Volleyball 2007

[clong]

With high hopes for broad and enthusiastic participation, I give you Volleyball 2007. REMEMBER, the point is to have fun!

Here is how it works:

1. GENRE HOPPING: Just to make things interesting, each new post must switch to a different genre style (i.e., Sci-Fi, Horror, Gumshoe Mystery, Romance, Fantasy, Juvenile, Comedy, Anime/Cartoon, Superheroes, etc.). Imitations and parodies of well-known authors are also encouraged. You must announce that genre at the top of your post, before actually beginning.

2. CONTINUITY: A given post must end abruptly, in mid-story, with ellipses (...) and the next person to post MUST pick up immediately where the previous post left off, using their new genre style - after that, all bets are off. You can steer the story wherever you wish, being as conservative, or as crazy as you desire.

3. TURNS: Participants are not allowed to respond to their own posts - after you post, you must wait for at least 1 other person to post before posting again. If 72 hours have passed and no one else has posted – you may post again. To avoid crossing posts, we'll use a 'token key' system - if the thread appears open, and waiting for a response, post "OK, MY TURN" ... after that, you have up to TWO HOURS to make your post. If more than one hour goes by, it's thrown open to all comers who wish to declare it's THEIR turn. However, if nobody else has claimed the turn by the time your delayed post is ready, then go ahead and post it. Once you have grabbed your turn - for your post simply "edit" your turn lock. Dropped tokens will at some stage be edited out...

4. EFFORT: Don’t trivialize - put a little effort into making your post interesting & entertaining, otherwise there's no point in playing. Be as funny, or as serious as you like. The whole point is to have a little mutual fun bouncing around a constantly evolving plot - like a crowd with a beach ball.

5. LENGTH: There is no minimum or maximum length for any given post - provided you can write it in less than 2 hours.

6. RATING: The forum is essentially PG13 - we will exercise some latitude in this area - but if you wish to cross the line you do so at the risk of censorship!


Scoring Rules:

1] Post count [This is more for keeping an easy eye on active participants]
2] Originality [Has this material been used before on this thread]
3] Continuity [Did this post successfully close on the preceding post]
4] Guideline Breakers [As above - should be obvious]
5] Bonus Points [WOTD, answer to other game (MQG, 20QG, etc...) etc...]

Each post is eligible for 1 point in each category - The idea with category 4] of course is to keep your score low! The person with the most points during a given week can gain a Sherlock point.

The guidelines are just that: a list of recommendations that make the game fun and exciting. The scoring rules are for those who are overly competitive and want to keep score in every thing they do, you don’t want ot know what else they keep score on. If you are not the competitive type just ignore your score, don’t sweet it. Any and all comments to posts should be put in the corresponding 2006 Volleyball Comment thread.

For historical archival purposes, here are links to all previous volleyball threads thus far, in reverse chronological order:
Volleyball 2006 (1 page )
Volleyball 2006 - Commentary (4 pages)
Volleyball 2005 (3 pages)
Volleyball 2005 – Commentary (17 pages)
Volleyball 2004 (5 pgs)
Volleyball 2004 - commentary (27 pgs)
Volleyball 2003 (5 pgs)
Volleyball 2003 - commentary (10 pgs)


We are starting out with a clean sheet of paper; anyone can step up and make the first post.

LET’S HAVE SOME FUN!!!

[clong]

Genre - In the style of Washington Irving

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY FORUM

A pleasing thread of drowsy pace it was,
With dreams that we knew how to write with skill,
And of Sherlocks that might someday be given,
Forever teasing those who penned their tales.
A source of Amusement.

In the bosom of one of those less active forums which are listed far, far down the seemingly endless index, at the top of that section denoted by our founding Scottish man-dress person as the Quill and Fountain, there lie a thread which invited wit and élan of authorial endeavor. On discovery, I paused to read a scarce begun tale of a cackling mysterious man, and found myself intrigued. The gentle story had just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the suggested whistle of a quiscalus quiscula brought to mind a long held fascination with all things ornithological.

I shortened sail and implored the protection of Francis de Sales and elected to essay an entry. For my first posting, I prudently opted to mimic the more or less incomprehensible late style of a celebrated Irish author. That way, should the effort be found nonsensical, I could but claim ‘twas my aim all along. By luck I was made welcome, and quickly made camp on the fringes of this pleasing endeavor.

Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the quality of what followed, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far into the story, perhaps a dozen posts or so, there arose a suggestion of issues celestial and immutable, and soon the ambit of our tale approached almost the divine.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in word-smithing was in a class of fourth graders that thought Dennis the Menace the height of literary achievement. I had wandered into it in the late fall, when all creativity has been driven from wee minds, and was startled by the roar of my own pencil, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little forum.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Grub Street refugees, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY FORUM, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Forum Boys throughout all the neighboring Poetry, Lyrics & Ancient Classics forum. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a Nail of sorts, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Complaint, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there well before the country was discovered by occidentals.

Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to post at an unnaturally arrested rate. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the forum than in any other part of the internet, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the thread, is the apparition of an adjudicator on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Republican trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during an election year, and who is ever and anon seen by the forum folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times other forums, and especially to the Soapbox.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Adjudicator of Sleepy Forum. . .

[clong]

Genre - letter to an advice columnist

Dear Headless Adjudicator:

I am wits end, and in desperation I am turning to you. My imaginary friends say you are even smarter than Dear Abby (who’s dead, I think). My problems are several and serious.

I am addicted to this book forum that goes by some acronym or another. I can’t go an hour without feeling a compulsive urge to at least check in to see what new messages have been posted. I find myself walking around in a daze, trying to think of an excuse for not having done my homework that starts with the letter X. And I haven’t been in school for many, many years. Things like that. I've tried to dissimulate my obsession, but everyone seems to pick up on it right away.

I also keep buying all kinds of stuff that helpful, but surprisingly short tenured members of the forum have suggested. But the only result is that I am out of money and I am still am pretty lonely.

But the worst thing of all is this writing game that they have called Volleyball. I am the only one playing--I seem to have driven away all the other participants. I could keep posting my own entries I suppose, but it feels kind of pointless. I keep hoping that maybe someone else will join in, but so far no luck.

My family left me months ago, unwilling to share me with my dark obsession. I’ve been to a psychologist, but she told me my case was hopeless. You’re my final hope, Headless. What should I do?

Please sign me,

Demented in Dayton

[clong]

Dear Demented,

Genre - Robert Burns, Advice Columnist

Ha! what’re ye thinkin, ye scrawlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you surely;
I canna say that ye strunt rarely,
Owre thread and page;
Tho', faith! I fear ye should write sparely
In sic a cage.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit punner,
Detested, shunn'd by those who’re funner,
How daur ye set your words upon her-
Sae fine a forum?
Gae somewhere else and seek a reader
With nae decorum.

Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye conjugate, scrawl, and prattle,
Wi' ither kindred, in a battle,
For ungaen Sherlocks;
Whaur posts unanswered yer brains addle,
An’ your effort mocks.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
In the Q & F’s untrodden blight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
Till ye've got response-
As if aul folks have ken to write
O' ye bold dunce!

My sooth! right bauld ye set your prose out,
As bland an' ripe as ony goslet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum.

I wad na been surpris'd to spy
Your much lamented non-reply;
Unless its some bit dubbie sigh,
Of provenance yer own;
So stop your whining! fye!
We’re deaf to yer moan.

O Kvetch, dinna fret your head,
Nor rush your ditties a' abread!
Ye clearly ken what cursed speed
The story's makin:
A post a month, at best, I dread.
Yer time be takin.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see our posts as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What airs in style an' tone wad lea'e us,
An' much commotion!

[clong]

From the editor

Dear Readers,

We received an overwhelming response to our advice columnists' previous post (well, two responses, anyway, and we think maybe they were from the same person). This:

The forward poster thus do I chide:
Bold thief, whence didst thou steal thy stable smells,
If not from your muse's breath? The green pride,
Which in thy strangely warp’d unconscious dwells,
With which thy prior post is grossly dyed?
The thistle I’ve rewritten for thine eyes,
Buds of genius work’d into disrepair,
Shining roses in pitiful disguise,
To my blushing shame, and your black despair;
But you, more prickly than both, have stol'n weeds,
And to this robbery have annex'd thy breath;
And choked us all upon your black misdeeds
A vengeful canker eats you up to death.
More flora I could note, yet I none can see
For sense flees ‘fore the stench coming from thee.

And this:

When in disgrace with forum watchers’ eyes,
You all alone have made your outcast state,
So trouble not posters with your witless cries,
But look upon yourself, and curse your fate,
Wishing to be like those more rich in hope,
Featur'd like Brad, like Kvetch with friends possess'd,
Desiring Laurie's art, and Felon's scope,
With what you most enjoy contented least:
And in these thoughts yourself full well despising,
Sadly you think on me, and then your state
(Like to the town at break of day arising
In Swift’s poem) sings ditties at death's gate;
For our sweet skill recall'd jealousy brings
And petulance your finger’d keyboard flings.

We're not entirely sure what to make of them, but they sound sort of discontented, so have fired Mr. Burns, and are now accepting applicants for a replacement advice columnist. In the meantime, Mr. Burns has found new employment . . .

[fuzzy_patters]

Genre: the writing style of some of the teenagers in my wife's English 11 class

as a sports collomnist cuz he wanted too. See Robby Burns loved sports like I do and cuz he wanted to write about sports, he wrote bout them.

Anyways, he got fired by the newpaper because he used to many o'ers and e'ers and stuff like that. Who wants to read that crap? We have to much of that crap in school anyways Mrs. B.

So Mr. Burns (but not Smithers) got a job at a gas station. It's one of those gas stations with the gum and stuff. Then he met the girl of his dreams. She was all hot and stuff like Christina Aguilera, and Robby had a boner cuz she was HAWT!!! So, he like asked her out and stuff, and they went out on a date. They went bowling and then they got something to eat cuz they was hungry, but they had no idea what was in store for them next. They parked their car and just as Robbie Burns moved in to make his move...

[clong]

Things were just starting to get hot and heavy when the wind began blow.

“Keep goingâ€

[fuzzy_patters]

Genre: Dr. Seuss

"Zaga-Ziga
Zaga-Zaga
We are the Zigs
of Zaga-Gaga"

They awoke in a car.
They had fallen very far.
Their car toppled down
and landed with a sound.

"Where are we?" she said
as Burns held his head.
"It's a very strange place,
but I don't think it's outer space."

Approaching the car
came the Zigs from afar.
See how many Zigs there are?

"Who are these people?" said Robby
who was feeling rather groggy.

All Zigs have antennas on top their heads.
All Zigs arrived on top of small sleds.

"Greetings earthlings. Welcome!"
said a Zig named Salvador Melsom.
"We are the Zigs. We don't mean to fright you.
Why do you look as though you think we might bight you?"

Robbie cowered away in distant disbelief.
He was sure he looking at the face of their chief.

"Are you the leader of these people."
He asked their leade, his crown shaped like a steeple.
"Are you the one who leads these things
with antennas that are shaped like rings?"

The Zig laughed and laughed at Burns's retort.
Helaughed and laughed and let out a snort.
"The leader I am not," he said rather slow.
Can't you see I'm the lowest of low?

In Zaga-Gaga the lowest wears crowns,
the last shall be first and wear flowing white gowns.

Robbie did not know what to say next.
Then he saw him. The...

[clong]

...Padre Perplexed.

[genre - detective story/noir]

It was Tuesday morning. I was working a case. A typical case. A dame who had run out on a guy with a whole lot of his money case. I’d have starved long ago if it weren’t for rich guys turning stupid at the sight of an attractive female.

The name’s Lowmar. Carson Lowmar. I’m a private dick out of L.A. People turn to me when the have problems they need solved quietly. No publicity. And believe me, I’m good at it. I take my client’s needs very seriously. They pay cash.

It was the Glynhadda case which had taken me to Zaga-Gaga. I can’t begin to tell you how I hated that place. Those friggin’ Zigs and their constant “Zaga-Ziga! Zaga-Zaga!â€

[felonius]

“Hinka cumfae cashore canfeh, Ahl hityi oar hied 'caw taughtie!â€

[clong]

Genre - Newspaper story

Bagpiping Festival announced
Exclusive for the Zaga-Gaga Gazette

A series of strange activities in Downtown Zaga-gaga yesterday proved to be a publicity stunt for a new International Bagpiping Festival to be held next month. Festival spokesman Carson Lowmar made the announcement yesterday, promising that the Festival would “put Zaga-Gaga on the map.â€

[Kvetch]

[Genre: Lovecraftian Horror]

And on that night, beneath a gelid and gibbous moon, I was told a tale of such horror and terror that I am unable to speak of it.

My two guests huddled in fear before my stove, and wept as they told me this unrepeatable tale. The man, named Robert Burns could do little more than weep and wail, and babble in some language lost to all but the accursed scholars who drive themselves insane studying the corrupt works of the Mad Arab.

But his lady companion was made of sterner stuff - although her iron constitution had been warped and weakened by the squamous horrors she had so recently faced, and would often break off the conversation to look around the room with a wild and unseeing gaze.

"Oh, the horror, I cannonot speak of it. The shambling bodies with their batracian limbs, and staring fishlike eyes. And the voices on the wind, the howling of a thousand tormented souls cast forever adrift upon the winds

And then, and then...

[clong]

and then she continued . . . "it's true! The day that the Highlands Piping Club visited Deafland changed our lives forever."

[genre – Lord Dunsany . . . call it The King of Deafland’s Daughter]

On the high balcony of his gleaming tower the King of Deafland stood. Below him bellowed yet the hundred pipes. He had lifted his head to chant the rune that would hold the pipes from our Deafland, and in that moment had seen them pass the murky barrier, which on this side, facing toward Deafland, is all lustrous with twilight, and on that side, facing towards the fields you know, is smoky and angry and dull. And then he had dropped his head till his beard lay mingled with his cape of ermine above his cerulean cloak, and stood there silently sorrowful, while sounds passed over the fields that until then had known only silence.

And standing there all blue and white against his silver tower, assaulted by the bellowing of which we had known nothing, my father thought of me and pitied my ears. For he knew, whose wisdom surpassed the confines of Deafland and touched your ragged fields, knew well the harshness of pipes and all the turmoil of the sounds they make. Even as he stood there he knew that the sounds that assail beauty, and the myriad harshnesses that vex the ears, were already about me. And the days that remained to me seemed dark more to him, dwelling beyond the fret and ruin of Harsh Sounds, than to you might seem a briar rose’s hours when plucked and foolishly hawked in the streets of a noisy city. He knew that there hung over me now the doom of all hearing things. He thought of me covering my ears, as hearing things must; to be buried amongst the sounds of a land that scorned Deafland and held our most treasured serenity to be of little account.

Then the King of Deafland turned and left his balcony and went in great haste down his brazen steps. He came rushing to the ivory doors that shut the tower below, and through them came to the throne-room of which only pantomime may tell. And there he took a parchment out of a coffer and a plume from some fabulous wing, and dipping into no earthly ink, wrote out a rune on the parchment, a rune that would silence the gathered pipes of your land forevermore. Then raising his two fingers he made the minor enchantment whereby he summoned guardsman Bobby, and sent us forth, parchment in hand, to right the wrongs that had come to Deafland. . .

[felonius]

GENRE: Cop Story

…Bobby opened the passenger door and stooped to fit his tall frame back in the car, cradling a cardboard holder with two cups. The aroma of fresh coffee assailed my nostrils and I felt my stomach fold slightly.

“That was a while,â€

[clong]

Genre: none in particular

Just then . . . everything started flashing red and the inpersonal "voice of god" started telling me to insert another $1000 within 15 seconds or my game would be over. And of course, the VR booth had been designed in such a way that extracting the required funds from my purse and inserting said funds in the machine would take at least 16 seconds.

Damn!, I thought. I never seem to quite reach the point in the a case where I get to blow away the bad guy! Murphy's face, for a small additional fee, had taken a remarkable resemblance to an uploaded photo of that creep Glynhadda. These VR games at the Casino Baroniale were something else. All the joy of killing one's most despised enemies, without the complications of return fire and prison. Oh well, maybe I'll nail him tomorrow.

After three weeks in this isolated backwater I was finally beginning to feel safe from Oberwyn, who had turned out to be not prince charming, but rather a sinister sheep-obsessed megalomaniac with a cunning plan to make obscene profits off hapless old pet owners by cornering the west coast Hamster-chow market. Of course, he hadn't seemed like a creep at first. There had been the dinners at Wendy's, the dandelion bouquets, the demolition derbies. He had seemed a true renaissance man, a man whose sullen silences covered both probing intellect and brooding passion.

But that was all behind me now. Oberwyn would never think to look for me here.

To my surprise, I found myself enjoying the slow pace of life in Zaga-Gaga, and even growing rather fond of the naively comic Zigs. The casino offered nightly Fish tournaments, a game of skill and chance at which I had excelled going back all the way to second grade. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the Zigs had never learned to hold their cards in such a way as to obscure what cards they held from opposing players. Rumor had it that there was some new guy in town who fancied himself a high-stakes Fisher. I was looking forward to some competition.

But for now, I thought maybe I would stop by the casino bar and look for a dashing young man to buy me a drink. . .