Read the remaining 5 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 8 Challenge. The challenge was different for each contestant (the challenge is listed on each individual post). You have until midnight October 23rd to vote. You can find out who was eliminated and learn what the Round 9 challenge is in a video that will be posted on October 24th.

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]]> http://www.fourthnight.com/2009/10/elimination-voting-8/feed/ 6 http://www.fourthnight.com/2009/10/coco-8/ http://www.fourthnight.com/2009/10/coco-8/#comments Wed, 21 Oct 2009 02:08:38 +0000 Coco http://www.fourthnight.com/?p=3270 Coco’s Round 8 Challenges (Word limit – 600):
* Incorporate a glimmer of light / hope through the character of Frank (given by Kaylie Jones)
* Include an interaction with a wild Cyprus donkey (given by Vasia Markides)
* Incorporate a Brazilian girl named Renata (given by Renata)

Read COCO 7 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)

Young man nods his head when I ask if he’s been to cabaret before. I put his hand on my leg. He is little shy so he doesn’t move his hand around. Some old men squeeze half your zhopa before you even say hello how are you.

I am wearing tanga so I lift leg to make him excited and buy me drink (fake drink -- 20 euros for small glass of grape juice). I begin to rub his arm while looking him in eye. Trick always is make man centre of attention. Not like you need prostitute to tell you that.

He is Shamus from Ireland. A writer who want to learn about cabaret life to tell world. Only tourist would say that. Cypriots anyway they don’t write. They come only for the sex.

Shamus ask me questions for five minutes until Christos bring his beer. When he pay Christos doesn’t give change right away. Its so dark some men don’t know how much they give. But Shamus knows and waits for change so Christo finally gives it.

Drink for the lady? he asks.

I’ll wait for now.

Christos walks off. I stand up. Have a nice day.

Few minutes later Svetlana goes and sits with Shamus. He buys her the drink. We all have to get certain number of drinks each week. Maybe Svetlana is better for talking to. It’s competition here between women. Like in jungle with females all trying to get the male. Except we don’t want sperma or protection. Only money. Which maybe is not so much different.

I sit next to Renata. She is redhead from Brazil. I don’t know other Brazil girls in Cyprus and specially not in cabaret. But Renata anyway is different.

The bastardo! she says. He think he can write about cabaret life after few questions? Did you ask him about Ireland so you can write Irish history book?

She is very clever Renata. She have life in her. Not like some who sit empty with dead eyes like half naked Matryoshka dolls with no one inside.

I tell Renata about Stavros. To cheer me up she tells funny story about man who paid for her for whole two days once and drove her to golden sand beach in Turkish side. (I never had anything like that. The men they like Renata because with some she can show real pleasure. Me I can’t. Even when I make orgasm I hide the look. This they can’t buy from me. This I save.) On beach they saw wild donkey with penis long as his forearm. Silly man got so insecure he couldn’t make sex that night!

I begin laughing so hard Yiannis tells me to go dance. They don’t like it when we have fun. It is not real pole dance what we do. Just swinging around with one arm like child in playground. Here it is bordello not stripclub. Pole is just for pretend that cabaret is about looking not touching.

Frank walks in. I feel my heartbeat in my throat. But I can’t leave pole. Natasha sits with him but not for long. After my dance finish Yiannis tells me Frank requested me.

I suddenly feel ashamed wearing thonga and clear platform heels. Maybe I am wrong but I think Frank is too. First time I feel shame in long time. I am happy for it. To be ashamed means to be conscious. Which means you are alive.

Coco…

My name isn’t Coco.

Ok. Ivana. Want to join me on a little trip tomorrow?

Read UTAH 7 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)

*          *            *

Canada geese migrating from the south honked overhead as they whooshed in V formations over the greening earth. Corey and Delia interrupted their seeding and straightened their backs to watch with craned necks, humbled by the majestic effort filling the skies with music and symmetrical power.

The fields, fallow for so many years, had again been plowed. The spring planting was underway. Delia’s life had always been intertwined with the health of her farm, but this spring the farm took on more significance than ever before. Since the January FBI raid on Jacob’s cabin that had rescued Corey, Delia had thrown herself into rejuvenating the abandoned acreage.

A nosy few in the community, the ones who lacked imagination, insinuated that Delia was placing her farm’s wellbeing before her daughter’s. But Delia knew that, in some unfathomable, archetypal way, the mending and resuscitation of the farm reflected Corey’s own healing process. Each seed germinating in the greenhouse represented a small victory in Delia’s heart against the morally deformed fiend who had stunted her daughter’s growth for so many years.

It was in fact Corey who wanted to pare down her rehabilitation schedule and Delia who insisted she attend the sessions the trauma counselors advised. To Delia’s great joy, Corey now embraced the farming life. Her childhood love of the dirt had strangely returned. One afternoon Delia found a notepad on the living room couch. On the front page was a short passage in Corey’s writing:

We are not the Beautiful Ones, not reared in measured soil and tended with controlled temperature and dosages of Mozart.  We are of the raw and implacable earth, thrusting our way through stone and gravel only to break into shade, fighting one another for scarce sunlight, bending under hail, cursing under drought. Neglected, compressed, clobbered, thrashed, we learn by the toil of our flesh that what matters—not what matters most but what matters first—is to endure, to stand fast when the hysterical and wailing wind tries to bowl us over.  By the ragged history of our blood we know to endure.

Delia burst into tears. From that day on, she knew the health of her farm and of Corey were inseparable.

One cloud still remained over Delia and Corey: Jacob had yet to be apprehended. He had been returning from grocery shopping when the FBI descended upon his cabin. When the three unmarked vehicles ahead of him turned down his road, he realized they had found him. He knew everyone who turned down that road. So he kept driving. His station wagon was found abandoned in a parking lot in Albany.

Never had the farm been as productive as in the season of Corey’s return. Just after the fall harvest, Corey and Delia were walking through the cornfield when Corey stooped down and plucked something from the ground. When she righted herself, she was holding a Narcissus. Tears were running from her eyes.

“Corey, what’s wrong?” Delia tried to go to her but her legs wouldn’t move.

Corey began to step backwards, tears dripping from her chin.

“Corey!” Delia extended her arms helplessly. The wind picked up as Corey kept slipping backwards into the cornstalks. “Corey! Corey!” The cornstalks flailed about her daughter until only her outstretched hand holding the flower was visible and soon that too was swallowed up. Crows began to caw and wheel overhead. The sky darkened and pressed down. The stalks wilted and blackened.

Delia jerked awake in a cold sweat. She was in a Super 8 Motel in Burlington, Vermont. It was Christmas morning and she was alone.

Read NORA 7 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)

“Richard was born in the U.S.S.R. the year before Stalin came to power,” said Arthur, his nostrils twitching over the glistening sausage links on his fork.

Nora gasped as Richard’s upward-traveling toes found her inner thigh. She eyed his broad, upright, muscular form. “Why, you look not a day older than 50!”

“Sixty-nine, my dear, and not a year younger,” Richard said, cocking a roguish eyebrow and slurping down an oyster as his toes circled upward under her dress towards her lotus.

“You can’t imagine the life this chap has led,” said Arthur, bringing the sausage to his mouth. “I daresay, had Richard been born in these United States he’d be president right now.” Catherine’s nipples snapped to attention as stiffly as #2 pencil eraser tips as she gazed helplessly at Richard, hypnotized by the slow, side-to-side, equine chewing of his powerful outthrust jaw.

Arthur smacked his greasy lips and picked up a steaming cob of corn. “Tell Catherine about your novels.” His trembling nostrils explored the buttery cob before his teeth crunched ecstatically into it, spurting juices over Catherine’s startled face.

“Arthur, please! Where are your table manners!” cried Catherine, wiping the creamy fluids from her face with her embroidered napkin.

Oblivious to Catherine’s reprimands, Arthur groaned with closed eyes while moving the cob noisily across his mouth. “Richard, do tell,” he urged, spitting flecks of corn. “Your latest manuscript.”

Richard chuckled while peeling off his sock below the table. “Your husband thinks too highly of my hobbies.” Catherine shuddered as the cool flesh of his toes touched her bare thigh and began sliding upwards. “I’m on the final chapter of my apocalyptic saga about humanity’s fate in the absence of religion. Needless to say, the conclusion is catastrophic.”

“Bloody brilliant is what it is,” snorted Arthur, dropping the husk onto his plate. “Bloody Nobel-worthy if you ask me. If Obama gets a Nobel for merely saying he’ll bring world peace, why shouldn’t Richard get it for his near-complete masterpiece?”

“No!” Catherine gasped loudly as Richard’s squirming nethermost digit burrowed beneath her undergarments and, like through a trap door to momentary nirvana, abruptly slid up to the knuckle into her moist chamber.

“Take no offence, Richard,” Arthur chuckled. “Catherine plays by the rules. I daresay they need her on the Nobel committee.”

Catherine grasped the table with both hands and bowed her head, whispering desperately. Richard began rhythmically moving his foot back and forth beneath the table.

“Why, look what you’ve done to my poor wife!” said Arthur. “All this talk about godlessness has got her praying!”

A vehicle screeched to a halt outdoors. “What in the devil?” cried Richard, disengaging his industrious foot. He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and proceeded to the window.

A truck with license plate SELSEEN had parked outside, blaring rock and roll music from the external speakers. A man in blood-stained camouflaged pants emerged, holding a Miller light, and began urinating upon the front tire. His pimply progeny hung out the back window, chattering like monkeys. “We aint never going to no WalMart again if you keep it up!” he bawled at them. “Once a day at WalMart is the rule,” he bellowed, guzzling the beer as he shook his filthy member dry.

Without the slightest concern for his own welfare, Richard strode to the door.

“Richard!” cried Catherine.

Arthur stayed her with a raised hand. “Richard is a world class boxer.”

Richard approached the uncouth man. “I advise you to immediately lower that satanic music and take leave.”

“Who in the f**k do you think you are?” the brute growled.

Read OLAF 7 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)

Olga’s daughter broke the silence. “Yes?”

Ron had blanked on her name. “Hi. You must be…” Her bra strap was light green. Not turquoise but close enough.

“Ron?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes.” He glanced into the empty room behind her. “I’m an old friend of Olga.”

“Of course I know who you are! I’m Annikki. Mama told us all about you.” Her cheeks dimpled just like Olga’s once had. “We were hoping you’d come by.”

She waited for Ron to speak. The words had gone out of him. Ron raised the ziplock. “Tuna steak. It’s for you… for your family. Just tell your mother that—”

She swung the door open wide. “Mama would hit me over the head if I let you leave!”

“No, I can’t stay. I’ve—”

Annikki hooked her elbow around Ron’s arm. “No chance!” She was a foot shorter than him. She leaned in and pulled on his arm, smiling. The collar of her sky blue dress hung down, displaying her pale breasts and the light green cups of her bra. He turned his gaze away.

“They’ll be here in a second. Mama and Ransu just went next door.”

Ron let himself be pulled into the room. “Is your father here–?”

“Stepfather,” she interrupted. “No. Pellervo’s next door too.”

Annikki was still tugging Ron into the apartment when Olga appeared, silhouetted in the sunlit doorway. Annikki released his elbow. He turned to face her.

They both stood motionless. Then Olga walked up to him. “Oh, Ron,” she said softly and hugged him. Ron just stood with his arms hanging at his sides. He raised them in a halting motion and feebly returned the hug. He was still holding the bag of tuna.

There were footsteps along the walkway. Olga abruptly pulled away from him. A guest walked by. Olga said something in Finnish to Annikki, who had been watching in the corner. Annikki slipped out of the apartment, smiling at Ron as she shut the door behind her.

Olga turned her back to him. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. She laughed and her voice cracked. “I didn’t think this would happen after so long.”

She turned back and looked up at him. “You look good, Ron.” Her face was furrowed with lines. It wasn’t the face he remembered. Not even the face from her Facebook picture, although he had been drinking that night.

“Maybe for an old washed-up sunovabitch.” Olga waited for him to say something else. She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. This is too much.” She walked to the bathroom. There was a rush of water from the sink tap. Splashing sounds.

When she came out her face had smoothed over. “Ransu and Pellervo should be back soon. They’re having coffee with a new friend from Lisbon who’s staying a few apartments down. She convinced Ransu he must visit Portugal some day. She even gave him a book of translated poems from a Portuguese writer. You’d like Ransu. He was hoping you might take him out fishing…” She clutched her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. You’ve barely said a word.” She looked up at him. “Please, Ron. Say something.”

Ron held up the bag of tuna steaks. “I figured you don’t get much Gulf of Maine tuna up in Finland. I also got you some vodka and kahlua, but I thought the husband may not appreciate that too much so I left it back at the place.”

Olga took the tuna “You couldn’t have brought a better gift. Keep the bottles for your bar. I stopped drinking fifteen years ago.”

Read TESS 7 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)

“Favorite things” by John Coltrane was playing as I snuggled up to Ryan and caressed his bare chest. I normally never do that because it gives boys the impression that they’re manly protectors and that we’re frightened little schoolgirls who need comforting or something. I know some girls love it but I can’t stand it when the first thing that a boy does when you lie with him is put his arm out and expect you to just crawl up into his embrace and start purring. Not that they ever do it if you extend your arm for them. I’ve tried that tons of times. One boy did, but it was totally awkward for him. Not that Ryan ever put his arm out. I’m the one who asked if I could lie on him.

I loved how he had a bare chest. Not that I don’t like hairy chests. I totally don’t mind them. I’m just so tired of all the girls that once whined about boys that had even the thinnest coat of fuzz (not that it ever stopped them from giving it up on the first date) and now go on about how boys with hairy chests are the sexiest thing around just because they started watching Mad Men and they’ve gone all girly over Jon Hamm. What a bunch of total sheep we are.

That’s what I loved about Ryan. He wasn’t like other boys that I dated. No nervous awkwardness or any smug I’m Such A Studboy self-consciousness about him. There was something mysteriously alone and self-contained about him.

It’s like he recognized just how hideously lonely our times are even though we’re constantly texting and calling and IMing and tweeting and friending and whatevering. Because, let’s face it, these are all impersonal short lived interactions. So not only are we never connected in any meaningful way but we also no longer have time alone so that we don’t even know who we are anymore. DIY Internet may have turned us all into self absorbed, self promoters, but we’ve lost our selves in the process. It’s totally ironical.

He never pushed his luck like some guys do when they drink a lot. I’m the one who made all the moves and told him to just close his eyes and lean back and enjoy it. But after that I told him I wouldn’t respect myself anymore if I broke my personal principles on waiting for the right one (I didn’t hint that it was him). He just smiled and said, “You’re a quirky girl.” It’s like he *understood* me. Not that I couldn’t still surprise him. I totally caught him off guard when I told him we could do something else instead. He didn’t foresee that coming. I was quirkier than he realized.

Afterwards he was lying and staring at the ceiling, or more like staring at both the ceiling and the wall because his lazy eye had gone unhinged again. Total hotness. I loved it because I’d noticed that the more something was on his mind, the more his eye strayed. It was like the outward expression of his inner turmoil.

I said, “A bj for your thoughts.”

His good eye looked over at me. He said, “I need to tell you something.” He looked away for a second and then looked back. Then, as calmly as if he were stating that he was vegan or a fruitarian or something, he said, “I’m married.”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=zG0CfQ2Z5Xo

This means one contestant may get numerous challenges while another may not get a challenge.* The remaining contestants are Rhae, Tess, Olaf, Nora, Coco, and Utah.

You must email me your proposed challenge by MIDNIGHT EST TUESDAY, October 13th, when the Round 7 elimination poll closes.

If you haven’t voted off one of the six writers yet, go cast your elimination vote now.

*If you select the contestant who has been eliminated your challenge will not be used.