before it had begun or ending it after first blood so that none need die today. Though it was custom, the words were not needed this morning, all knew that the accusations and arguments of the past few days had led to this point. Two men faced each other down now on this accursed field, only one would leave with his life.

Tale of the Week 167: The Indian Continent
We travelled to the Far East with this week's theme, and with keywords that emphasized mystical paradise of such lands the 6 submissions were all very unique. The winning tales all came within 1 vote away from each other, nicely showcasing the hotly contested competition this week was!

The Winning Tale
Rex Anglorvm's tale claimed the top spot, as he took a marvellous futuristic spin on the theme. His tale describes one of the trouble facing those who utilize inter-galactic space travel, indeed towards the end of the tale that fear of pirates becomes a reality but how they cope remains unsaid. More build up could have been crafted by placing doubts into the readers mind if they'll appear or not, and getting us to question what we thinl - instead of just no they can't, and then they do.
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The Indian Continent

It was a strange name for an inter-galactic cruise liner; still when the owners of the vessel come from the plane New Mumbai, I suppose it was no small wonder.

I checked the instruments on the flight panel for what seemed the umpteenth time during my shift. I hated night duty; it sucked the hell out of you, left you deflated like a when the skin of a balloon has been pricked by a needle.

Still it was one of the prime articles of faith that a star-flight cruise ship member should always be alert, helpful and honest. I did by best to make sure I lived up to the articles, I didn’t want to be a junior helmsman forever, I had ambitions and I had drive.

It was great riding the light stream, the name we give to the inter-galactic highway network, set navigational routes that large craft stuck too to avoid horrendous accidents. They work a little like the old Earth flight plans for primitive aircraft, what the ancients used to quaintly call ‘aeroplanes’ they had given flight heights, speeds and directions, not too different from us in 2715 I suppose.

The only danger we had to face was space pirates; these were men who chose to stand outside of conventional morality and attack passing civilian craft; cruise ships were a favourite target, what with all the wealthy passengers on board.

Normally pirate vessels were small; they would attack in a series of waves, normally a standard V formation with the largest and best armed vessel acting as the point craft.

Once their attack had succeeded they would drag their victim vessel back using a hyper photon beam. The vessel would be taken to one of the ‘Island’ planets, a loose confederation of independently minded and economically poor planets that depended on piracy for a way of life as they were devoid of any mineral deposits of real value.

I wasn’t concerned though, we were light years away from any Island planet, and our ship was armed with the very latest in weapons defence systems, in fact it was more a battle cruiser than a cruise ship.

I settled back at my command console and stared in the screen in front of me, nothing worth noting still.

Just as I was beginning to relax the screen went crazy before my eyes, five, ten, fifteen vessels appeared upon it, all of varying sizes, but all in the classic wave attack of the Island pirates.

My stomach dropped as I sounded the alert upon my console, soon the echoing boom of the alert could be heard all over the ship as passengers were herded to the safety zones and the crew began to arm or take positions in the gun mount bubbles.

The captain strode in to the command room and looked at my console. His face froze in shock...

Tale of the Week 168: This is...
This isn't quite Sparta, but we weren't that far off! With 10 submissions entering the fray it was a massive contest, and almost too close too call as second-place was tied. However one did walk away with the winning point this week.

The Winning Tale
A Harry Harrison tribute piece came first this week, written by Radzeer. The tale is dialogue based focusing on a rather humorous exchange between a Director and Historian as they use a time machine to film what actually happened for a new film, of course it wasn't as the Director expected at all! The description between the utterances flows nicely. However, just to be picky, more proof-reading could be done, as I noticed a one-off grammatical error.
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"This is ridiculous! How could we work with these clowns?" The Director stared at the screen with disbelief. His tired face was illuminated by the monitor's flickering light. "Look what they do! It does not make any sense."

"No, sir, that actually makes sense," said the Historian who was hired for this project. "This was how they asked for the oracle's advice. That boy for example..."

"You must be kidding. What about the cool smoke effects, and the stunning half naked girl and all that?"

"There is actually very little evidence for that. What happened in reality was that..." the Historian started the explanation, but suddenly the screen went black.

"What the hell is this?" The Director was upset.

"Sorry, sir," said the Technician. "We'll get the picture back in a second. The sensor has to recalibrate itself in every thirty minutes."

"But that won't be a problem for the jump, right? I don't need to remind you that since the time machine was patented, there is a cutthroat competition in the movie industry to make the most realistic pictures of all times. If the auxiliary equipment fails, the costs of sending the production set back in time can get really high. And if the costs get out of hand, this establishment will go under fast."

"No, sir. This is why we send these bots back first to map the environment and provide useful visuals."

"Visuals, eh? I'm glad you reminded me of that," said the Director and turned back to the Historian. "Yesterday's footage had a phalanx in a practice or whatnot, and it did not look very good."

"What was the problem?" asked the Historian who started to regret that he signed a contract with the movie studio.

"Those guys look boring. This is not how the Spartans looked like! They all had square abs and red capes and those cool helmets."

"May I ask where you get this information from?" The Historian wanted to roll his eyes, but he did not want to risk his contract.

"It came from the classic documentary, '300' of course. That was the most important work of the early 21st century." The Director was dumbfounded. "They had done all the research available up to that point, and crafted the best visuals. We don't need to repeat all that."

"Standing on the shoulders of giants..." muttered the Historian.

"There you go," said the Director. "The first time machine picture by Harrison about the Vikings used all kinds of on-site technology and frequent trips back and forth. We are now much more sophisticated than that."

"The visual is back," reported the Technician.

"Just about time," grunted the Director and turned back to the screen. "But you still need to double check the coordinates and time parameters. This better not be Sparta. Nobody is going to pay to watch this."

The Historian sighed. This is madness, he thought. The expression sounded familiar, but he did not know why.

Tale of the Week 169: I Will Wait
5 keywords beginning with the letter 's'... it was a crazy week for sure! The theme was based off a song, and 6 submissions were waiting to see who would be the winner. Not as close as previous weeks, but still only 2 votes between 1st and 2nd place!

The Winning Tale
Once again the winning tale was written by none other than Rex Anglorvm! His tale is about a man who waits, and waits, and waits brining fame and fortune to his Village, but their is a entertaining twist at the end which I'm sure you'll appreciate it. Refinement on punctuation could be a minor thing to work on, and again proofreading makes an appearance - there was an instance where I'm sure "climate" was meant to be used instead of "climes"...
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I will wait

The man had stood waiting on the shore for what had seemed forever, he had stood there on the sand of the beach looking out towards the sea, hardly moving, only moving from his position to eat occasionally and to empty the body of its natural pollutants.

Since he was a very small boy and nobody knew why, he had just simply stood there. First days, then weeks, then months then finally years had passed.

His fame spread, first to the village nearest the beach, then to the towns, then cities, then all the countries of the old continent. The village next to the beach grew in size, splendour and grandeur as tourists and then religious pilgrims came to see the man by the sea. He would answer questions, provide wisdom and knowledge and smile beatifically at his visitors. But if asked why he stood there, he would shake his head and with a wry smile say ‘I will wait…’ and leave the questioner perplexed.

He would stand on the beach through all the seasons, through the baking sun of the summer and the freezing cold when the snow fell during winter, in the spring when the rains fell constantly and in autumn when the birds left to find warmer climes.

Some said the man was blessed especially the people of the village that had grown as the man’s fame had spread and his body had aged. After all, the village had grown wealthy because of him, its one concern being what would happen when the old man died? Would the tourists stop coming?

If the visitors did no longer travel to the village it would be reduced to penury. The people had grown to care for the old man, they had always clothed and fed him, had even offered to build him a home on the beach but he had said no.

So the wise heads in the village realised that a plan was needed, they formulated a simple but effective way for the old man to always be their primary tourist attraction. They claimed he was touched by the hand of God himself, they wrote long letters to the Pope, people claimed miracles that had happened after seeing or talking to him, and in the end a papal delegation had come and investigated the old man at length.

And they concluded that he was in fact a saint.

Then one day when the latest coach of tourists came to the see the old man on the beach they found the beach empty.

A miracle! God had come for the saint on the beach!

Meanwhile on a ship sailing away from the beach the old man looked back at the tourists and smiled, shook his head and muttered ‘bloody ferries you have to stand around ages until one shows up, next time I’m taking the channel tunnel!’

Tale of the Week 170 Christmas Contest: Fairytale of New York
For the 170th Contest and to sign off 2012 we threw a Christmas special with a bigger word limit, longer to submit, and two points on offer for the winner! We had 7 entries up for the festive prize but only one could be the winner...

The Winning Tale
It was Audacia who pulled the hat out of the stocking for this competition, and of course claiming the 2 WSCM points on offer. His story starts with a young girl having lost her father, however the magic of Christmas manages to reunite them in a warm embrace. A well written tale, however creating a bit more atmosphere, for example when the father realise's his daughter is missing, wouldn't harm it.
Click to view content: 
Bright lights illuminated the looming, concrete structures that dominated the cityscape. Light, wet snow fell gently from the night sky, touching the cold pavement and quickly melting. A girl walked cheerfully along the sidewalk, skipping past the multitude of last minute holiday shoppers. Her velvety, red dress jumped up and down as she softly hummed a familiar tune. She looked up at the sky, dotted with bright stars, and smiled.

The girl walked further until she reached a department store with a large, rosy star. She decided, on a whim, to venture into the strange place and look around. When she opened the heavy, glass door a wave of heat flowed over her and warmed her frigid body. She skipped past the racks of clothing, shoes, and perfumes with flushed cheeks and a face filled with wonder and excitement. She recognized the round man her father had described to her just a few nights before. “Now, don’t be scared sweetheart, because when you meet him, he’ll ask you to sit on his lap. Then, he’ll ask you what you want more than anything in the world, and you tell him all of the wonderful things you’ve told me, and he’ll bring them to you!” her father had said.

She peered beyond the line of eager children and tired parents waiting to see the round man with the silly white beard. He beamed jovially at the children sitting in his lap, holding them there with care and a deep sense of compassion. The man caught the little girl’s gaze and beckoned for her to come over to him, waving his gloved hand gently. She looked down, grinning slightly, and started shuffling toward him. When she finally reached Santa Claus, he picked her up and placed her on his lap.

“Now, little girl, what’s your name?” he asked in a deep and husky, yet somehow comforting, voice.

“Rose…” the girl replied shyly.

“Rose! What a beautiful name! Now Rose, what would you like for Christmas?” he asked.

“I want my daddy…”

***

A man raced through the crowd, desperately crying for his little girl. He pushed and shoved past onlookers as he sprinted toward Rockefeller Center. He had been ice-skating with his daughter there, and when taking of his skates, he had lost sight of her. She had been sitting right by his side and, having taken off her own skates, was looking innocently at the tall, gray skyscrapers. He turned to return the rented skates, and when he looked back, she had vanished. He had been aimlessly wandering the city for hours searching for her when he decided he would return to Rockefeller Center. The man had already lost his beloved wife in a car accident just two years before when he was at war in Iraq. It happened at Christmas time, and he had been unable to make it home for the holidays. The event transformed his life; Christmas time forever became a toil. He was not about to lose his daughter.

Beads of sweat poured down the man’s face as he harvested all the strength he had left in his body to battle his way through the crowd. His heavy boots pounded fiercely on the pavement as he crossed busy intersections, nearly being crushed by several taxi cabs. The man shed his heavy overcoat as he ran, tossing it on the sidewalk. He focused his sharp, blue eyes ahead of him. Finally, after what seemed like years, he saw the bright and colorful glow of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. He had made it.

When he finally arrived at the ice-skating rink, he noticed Santa Claus standing under the large, regal tree. The round man was holding a little girl in a velvety, red dress and painstakingly looking around the ice skating rink. He dashed across the rink toward Santa Claus. The girl saw her father approaching and cried out in overwhelming joy and relief. The round man carefully handed the girl to her father. He watched as the girl’s father hugged Rose with pure love and compassion. “Merry Christmas Rose…” he said, before disappearing into the night.


And so Ladies and Gents that brings us to the end of our Christmas coverage. Again I'd like to thank HeirofAlexander for providing the coverage of the first 5 whilst I was slacking! The Tale of the Week has been running strongly recently, with high submissions and a diverse choice of tales - so with the dawn of the 170th+ contest now is the perfect time to start getting involved. Enjoy the rest of the issue, and here's to 2013.


Coverage by Shankbot de Bodemloze and HeirofAlexander