Read the remaining 7 contestants’ latest writings (click on Home and scroll down -- also, you can read their complete writings on the Contestants Page) and vote for one TO BE ELIMINATED based on how well you felt they all responded to the Round 6 Challenge. The challenge required that they incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into their passage (500 words). You have until midnight October 3rd to vote. You can find out who was eliminated and learn what the Round 7 challenge is in a video that will be posted on October 4th 5th. *Tess has immunity this round so she is not included in the poll.

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]]> http://www.fourthnight.com/2009/10/elimination-voting-6/feed/ 1 http://www.fourthnight.com/2009/09/omar-6/ http://www.fourthnight.com/2009/09/omar-6/#comments Thu, 01 Oct 2009 03:10:49 +0000 Omar http://www.fourthnight.com/?p=3065 Read Omar 5 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)

Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

VI

As Don Don spoke a star shot by
Across the moonless night;
So what, it’s dark, don’t be surprised;
It’s not like it’s first light.
The birds and beasts did long ago
Depart when Claus stopped singing;
They went alone, one by one;
They hadn’t come for swinging.
“No, rat Don, don’t tag along,
Just join me at my side;
I neither lead nor follow;
That’s how the Claus abides.”
The rat Don Don looked up at Claus:
“Dude, man, don’t go freaking;
All I meant was let’s chill out,
It’s just a way of speaking.”
“Sorry, Don, I’m all strung out,
I’ve got this song to write;
I’ve got to post by midnight
On this website called Fourth Night.”
Don Don he did stare at him;
Not quite, his eyes were rolling.
“What the fuck you talking about?
Fuck it, let’s go bowling.”
But Claus he was still hesitant:
“I have to write my tune,
And finish it by midnight;
I wish I had till noon.”
Don Don then rolled up a spliff
Of sweet dank chronic goo:
“They call this bud ‘White Russian’;
Just try it, you’ll breeze through.”
Claus began to worry
About his rat-faced chum,
Who claimed a royal lineage
But acted like a bum.
“The bums will always lose” is what
His dad did always say.
But Don Don passed the spliff to him,
“Go on, dude, puff away.”
So Claus he took a monster drag;
He sputtered, coughed and hacked,
Then giggled, laughed, chiggled, chaffed,
His mind was totalled, wacked.
“Let’s go bowl,” Claus told Don Don,
His eyeballs veiny slits;
So much for his task at hand:
He’s shotgunning a Schlitz.
Don’t ask where they went to bowl,
These stoners: boy and rat;
Stranger things have happened;
Just ask the Cheshire Cat.
First they had to get their shoes;
Osama manned the desk;
Saddam was fired from that job;
How very Kafkaesque.
(Actually they hung him;
You probably saw the clip;
But no need to get into that;
Let’s not go jumping ship.)
“Over the line!” Claus did scream out
At rat Don as he bowled.
“This aggression will not stand, man,”
Said Don Don as he rolled.
Claus had really lost his wits:
The herb was much too strong;
No surprise that on his turn
Events turned badly wrong.
Claus held up the bowling ball;
He licked it for good luck;
But on the backswing it did slip
His grip, oh, what a schmuck.
Alas, Don Don behind him
Was itching at a gnat
When the backflung ball did land
Upon him with a splat.
No moral to this passage;
No message that we bring,
Except one thing we’d like to say:
Good night, sweet prince, sweet king.
So what of Claus, what shall he do?
Again he is alone;
Again he lost a friend of his,
Alone, he must atone.
Leave him to his world of pain
In hopes that he does draw
Some music from the well of grief
To end this hem and haw.

Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

Police ask me if Stavros is man who pays for sex with me. Like they care. Even they go to cabaret for sex. I know stories of police doing sex with marked money and making arrest after if you can believe it. Taxes pay for police to do sex with the butana and then they tell journalistes that Cyprus police fight human traffic.

They put me in prison room and tell me American detective wants interview. I sit on bed to wait. After Frodo I begin thinking about my life. About routina. Every night I go to cabaret at 8 and do dance and consumatsia until 2 or 3 in morning. If man pay Yiannis for me then after cabaret close he take me to house or motel. Then I don’t get to my apartment above cabaret where Yiannis have six of us living until 11 or 12 next day. I rest there because I never sleep good in strangers bed. But sometimes CyTA phone rings from man who want sex after lunch. In daytime its more cheap for them and for me to better because I keep all the money and it sometimes take only one hour.

Different prices for different sex. Overnight sex more expensive and then sex inside cabaret cheaper and daytime sex cheapest. They give more if you let them put it in the zhopa or make sperma on you or take video or do it without condom which is where I draw line and never go over because Ukrainian girl last year got AIDS hear in Limasol. I am lucky not to be beaten yet because many girls I know who refuse to go without condom get beating or rape. Its like that.

Then I begin to think about men. In uniform or outside uniform or husband boyfriend single they are all same. Because always same thing hangs there inside there legs. Maybe this life ruin me for believing in man again. I start to make these thoughts. Because in cabaret man doesn’t just fuck your body. Body can replace itself and forget. But mind does not replace. Mind only buries memory and memories make radiation like Chornobyl. Even when it’s over its not.

Soon police chief walk in with American. I almost laugh. His chest is sticking out and arms out at sides like perspirant is burning him. Its too much funny because he thinks Cyprus police admire him but they call him poushtoamericano and americanaki. Even his name is funny. Frank.

Police chief leave and Frank ask me ridiculous questions about conspiracy but I know really want he wants. Finally he says it. He asks name of my cabaret and I tell him. Venus de Limassol. I tell him I work there tonight and he must come and buy me drink. He tries to make joke about white russian and I laugh because he sound like teenager.

He remind me of Donetsk schoolboys. I like him very much. If man can make me laugh that is very good for me. No matter if I’m laughing at him. Maybe I convince him to take me to America.

Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

5.

The binding and exigent lust for higher profit margins drove biotech firms into a DNA race to monopolize genome sequences. Although the August 28, 2005 kidnapping of a Harvard undergraduate’s golden retriever was conventionally referred to as the launch of the DNA race, the precursory scurry to patent genes had been as contentious.

Biotech lobbyists had fought for these patents, claiming that the funds required for therapeutic and diagnostic genome sequence research necessitated exclusivity guarantees on intellectual property. But as the technologies improved, practically anyone in a university laboratory could extract the extraneous sugars and proteins and render an isolated genome technologically and uniquely viable.

By late 2024, patents on manipulated gene sequences were irrelevant. More important was exclusive access to an individual’s genes. With its economic and political clout, the industry could have easily pushed through legislation to patent unmodified genes. But they knew legal protection was futile. Sampling a gene required only a quick and painless swab; an individual could easily hawk her or his sequence to any biotech company willing to pay.

Thus the kidnappings and murders began, first in Cambridge, then statewide, nationally, and finally internationally. Genomicide – the murder of an individual for exclusive access to her or his genes – replaced terrorism as the primary official U.S. threat to homeland security. This was not out of any genuine security concern since the State Department was staffed and funded by the same biotech industry whose research depended upon the proxy black market genomicidaires; rather, it was the coordinated million-strong protests, picket strikes and mass acts of civil disobedience – the threat of civil war – that forced the government to offer its dissembling and hypocritical condemnation of the genomicidaires.

As the genomicide black market expanded and non-violent protests escalated to looting, arson, and sabotage of government and corporate buildings, a consensus formed that a fresh system for monopolizing human genomes was needed. Biotech companies began constructing “genetration centers,” where individuals with valuable genes could contractually live in ease and luxury in return for exclusive ownership over their genome sequence. The inhabitants’ only obligation was to stay within the perimeter boundary. Anyone who tried to cross over the Line of Genetrification, as detractors called it, faced laser wire, holographic traps, and armed robot guards.

The largest genetration center, which housed every living Teleut, was in Siberia. It was hastily constructed after it was discovered that Teleuts among other Siberians possessed “The White Russian Sequence,” among the most prized genetic strains. The drab center became a rallying point for biotech’s critics, who called it the world’s largest gulagenetration camp.

As these genetration centers mushroomed throughout the 2030s and experimentation with DNA microchips continued at a breakneck pace, researchers at the Silicon Valley-based EvoGrid – a large interconnected network of high performance computers that modeled the pre-biotic chemical environment on Earth – made some troubling findings. They detected evidence of sophisticated self-organizing behavior among certain hyper-computers in tandem with high risks of genetic mutation. Their warning cries, however, went unheard amidst the triumphalist furor for unregulated research initiated by the fusion of corporate and scientific sectors.

Only when the hyper-computers declared war upon their creators did anyone listen. By then it was too late.

Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

Catherine felt her blood start to boil as the meaning of those words crashed upon her purring semi-consciousness. She shoved Arthur off her ravaged body and bolted up, her prodigious breasts spilling about.

“Wait a long minute. What did you say? The man in that photo? Your lover?!”

Arthur leapt up as nimbly as a panther, wincing as his half-swollen salivating maleness swung out and slapped against his defined Adonis-like pubic bone. He clutched Catherine by her velvety shoulders. “But darling, I told you! When I asked if you understood you cried out, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’”

“Fool!” Catherine cried, tearing herself from his grip. “Are you nothing but a perfectly sculpted torso? I wasn’t in my right senses!” Catherine began weeping into her hands, her oversized breasts bouncing rhythmically with the sobs. “I never expected it would come to such an obscene end! Oh, Arthur! What indecent desire drove you into… oh I can’t bear saying it… into the muscular arms of another man?”

“You must listen, it’s more complicated…”

Catherine was suddenly overwhelmed by the image of another man mounted behind her husband, plunging forth with barbaric cries into the forbidden depths of his tanned rock-hard buttocks. “If that is what you wanted, Arthur, you should have told me. There are things we could have done…”

Arthur suddenly cried out. “Oh, blast it all! It’s you I fantasized about, Catherine. You whom I imagined in my place, being mauled by Richard…”

Catherine stared in shock at her husband. “Is this what it will take, Arthur? Must I offer up my body to another man to preserve our marriage? Is my only unjust choice to have my lady business mistreated and violated by a stranger?”

“No,” Arthur said hoarsely, his python languidly rousing from its slumber. “Not your lady business.”

Catherine turned scarlett with outrage. “You mean… but that’s over the line, Arthur!” Her widespread rump, silhouetted in the moonlit window, clenched up briefly in physiological self-defense.

“That line was crossed long ago, Catherine. I was a coward not to have told you. Will you try it? For our marriage. I’ll watch by your side, angel. Maybe I’ll even join in.”

Catherine gazed at the moon with a heavy, betrayed heart. She extended her left hand. “Show me again this man who is to steal my brown-eyed virginity.” Arthur brought the photo. She imagined the mask of merciless subjugation Richard would wear while he muscled his way into her uncharted territories, oblivious to her whimpered protestations.

“He is a most remarkable individual,” Arthur rushed to assure her. “His grandfather was a White Russian, a top general in the White Army that resisted the Reds in the 1920s, so he comes from top stock.”

Catherine sighed in resignation. “If this is what it takes, so be it. Ask him to join us for dinner at his earliest convenience. And do make haste, Arthur. Our marriage is at stake.”

The next evening at 5pm on the dot, the doorbell rang.

Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

The title of Olga’s message to him was “coming to hagan harbor on thursday.” Had it been a TV show, Ron would have spluttered up his drink. Instead he just sat in stupefied silence and read on:

“dear Ronnie!…

i was so surprised and so happy to get friended from you on facebook -- i have to tell you that at first i was nervous to write to you because of… well you know of course. it’s been so long. thats why i waited to write you this news… my husband and my two children have always wanted to visit america so we decided at long last to come so I can show them the places from my history…

i never would imagined you were still living in hagan’s harbor… i always guessed you went back to your family’s town. but i should have known you wouldnt by how stubborn you are…

we arrive this friday aug 28 until sunday sep 6 and will be staying at hagan harbor lodge. i would like it for you to meet my 15 year son Ransu and my 24 year daughter Annikki. they have grown up hearing stories from me about the fishing life on hagans harbor.

i cant wait to hear about you. (your family?) there is no information about your personal life on your facebook page. you always were private… i hope you get this message and we can have a chance to catch up with our lives. do you still drink your rum and coca cola and play “Walk Over the Line” until everyone’s ears falls off? Ekkk!

with wishes of love and happiness, olga”

Ron shut down the desktop and sat there a long time. Then he went to the bedroom and returned to the office with a white envelope and a candle. The envelope was clean and smooth except for along the jagged top fold where it had been torn open by finger. Ron turned the envelope over and looked at the return address and the faint stamped date – 1971.  Inside was a yellowed handwritten letter. He lit a candle and, after switching off the light, unfolded the letter behind the flame.  The letter was stained and creased with wear and in places the ink was smudged.  Ron read it through slowly and by the time he came to the end his eyes had reddened.  He folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. Holding the envelope between his thumb and forefinger, he put a corner into the flame.  Thin black paper chars floated off as the fire moved along the paper. When the fire had traveled down to his fingertips, he dropped the paper torch into the empty wastebasket.

Ron did not write back to Olga. But by the time Friday came around, his bar was freshly stocked with vodka and kahlua and there was a gallon of milk in the fridge.

Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

My god was he hot in a dark-and-dangerous way (even being white). His cell phone went off, one of those bottom-of-the-line ones without Internet. It was so 90s technology, on him a total turn-on because it showed he had deeper things on his mind.

He answered, “Hi Trish.” Talk about finding something to start chatting him up on! Not that I ended up needing it.

By his businesslike tone I could tell my namesake wasn’t a girlfriend or anything. She was blabbing on. Finally he said, “It’s not your fault. Let me talk to her.” After a pause, his deep voice softened. “Anna, love, it’s daddy, what’s wrong…”

Oh. My. God. My heart melted right there. Literally. Nothing is sexier than a grown man talking sweetly to a child.

He said, “I know you did, love. It’s okay to go over the line. That’s why we have lines. To cross them. No more crying, okay, sweetheart? Good. I love you, banana. I know you do, honey. Be nice to Trish. She wasn’t being mean. See you in an itsy-bitsy bit.”

By now I was going all tingly. When he hung up I took the chance. I said, “Strife in the household?”

When he looked over at me, his lazy eye confused me. I wasn’t sure which eye to look at. It was a total faux pas but I ended up alternating between them.

He said, “My daughter got upset because the babysitter asked why she was crayoning outside the borders.”

I knew it would sound forced, but I had to find out. I said, “She sounds like my sort of girl. You and your wife must be so proud.”

He looked down at his coffee. “I’m divorced.”

Jackpot. The more he told me, the more the sexiness factor went through the roof. Not only was he older (experienced) a dad (provider) and single (available) but he was also an assistant professor at the LIU Brooklyn Campus (smart) in African-American literature (open-minded). Hotness.

He was more interested in hearing about me than talking. Unlike boys my age, he didn’t think he was the hottest thing since iCupcakes. I asked if I could sit in on his class. He said on a lecture, yes. He gave me the place and time and even wrote his number. Ka-ching!

He had to prepare for class so he excused himself. I didn’t want to sit there staring so I stood up to go. “So what’s my homework, professor? I wouldn’t want to come to class unprepared.”

He pulled from his leather bag a photocopied poem, Black Cop and White Russian, by Bobby Byrd. I flashed my eyes at him and said, “Sounds transgressive…” I hardly ever come up with lines like that on the spot.

On the way out, I swung my hips. It’s a cheap trick, but let’s face it girls, it works and it feels good. I could see his reflection in the glass door as I walked out. He was looking.

Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

*          *            *

The expanse of Lake Champlain opened before them as the black station wagon pulled in to the cabin. Junked cars and trucks lay abandoned about the yard. A black Presa Canario that was chained by its spiked collar to the shed rose to its feet and began growling as they stepped out of the vehicle.

“Don’t worry about Herb,” Jacob told Corey, who was glancing over at the dog nervously. “He’s all bark and no bite.”

The cabin was shrouded in the shade of weeping willows, whose tendrils overhung the lake. Jacob motioned out over the state line of Lake Champlain towards the far shoreline. “Have you ever been to New York, Corey?” She shook her head. “I’ve got a rowboat. Want to row across sometime?”

Corey looked out blankly at the lake and nodded mechanically. He unlocked the door. “Home sweet home,” he said, with a sweep of his arm. “After you.” Her fingers knotted by her waist, Corey looked back at the dirt road and then walked in.

Jacob first showed Corey to the spare bedroom, her bedroom as he emphasized. He needed to calm her frayed nerves. Her body had begun tensing up when they first turned onto the dirt road. From then on she kept glancing about, unnerved by the absence of residences. Her fear mounted as they descended towards the cabin, so by the time they arrived she had gone silent and shrunk into her seat. Jacob found her girlish fear appealing but he knew he had to check his lust. He’d rather avoid violent incidents. “Why take something,” he thought to himself, “that might give itself to you freely?”

After touring her around the rest of the cabin, he opened the door to his office, a cramped unlit space dominated by a 23-inch computer screen.

“Look familiar?” he asked, pulling the chair out. “Try my throne out.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the computer. Corey began speaking again and even laughed a few times. That night he microwaved baked beans and hot dogs, which they ate in front of the computer screen.

“I have a treat for you,” Jacob told Corey. He returned from the kitchen with a White Russian.

“What is it, Ronaldo?” Corey asked, holding the cloudy liquid up to her eyes.

“Try it,” he insisted. “It’s a dessert.” She took a sip. Then another. Several drinks later, Corey was sprawled out on the beanbag in the corner of the room, snoring. Jacob checked her pockets until he found her cell phone. The last call she’d made was days ago. He tossed the phone into the river and then scooped her up in his arms. Her eyes still shut, she clutched blindly at his sweatshirt, burying her face into his chest.

“I want to go home,” she mumbled as he carried her to the spare bedroom. “Please … take me home.”

Tuck has been eliminated and Tess has received immunity from the next round of elimination voting. For details, watch the video, shot at the Lebowski Fest in Brooklyn, NY:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFgVS_LE4VM

*STEPHEN GEE of Nicosia, Cyprus receives the signed copy of the Joyce Carol Oates novel for proposing that the next challenge involve including a line from a book or play. The Round 6 challenge is to incorporate a White Russian and the words “Over the Line” in the next passage, which should be no more than 500 words. Both are taken from “The Big Lebowski” (see the Round 6 video, shot at the Lebowski Fest, for details). It’s not a book or play, but it’s close enough.

This round I’m taking suggestions for the Round 6 literary challenge. The person whose challenge I select will receive a signed copy of an uncorrected proof of Joyce Carol Oates’ novel Little Bird of Heaven and will receive mention in the next  video. (For an overview of the competition, click here). The suggestion must be received by midnight this Wednesday, Sep 23 (EST), the same time that the elimination poll closes (don’t forget to vote!).

Previous challenges included writing something that was about interactions taking place over the web, that involved the death of a dog, and that incorporated this image. It can be anything. Send your suggestions as comments below, as an email to me, or via Twitter to @FourthFiction.

Again, the deadline for suggestions is Thursday at midnight EST, when the Round 5 elimination poll closes. Please do cast your elimination vote if you haven’t done so yet.

No, I’m not accepting suggestions on challenges from the contestants.