tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54569655418086555802024-03-14T21:17:51.295+13:00FaBo storyNine mad writers; one crazy story; no idea what happens next; hold onto your mouse... it's going to be a wild ride!
It began as a conversation on facebook and turned into a fabulous book at http://fabostory.blogspot.com. The next adventure on Planet Fabo starts on 13 June 2011. Stay tuned. Start writing.FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-60637469654787343242011-11-20T22:56:00.021+13:002011-11-21T08:43:01.482+13:00Judge's Report - The Deathly MallowsTupeni's character Jacob said “Let’s go to adventure!” and that's what you all did this week. In one way or another, you went into battle. <br /><br />There were many individual moments of brilliance, and times that you made me smile and gasp. The beginnings of your stories inspired me so much this week that I want to share some of the different styles and the effects of each: <br /><br />He was standing in the rain with an axe in his hand (Ali Abbaspour Mojdehi)<br /><br />It was a lonely day for clones. All humans had left the region, packing smart little suitcases and driving off over the dusty plains in newly washed Fords or Toyotas. The move was sudden, without any warning. The cat’s food bowl left half empty, the sprinklers still spraying water over mowed lawns. (Caroline Moratti)<br /><br />... a great warrior rose from the planet FaBo 2 ancient ruins from when the mighty picaro fought off the invaders from before bread was discovered and even before guns were created ...(Levi Simiona)<br /><br />We stood there. Our heads bowed. The Secretary and Treasurer lowered the oak coffin into the ground. The church bells rang and we silently walked away. King Bartholomew III had died. The last of the Royal Fabo family. Now no one ruled Planet Fabo2. (Matthew Illing)<br /><br />This one by Imogen Wiseman has a completely different, almost lyrical style: <br />Deep in the darkest parts of planet FABO the cloud of wonders lived. That cloud could blow the roofs of houses when it was angry and sent gentle breezes through the forest when he was happy and then when he was sad he would split up into a million little balls of fluff rolling through the sky. This cloud had power but only a sliver of it and that tiny bit of power didn’t help him when it came to his life. He was tired of not being able to live peacefully among the villagers; he was tired of being forced into eating spiders and cockroaches. His life was a messed up one.<br /><br />And this fabulous one by Izaak Glynn. The blood stained blade shone from the dim glow of the moonlight. Madras looked down at the corpses of the centaurs his troops have just slain. The evil cringe on his face crept to a chuckle. The thunderous sky above was booming. “What will you do Jupiter?” madras screamed to the sky, “there is no force on Olympus that will stop me!”.<br /><br />I also liked the way you told me about your characters:<br />I opened my eyes and there stood the bony man I had first met when I had come here. He was grouchy but he was small. I could beat him up blind folded! He was one of the many people I was not afraid of in this dump. (Issy Meikle) <br /><br />Your dialogue had tension, hints at drama to come, and even humour, as was the case in William Taber's conversation between Sam Spader and Benji, just before the evil Dr Manwell strikes. <br />"Why do you have a kitchen knife?" said sam.<br />"I was making you cucumber salad," replied Benji.<br /><br />Actually, I think Matthew Illing should write for Star Trek. Look at this:<br />We clambered through the pipes towards the echo of BB’s voice talking to his executive assistant P.L.E.X. “When will we have enough Pixie dust to power the UIP’s?” BB asked.<br />“At about twenty-two hundred hours, sir,” replied P.L.E.X.<br />“Good P.L.E.X. Send in those annoying trespassers”, he commanded.<br />“Yes, sir.” responded P.L.E.X. as he pushed a button on the remote control in his hand. <br /><br />Food was commonly mentioned but it didn't always sound good. Lunch at fabo2 east school was like barf on a plastic platter (Izaak Glynn), they ate goat for the main course and for desert oranges (Benjamin Ziegler). I particularly liked the sound of Lucy Spence's chocolate demise cake.<br /><br />Your endings also made me realise how much you've learned about rounding off a good story, and leaving your reader with something to think about, as was the case with Raghav Parekh and Caroline Moratti in these examples.<br /><br />Daniel put the Anubis stone on the fountain and the lair illuminated. Al Zalam was free, Zarok… killed. And Daniel died as the great hero of Gallomere. (Raghav)<br /><br />Peace was formed in the palm of friendship, as life moved on. (Caroline)<br /><br />Caroline's ending was beautiful, and thought-provoking. So was her beginning. The rest of her story was full of intricate detail around the setting and characters and the story developed logically, but with the occasional unexpected reversal in it, so that it was never predictable. Caroline has consistently written well in a variety of styles throughout the Planet FaBo competitions, so we're awarding her the GRAND PRIZE today. We expect to see her name on a book one day.<br /><br />I'd also like to congratulate Izaak Glynn for a brilliant, dynamic full-powered piece of writing that seriously challenged Caroline's winning entry, and Matthew Illing, who has also consistently written so well in this competition. <br /><br />Thank you to all of you for all those moments throughout our writing adventures on Planet FaBo. And thank you to your teachers who have helped to inspire you to write them down.<br /><br />Don't stop now that you're on a roll. Get writing that novel. Read the winning entry called Revenge and Cleaning Sprays by Caroline Moratti, and check out the latest geographical location on Planet FaBo.<br /><br />Kathy White : )FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-47494924590850455112011-10-24T21:45:00.003+13:002011-10-24T21:52:01.858+13:00School On Fabo2 - Judge's Report By Tania HutleyWell, there has been plenty of distractions during the last week or two! I think there was some kind of rugby game on, wasn't there... did we win? <br /><br />With all that excitement going on, extra congratulations are due to those that found the time to send in a story.<br /><br /> There were some wonderful entries, and I did have a good laugh reading them.<br />Some stories made me want to go to school on Fabo2 - and some made me very glad I don't!<br /><br />The following stories deserve a special mention this week:<br /><br />I enjoyed Nikhila Leelaratna's story about overcoming bullying on Fabo2 and I was very glad Hinky was able to enjoy the rest of his school life after being treated so badly! <br /><br />Caroline Moratti's story was beautifully written, and I loved the way her main character Matilda went from total fear to jubilation... well done Caroline! <br /><br />Dionne Avis wrote a story in diary form, which was great fun to read - especially when her horse ran away to live a lifelong dream of owning a shoe warehouse. That made me chuckle!<br /><br />And Matthew Illing wrote an excellent story about a boy called Bob having a very bad day at Rock Star school.<br /><br />But this time I am giving the prize to Vibhava Leelaratna from Maungawhau School. Vibhava's story is also about someone not enjoying school, but it doesn't sound so bad to me... I'd like to have a teacher called Lizard Pimple! <br /> <br />Well done for having such a great imagination, Vibhava. I found myself trying to work out just how you might go about turning a Flat Screen TV into banana peels. <br /><br />- Tania.FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-71718202564243395212011-10-09T20:40:00.004+13:002011-10-09T20:48:57.485+13:00The Non-Fiction Challenge: Judge's Report by Guest Judge Maria GillThanks for everyone’s stories – I thoroughly enjoyed reading them and loved the humour that was coming through in some of the descriptions. I might add the inhabitants on FABO are quite scary so I’ve decided to delay my trip there.<br /><br />Scientist Vibhava Leelaratna was meticulous in her description of the Vorakom; saying how it got its name, how it defends itself, what it eats and how it reproduces. I sure wouldn’t like to meet a Vorakom in the dark – at least I’d be able to recognise it with its beady red laser eyes.<br />Dr Manwell Pratchetti gave a brilliant scientific explanation of the Citoxe’s habitat, call, behaviour and intelligence. I liked his explanation of Citoxe’s brutal solution of getting rid of intruders. The Citoxe’s method of communicating with humans was inspired.<br />As for the Skraosk with its 58 legs, 21 arms, 65 ears and 82 ears – yikes, I’m going to have nightmares for years after visualising that monster.<br />The reporter Dionne Avis wrote an excellent article about the Tickerflies. I’m still trying to imagine Justin Bieber wearing a bright orange fur outfit with purple spots – and as for the pink love hearts – I’m all in a flutter. As for their flatulence – I hope I never meet a Tickerfly. Liked the nice touch of adding a website and email address.<br />Reporter Mathew’s article on the true identity of the Silver Arrows was like it was straight out of The Times. The Monkeyologists on earth will be very impressed with the detail about the Silver Metallicus.<br />I liked the way the author spoke directly to the reader to describe the Kings of the Shadow – the Shadosia. Another animal I wouldn’t like to meet…<br />Anne’s method of crossing a crocodile with a gorilla was creative and she really gave some great descriptions.<br />I really enjoyed Levi’s comparison of the Zizzard with the other animals – very clever.<br />Rebecca’s description of the Zelpifreda was very inventive. Speaking of inventions can I buy one of your 5D televisions – I’d patent that!<br />I want to take a green Mantinor home – they’re so cute but I wouldn’t like it puking up its egg sacks, though.<br /><br />And the winner is: The David Attenborough impersonator Caroline Moratti for her excellent script about the filming of the Quadropus. She manages to show while talking to the camera close-up details of the Quadropus behaviour, how it looks, and how it operates when in battle. Just beautiful, as the impersonator would say. I quote: “Slowly, drifting from the whirling water, the camera can see a silhouette race away, the disappearing of the Quadropus after finishing his dinner.” You have to say/read it in a David Attenborough voice, though.<br /><br />Special mentions to Matthew Illing for his account of the Mettallicus and William Taber for the Citoxe.FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-5924122955500397912011-09-25T09:38:00.005+13:002011-09-25T11:32:57.091+13:00FaBo World Cup Challenge Judge’s Report by Kyle MewburnWhat exciting games everyone invented this week! I thought watching the All Blacks beat France last night was exciting, but I imagine the people of FaBo2 would think rugby was very, very DULL if they had games like Filich, Elivm or Coliseum-O-Creeper on TV.<br /><br />It was very hard to pick a winner because all the entries had some interesting bits.<br />Matilda had very precise instructions for her game of Filich. She invented lots of technical terms too - “To play the fun and exciting game of filich each team elects ten players to skim a stone into the centre of the small lake in the middle of the playing field. The first player to touch the middle with the stone will start with the blibit, while the other thirty nine players hide and spread out in the trees and field. As the players do that the leader (called the chefie in the game of filich) will chant a famous fabo2 spell on the blibit while the others discuss their tactics on the opposite team. The chant will let the blibit adapt a mind of its own and the blibit will race around in the field, trees and even some times water! Then all the players will chase after it.” Matilda even added a website link in case you wanted to play!<br /><br />Arabella had the craziest setting for her game of Elivm - “The game takes place in ARABELLIALIS galaxy where each custard and banana stars has kfc on it (bribing ha ha ha) first the monkey teams are on earth and the have to make a monkey chain.”<br />If you wanted to play Emma’s game of Octana , you needed some interesting equipment – “You will need: A bottle of swim-a-swim; A uniform for everyone in your team; And last but not least you need the skill, courage and guts.” She also invented swirly swirlnadoes.<br /><br />Dionne’s game of Beauty and the Beast had a long list of weird stuff you needed to play – “A horse, A math’s book, Foam/slime, Makeup e.g. Lipstick, A rugby ball, A cricket set, Uniform, A set of beauty and the beast questions, a cream pie, Some earing and necklaces, Station [ table 6], A camera, Nail polish, Work clothes.”<br />Rebecca and Emma wrote a story with their game in it. And Arabella even sent us a lovely poem. Thanks! (Arabella is moving schools soon, too. It’s never much fun leaving all your friends and starting a new school. The FaBo team wish you the bestest of luck Arabella! Keep on writing and don’t forget to tell your new school about FaBo!!)<br /><br />But in the end, there can only be one winner … or, actually, in this case, TWO winners. My favourite two games this week were Spartonin by Izaak Glynn and Matthew Sansome, and Floatamot by Rebekah Gooderham. I thought Izaak and Matthew gave their game a lot of thought – they even drew a uniform and shield. I also loved the first rule – NO MERCY. While Floatamot just has to be the weirdest game EVER invented.<br /><br />Both our winners this week go to Maungawhau school. Izaak and Matthew win a copy of Dinosaur Rescue each, and Rebekah gets a copy of DO NOT PUSH! If any of you already have these books, let me know and I’ll send you something else!<br /><br />Otherwise, get ready to RUUUUUUUUUUMBLE!!!<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">**********************</div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-50207374411343584112011-09-12T22:01:00.000+12:002011-09-12T22:02:27.500+12:00Listen to The Ballad of Dew Moon<div><br /> <object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,0,0" width="210" height="25" id="mp3playerdarksmallv3" align="middle"><br /> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="sameDomain" /><br /> <param name="movie" value="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://kathywhite.podbean.com/mf/play/x7mm2/TheballadofDewMoon.mp3&autoStart=no" /><br /> <param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#ffffff" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><br /> <embed src="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://kathywhite.podbean.com/mf/play/x7mm2/TheballadofDewMoon.mp3&autoStart=no" quality="high" width="210" height="25" name="mp3playerdarksmallv3" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed><br /> </object><br /> <br /><a style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; padding-left: 41px; color: #2DA274; text-decoration: none; border-bottom: none;" href="http://www.podbean.com">Podcast Powered By Podbean</a><br /> </div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-4945463545084317082011-09-12T22:00:00.000+12:002011-09-12T22:34:00.919+12:00Listen to The Opera Singer<div><br /> <object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,0,0" width="210" height="25" id="mp3playerdarksmallv3" align="middle"><br /> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="sameDomain" /><br /> <param name="movie" value="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://kathywhite.podbean.com/mf/play/jpu3fr/briansstory.mp3&autoStart=no" /><br /> <param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#ffffff" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><br /> <embed src="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://kathywhite.podbean.com/mf/play/jpu3fr/briansstory.mp3&autoStart=no" quality="high" width="210" height="25" name="mp3playerdarksmallv3" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed><br /> </object><br /> <br /><a style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; padding-left: 41px; color: #2DA274; text-decoration: none; border-bottom: none;" href="http://www.podbean.com">Podcast Powered By Podbean</a><br /> </div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-75276570390771288042011-09-11T22:19:00.003+12:002011-09-12T21:24:05.630+12:00The Ballad of Dew Moon by Elena de Roo/ Judge's ReportJudges Report - Elena de Roo<br /><br />There were lots of wonderful lines in the poems this week. Some of my favourites were Caroline Moratti's, "Ripe with Nights gaze, the air is filled with plum ferment ..." and Allie Hawksworth's, "The shadows flitter, under the buzzing lamp." <br /><br />It's really interesting how the character's name - Dew Moon - had such a big influence on the atmosphere and tone of the poems (mine included). I loved the sense of mystery in Liv Coulter and Livy Maher's poem with the four fingered soldier, and their lovely line, "city lights glitter while candle lights flicker," and the quiet mood of Joshua Chote's last lines, " Dew Moon sees an owl flying past. / He silently falls to sleep." In contrast it was also good to find a bit of grittiness in Matthew Illing's poem, where the lane was "Pitch black and evil / and full of garbage and graffiti," and the shadows were the focus rather than Dew Moon. <br /><br />Most of you forgot that we were on Planet Fabo2 this week, so well done Kendra for including Moratti Mountains and Illing Lake in your poem, and I love your last line "MO HA HA HA the shadow replies."<br /><br />Another common mistake was to put in something unrelated to the poem just because it rhymed. Rhyming can be fun to write and even more fun to read aloud, but if you decide to use it, don't let the rhyme lead the poem. <br /><br />Poems don't have to rhyme; rhythm, alliteration and repetition can be just as effective. In Maddy's lines, "I hear the drops in the quiet of the night / I slowly creep, down, down, down ..." the repetition of the word "down" seems to mimic the sound of the drops. Also, I love Paige Grant's use of alliteration in the phrase "Dew Moon's deep, dark, feathers rise," and the fact that she uses it twice in her owl poem. Wesley Wang's poem uses a great combination of alliteration and onomatopoeia together with a strong rhythm, to create a real sense of movement - "A leopard pounces through the dark creepy jungle. / The tall trees swish through the dark creepy jungle." <br /><br />Where the line breaks come in poems can make quite a difference to its meaning and effect. I like the way Joseph Ayoade broke his last sentence into two, emphasising the last line. Dew Moon goes back home. / With no food. I also liked the way Kate's (Waimataitai School) last lines echoed the first, and her nice use of contrast "The night is young and the moon is high." <br /><br />Because poems are so condensed, every word counts - titles can be an important part of them, sometimes providing the clue to the whole poem, like in Annie Sun's poem "Midnight" or draw you in to read them, like Lucy Spence's "The drifting, creeping, scary, cat."<br /><br />There were lots of great figures of speech too:<br />My favourite simile was William Taber's "The sun rises like a cake"<br />My favourite metaphor was Neve Cobham's "The night is black and smooth like a blanket ..." <br /><br />Favourite endings: Caroline Moratti's "Hardly daring to whisper, / The darkness stares at itself in Natures Mirror, / and unfolds" and Booke Ellis's "Owls watching above looking for tea. / Rats hiding." <br /><br />Favourite beginnings: Molly Marsden's, "The night was quiet / Elves making shadows / Stars watching silently" and Tupeni Valili's "Cold was the night as the sparkling stars gleamed in the dark blue sky ..."<br /><br />But there can only be two winners and one special mention. I thought since there are really no rules in poetry I could get away with having a few extras. And they are ...<br /><br />Dark Night - by Bruno McCall<br />The Night Shadows by Matilda Clack <br />Both of you wrote poems that worked well as a whole, but were different from each other. I liked the way Bruno had a great idea, and wasn't afraid to experiment with line breaks and play around with words and the way Matilda gave herself a challenge, by writing in a particular style and pulled it off.<br /><br />Special Mention <br />Night - by Emma O'Shaungnessy<br />I loved the way you used the moon, to join together the image of the cat with the golden coat, and the little girl with popcorn! <br /><br /><br /><br />The Ballad of Dew Moon<br /><br />The stars were sulking silently, the moon, too, hid its light<br />when Dew went out to track the long-lost Chocolate Moose that night<br /> She took her flash, new, camera phone, her cloak of coal-wing feather<br />pulled the hood around her face, and braved the bitter weather <br /><br />Intent on finding signs of Moose, she never saw the creeping<br />of the shadows in the corners, or the darker-darkness, sweeping<br />And if she had, she would have said, <br /> "A shadow? That's not right.<br />It must be more than what it seems, for shadows must have light." <br /><br />The shadow-men had searched for years, on planets far and wide <br />looking for a the perfect match to be their King's new bride<br />and now, at last, they thought they'd found the perfect shadow maid<br />mistaking Dew, in black, at night, for some exotic shade. <br /><br />And all the while, she never saw the darker-darkness sweeping <br />or the shadows that were growing, coming closer, nearer, creeping<br />but she must have had a premonition something wasn't right<br />for she shouted to the darker-darkness<br /> "Come on out and fight!"<br /><br />The moon came out. At last Dew saw the shadows all around<br />she knew then, as her forbears had, that she must hold her ground<br />She ditched the hood and shouted out <br /> "I have a flash new phone<br />Step back or I will use the torch. My name is Dew Moon Jones!"<br /><br />But the darkness only grew, and drew around her, slowly sweeping,<br />and the crowd of shadows circled, getting nearer, closer, creeping<br />She couldn't even see the keypad. Which one was the light?<br />In the end, Dew pressed the lot – the beam was blinding bright<br /><br />Twelve LED's lit up her face. The crowd cried in surprise<br />She seemed so pale – a ghostly ghoul. No beauty, in their eyes<br />The tide of shadows turned away – how quickly it retreated<br />and Dew, the hero of the night, returned home, undefeated!<br /><br />So if, at night, a darker sort of darkness comes a-creeping, <br />forget about that Chocolate Moose, just concentrate on sleepingFaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-46678371802532852652011-09-05T08:14:00.003+12:002011-09-05T08:18:56.884+12:00Melindiana Jones and the Treasure of the Caroline Caves and Judge's Report from Melinda Szymanik: IIJudges Report
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<br />Wow the Caroline Caves were filled with some very interesting treasures and secrets this week. And poor old Melindiana Jones got into some really tight spots. As always, editing is the key to making your story the best it can be. Some of you definitely could have done with more commas and full stops. I thought Victor Gan’s idea of a land of dinosaurs was very interesting and I liked Caroline Moratti’s twist with Melindiana becoming tired of her exciting yet dangerous adventures. Most dramatic ending goes to Tupene Valili with this
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<br />But it was too late they had come in I was terrified what would happen to the village. The menacing creatures came into the village and attacked all of us. Right now I am hurt by being attacked one of the creatures there big jaws attacked. I have been writing this to warn the whole Planet Fabo. 2 I hope you defeat these creatures and forgive me for releasing this cre……….
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<br /> Best place name was Matthew Illing’s ‘Fabomuda Triangle’. Matilda Clack had some very poetic descriptions and Liv Coulter and Livy Maher (who collaborated on a story together) wrote a very polished story. And (drum roll please) this week’s winner is Isla Jackson for a well written and colourful story.
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<br />Melindiana Jones and the Treasure of the Caroline Caves
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<br />Slashing at the thick vines with the machete she held in her right hand, Melindiana Jones took another bite of the flat bread and piranha sandwich in the other. She hated fish but they had left civilization behind days ago and piranha were the only edible and catchable thing left in the Mewburn River that flowed down to Thompson Swamp. The piranha had eaten everything else in the river except the rubber-like crocs which were indigestible, although they made great hard-wearing shoes and each of the tribes-people in Jones’s team now had a pair. Though the shoes were great it didn’t make her sandwich taste any better. Not that food back home at Hard-Vard University where she worked part time as a teacher was any better. Too much soup-in-a-cup for her tastes. Everything was bland and the sandwiches were just so…so…square. 1935 hadn’t been a very good year for Melindiana. It had been a relief to take the sea plane down to South Allerica on another adventure.
<br /> She shoved the rest of the sandwich in her mouth and took to slashing with two hands. The entrance to the Caroline Caves was around here somewhere. The map the old guide had given her was faded, with a ragged hole in the middle where it had been unfolded and folded countless times over the centuries. She’d studied it in broad daylight. She’d pored over it at night in her tent under the jittery glow of the paraffin lamp. Everything led to that hole in the middle. At first Melindiana cursed her luck that the information she needed, the last few clues that would bring her to what could be the greatest find of her archaeological career, had been obliterated by the careless hands of her predecessors. But as she’d lain in her cot the night before, checking and rechecking the flimsy parchment she’d had a brilliant idea. The hole wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate.
<br /> The closer they got to the hole in the map, the closer and thicker the vines grew. She was sure someone was following them. She had to reach the caves first. Jones ignored the delicate, fragrant orchids as she pushed forward, crushing them underfoot, releasing their delicious aroma. Sweat poured off her brow.
<br /> “Thoc!” The tip of her croc shoe hit something hard. Melindiana parted the vegetation round her foot and jumped back in horror. She’d heard all those stories about the explorers who had gone before her and never been seen again. She always just considered them idle rumours put about by the tribes-people to keep folk away. After all, the map hadn’t got lost she reasoned. But the skull at her feet told a different story. The rest of her team piled in to the back of her as she stood frozen looking at the empty head grinning up at them. A chorus of shrieks rang out from the tribes-people, and startled birds flew up out of the trees above them as everyone except Melindiana and her trusted sidekick Big Mac, who wasn’t really all that big, took to their heels and ran back the way they’d come.
<br /> “I recognize that face,” Big Mac said leaning forward to examine the skull. Melindiana took a closer look.
<br />Livingston, I presume,” Melindiana said. Big Mac nodded. “He was always taking credit for my discoveries,” Melindiana went on. “I won’t miss him.”
<br />“What do you think happened to him?” Big Mac said.
<br />Melindiana shrugged. “Probably died waiting for me to turn up and find the caves for him. C’mon, let’s finish this job.”
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<br />With both Melindiana and Big Mac wielding machetes the vines fell faster and after another dozen strokes they found that Melindiana’s discovery about the map was true. A ragged blackness opened up in front of them and before they could step back or alter their course they were both falling, sucked into the pitch black vacuum of what could only be the Caroline Caves, sliding on a slippery surface, down, down down…
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<br /> “ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Melindiana yelled.
<br /> “ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” Big Mac screamed.
<br /> With a whump! they reached the bottom.
<br /> “Tchsk!” Big Mac scraped a match across the sole of his boot and the sudden glow of the flame pushed the darkness back.
<br />“Here,” Melindiana said grabbing some wood off the floor and wrapping her jacket round the top, held it to the head of the match. The fabric burst alight just as the match sputtered and went out.
<br />They were in a vast cavern, with dry rock walls and a paved rock floor littered with old dry branches and a jumble of other stuff.
<br />“We are not the first to come here,” Big Mac said, poking a pile of bones with the toe of his boot.
<br />“Look,” Melindiana said, pointing to two blackwood chests by the cave wall. She rushed over and kneeling, pulled at the lid of the first box. Flakes of red rust from the iron clasp came off in her hand. Big Mac brought his machete down and the clasp fell apart under the blow. The lid creaked open.
<br />“Documents?” Big Mac said.
<br />“They look like…recipes…” Melindiana gasped. “Chicken fried in eleven herbs and spices…” she read out from the top sheet.
<br />Suddenly they heard a noise: feet scuffling in the blackness just beyond the firelight. Then a figure stepped out of the gloom: a man in a white suit with a little black bow at his neck and a strange pointy beard. Before he realised what she was doing Melindiana shoved one of the papers into her back pocket. The man in the white suit grabbed the rest out of her other hand.
<br />“I’ll take those, thank you,” he said in a posh Kentucky accent.
<br />“Stanley?” Big Mac asked.
<br />“No,” the man said with a laugh. “You can call me the Colonel.” And in a swirl of dust and sparks and a savoury smell he was gone.
<br />“Not again,” cried Big Mac.
<br />“I know,” Melindiana said. “This happens every time.” She got to her feet. “Well at least I managed to save one of the recipes.”
<br />“What’s it for?” Big Mac asked.
<br />Melindiana peered at the faded writing.
<br />“Hamburger,” she said, reading down the rest of the page.
<br />“Whatever that is,” grumbled Big Mac.
<br />“Big Mac,” Melindiana said with a smile. “This changes everything.”
<br />
<br />The End.
<br />
<br />FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-35092725762936917392011-08-28T21:43:00.006+12:002011-09-02T17:03:54.939+12:00Judge's Report from MelindaYet another bunch of fab Fabo stories. Many of the entries needed some serious re-reading and editing and were desperately in want of some good punctuation. If you plan to have a twist ending, plot twists work best if the reader has known the truth all along but is still surprised when it comes out. Please watch out for long sentences. Still, there were some real gems in there. I very much liked the inventive Spike Milliganesque qualities (with a little bit of Edward Lear’s ‘The Jumblies’ thrown in for good measure) of Arabella Cameron’s story and the amazing imagery. The team especially liked:
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Sophia and Bruce hadn’t seen each other in months so they spent every moment talking “ did you forget about me?" Questioned Bruce no said Sophia “ you were asleep in my heart and it hurt to much to wake you up, “ and they finished that conversation by embracing each other warmly, </span>
<br />
<br />And
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Jim had found a splendid boat called Wild Water ship that had a sail and shone in the morning sunlight, but at the moment no one felt like admiring it because the wind was so heavy it felt like a scratchy cotton blanket
<br /></span>
<br />
<br />And I thought the ending of Arabella’s story was beautiful.
<br />
<br />I laughed heartily over Dionne and Emma’s story, especially the following lines
<br />
<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Her goldfish was called Sam until it died in court (did I mention he’s a goldfish rights lawyer – and - She felt lonely so she went back to Fabowood to see her pet goldfish Sam Number Two. Sam Number Two did an amazing act so good that he got One Million dollars and an interview on Fabowoods got talent. But he didn’t say anything because he is a goldfish. – and - Sam Number Three was so awesome that he got his own cooking show: Cook like a goldfish (hosted by Sam Number Three) It got over one billion hits so now people all over the world are fascinated on how goldfish can cook. If you want to watch it go on www.Cook like a goldfish.com or you can just watch it on the TV on channel Nine hundred and nighty-nine at 4:00pm. It’s a big hit I dare you to watch it. I know I will what about you?</span>
<br />
<br />And I liked Jacinta Prior’s line - <span style="font-style:italic;">They couldn’t even afford to buy a drip of water or a crumb of cake.</span>
<br />
<br />Matthew Illing’s story was well written and I enjoyed Caroline Moratti’s story too. Her story felt most complete and yet left us hanging with a most tantalising final question. Whose over-councillor gravestone did she cry over? While I think other stories were more technically polished, this week’s winner is Arabella Cameron for the most imaginative and poetic story, <span style="font-weight:bold;">Across the Lake</span>.
<br />
<br />- Melinda SzymanikFaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-113151359116271762011-08-21T22:04:00.008+12:002011-08-22T10:06:03.538+12:00Dark shadows, Detectives and Dame Curried Iguana - Judge's Report by Brian Falkner<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(42, 42, 42); font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><div id="mp0_ctr" style="line-height: 15px; "><div id="mp0_msgPartBody" class="MsgPartBody ClearBoth" style="line-height: 15px; clear: both; padding-bottom: 3px; "><div pfx="mpf0_" bt="Full" rfu="EditMessageLight.aspx?ReadMessageId=955c3e83-cbd6-11e0-90c7-00237de334ce&FolderID=00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000001&Aux=2044%7c0%7c8CE2DFA7C19FB10%7c%7c0%7c0%7c0%7c0%7c1%7c5&SenderEmail=brian%40brianfalkner.co.nz&ecui=True&n=651419899&Action={0}&AllowUnsafe={1}" ra="Reply" raa="ReplyAll" fa="Forward" sf="s" style="line-height: 15px; "><div id="mpf0_readMsgBodyContainer" class="ReadMsgBody" style="line-height: 15px; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 12px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 12px; overflow-x: hidden; "><div class="SandboxScopeClass ExternalClass" id="mpf0_MsgContainer" style="line-height: normal; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; display: inline-block; "><div class="ecxWordSection1" style="line-height: 17px; page: WordSection1; "><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">What an exciting week for FABO, the last round! The theme this week was detective and the contributors showed a fantastic flair in creating stories that fitted within that genre.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">There were dark shadows and dark alleys, trench coats and fedora hats, all the elements of the classic noir hard-boiled detective story.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">This week was a really great test of the writer’s ability to write in a particular style. As well as the elements that have become standard in these kind of stories there is also a taut style of writing that goes along with it. Short sentences, pithy comments, sudden action. Well done to all the contributors who managed to combine these things with clever storytelling.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">There were some great lines too. How about this from Arabella: “Shadows decorated the room like souls having a bonfire.”</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Or this funny line from Matilda: “A strong man with a golden cape and bright pink fluoro pants riding a wave of monkeys that were pushing him into lava as he ate KFC. It was very, well, RANDOM.”</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Here’s my favourite opening line. It fits very well within the genre. This from Caroline: “The alleyway was dark… too dark… Sam Spader thought, as the darkness leered at him.”</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">And the overall winner this week: Caroline Moratti and “Ain’t no Coward.” (<a href="http://fabostory2.blogspot.com/p/and-this-weeks-winner-is.html">Read it here</a>).</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Code words, great villains, humour, and a neat reversal of the usual tough guy hero. Well done Caroline.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Congratulations everyone on a great bunch of stories.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">My own story is below.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Brian</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "><b style="line-height: 19px; font-weight: bold; ">The Opera singer</b></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">She walked into my seedy west-side office like she was auditioning for a role in Fabowood. She was tall and elegant, with legs that went all the way up to her body. Which was fortunate. She’d fall over otherwise.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">She wore a moonstock fur cape and a hat made from fluorescent pukaheke leaves. Around her neck a large gloomstone hung from a silver chain. She was a real classy dame.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Sam Spader?’ she purred my name in a voice like molten chocolate moose. She could be an opera singer with a voice like that.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Who wants to know?’ I asked. It was a silly question. Clearly <i style="line-height: 19px; font-style: italic; ">she</i> wanted to know. You didn’t have to be a private detective to work that out. I guess I was just a little intoxicated by her beauty. Or maybe it was the bottle of twelve-year-old pomato juice in my filing drawer.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I’m Dame Curried Iguana,’ she said.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Dame Curried? The famous Opera Singer?’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">She nodded.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">A Dame and an opera singer. I’d been right on both counts.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘What can I do for you, Dame Curried?’ I asked, gesturing for her to sit. She did so, elegantly.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I have been sent here by the Fabo Over-Council,’ she said. ‘They need your help.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Really? My help?’ I fixed her with a gun barrel stare. ‘Have they forgotten who it was that fired me as the Erewhon Chief of Detectives?’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Ah yes,’ she said, ‘That unfortunate business at Glottis Castle. That’s in the past now. Grand Moff Mewburn himself sent me to find you.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">That didn’t make sense. Why would the grand moff send an opera singer to hire a private detective. There was more to this case than met the eye.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I pulled my diary out of a drawer and pretended to study it. It was empty, but I wasn’t going to let her know that.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I might be able to fit in an appointment on Thursday of next week,’ I said.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘They need to see you now,’ she purred. The light from the window reflected off the gloomstone around her neck, it sparkled, like her eyes.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I’ll rearrange my schedule,’ I said, grabbing my trench-coat from the coat-stand, my hat from the hat-stand, and my hand from the hand-stand.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "><b style="line-height: 19px; font-weight: bold; "> </b></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "><b style="line-height: 19px; font-weight: bold; ">The Over-Council</b></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Twenty minutes later we were pulling up outside the Council Chambers in my classic ’73 Ford Moustache convertible.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I trotted up the ornate marble steps, trying not to slip over on the ornate marbles, and walked in the main entrance.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">The building was strangely quiet. There was nobody on reception. The guard’s desk also was empty. It was as if a swarm of suckerpunch spiders had just swept through, leaving nothing in their wake.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I got a bad feeling about this,’ I said.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">There was no reply. I turned. Dame Curried was gone. I was alone.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">The hairs on the back of my neck started to rise. I drew my weapon. There were few problems on this planet I couldn’t solve with hot lead from cold steel.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I found my way into the council room. I stopped. I put my gun away. I wouldn’t be needing it.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Whatever it was they wanted me for I was too late. I was half past too late.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">The Fabo council were slumped in their seats. They were dead. All of them. Deader than a ghost in a slime pit.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Tania; Kathy; Maureen; Melinda; Michele; Elena; Brian: all of them. I didn’t need to check their pulses. The wide vacant staring eyes, the drooling mouths, the pale, waxy skin: they looked like a bunch of children’s authors who’d just had their latest manuscript rejected.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">In the middle of the table was a jar of jelly beans. Red ones. I hate those ones. I looked again at the body of Vice-Moff Colston. One of the jellybeans was still lodged between her teeth. There was a red smear around Treasurer Beale’s lips.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I picked up one of the jelly beans and sniffed at it. A strong smell of cinnamon.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Next to the jar was a yellowed envelope. A piece of parchment was half-tucked inside. I picked it up and was about to read it when there was a commotion by the doorway. I tucked the envelope into my coat pocket just as a squad of police stormtroopers burst through, weapons drawn.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">The new Chief of Detectives, Angus Smith followed them into the council chamber.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Caught you red handed,’ he said in a voice that cracked like a whip, ‘Sam Spader you ‘re under arrest for the murder of the Fabo Over-Council.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I guess it wouldn’t help to point out that I only just got here,’ I said. ‘The councillors were dead when I arrived.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">He shook his head. I figured as much. I knew a stitch up when I smelt one and this one smelt like a bad Moonbeast curry.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Speaking of curry, where had the lovely Dame got to?</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I put my hands in the air while one of the red-shirted stormtroopers relieved me of my weapon. They frisked me, but didn’t find the envelope. I decided not to advise them of their oversight.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I spent the night cooling my heels in the Fabo City Jail.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "><b style="line-height: 19px; font-weight: bold; ">The Interrogation</b></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">It was the next morning that they finally hauled me in for interrogation. My hands were cuffed securely behind my back. A single light bulb swung low over a table in the darkened room. Video cameras whirred in the corner, capturing everything.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Chief Smith sat opposite me. He stared at me. </p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Why’d you do it?’ he asked.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I’m not going to be your fall guy,’ I said. ‘You know I didn’t do it. But I know who did.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘You might have a hard job convincing a jury,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s hear your story. Who did it?’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Mr Groat,’ I said.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Mr Groat?’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Yeah. He believed that the Fabo Over Council was brainwashing all the citizens of Fabo. Blocking out their creativity and imagination.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Why would he think such a thing?’ Smith asked.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Would you believe me if I told you that an alien named James Bond who spoke only in movie quotes gave him a letter telling him so, and freed him from the brainwashing?’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">He answered with a single word. ‘No.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Well it’s true,’ I said. ‘It’s all in the letter. The Fabo Over Council tried to snare him again, and thought they had succeeded, but Groat was only pretending to be brainwashed. The letter told him that the only way to free the people of Fabo was to murder the Over Council, and that is exactly what he did.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Totally preposterous,’ Chief Smith said. ‘A feeble excuse to try and get yourself off the hook. You’ll be sent to the slime pits, or cast into the great crater for this, Spader.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Somehow, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m going to walk out of here in just a few moments.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘And how exactly are you going to achieve that,’ he said.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘You’ve seen the strange scar on my hand,’ I smiled at him, ‘I got that when a sucker punch spider bit off my hand a few years ago at Glottis Castle. Fortunately Dr Bixley was able to replace it with a bionic hand, and it’s detachable. It makes getting out of handcuffs real easy.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">He stared in shock as I brought my arms up from behind my back and clicked my artificial hand back into place.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Now let’s go find Mr Groat,’ I said.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">Smith was quick. He ran for the door. I was quicker. I got there first and kicked it shut as he tried to open it. He stabbed a finger at an alarm button and a shrill siren filled the room. There was a banging on the door, but I threw my weight against it, preventing it from opening.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘You won’t get away with this, Spader!’ Smith yelled.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ I said, ‘It’s you that won’t get away with it… Mr Groat.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I grabbed at the skin under his chin and the rubber mask that he was wearing came off like old milk. I moved away from the door, and the stormtroopers burst in. They looked at me, then in shock at Mr Groat, the remains of the Angus Smith mask in tatters around his neck.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘You’re going away for a long time,’ I said. ‘You and Mrs Groat. Disguising herself as an opera singer fooled me at first, but I don’t stay fooled for long.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">He laughed maniacally. ‘I don’t care what you do to me. The people of Fabo are now free. Free to let their creativity run wild. Free to have inspiration and imagination once more!’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘That may be true,’ I said slowly, ‘But you’ll still have to answer for your crimes.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I turned to the captain of the stormtroopers. ‘Here’s your murderer, book him. ’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I pushed past him out of the room.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘Where are you going?’ I heard Mr Groat call out behind me.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">I raised the collar of my trench coat and pulled my hat low over my eyes. I muttered under my breath as I walked away without a backward glance.</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; ">‘I got a dame to catch.’</p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; "> </p></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="SoftShadows" style="line-height: 15px; "><div class="ss_r" style="line-height: 15px; position: absolute; background-image: url(http://gfx2.hotmail.com/mail/w4/pr04/ltr/softShadowR.png); background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; width: 5px; top: 6px; right: -6px; bottom: -1px; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: no-repeat repeat; "></div></div></span>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-26154607677814324212011-08-14T18:26:00.008+12:002011-08-15T13:31:02.791+12:00Riding Off Into The Sunset<p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; ">Well howdy there strangers....This here FaBo team was left slapping their jeans with mirth....what with disappearing almond and vanilla fudge cake, a </span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">ten foot bright pink sand-caked octopus</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white"> </span>and <span> </span>towns that were so small they didn’t even have trains ....<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">The inhabitants of Planet FaBo have expanded with a circus of trained sucker punch spiders...not to mention show ponies and fantasy dwarves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">There were some great lines from <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">Izaak Glynn<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;color:black;background:white">‘Eddie whipped his shot gun from his back and blasted their slimy little peanut sized brains out.</span>’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;color:black;background:white">Matthew Illing<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;color:black; background:white">‘But as he got closer he realised that it wasn’t the glint from a real sapphire after all, but one of the eight automatic pistols of the most evil villain in Western history, Octo-puss.</span>’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;color:black; background:white">Caroline Moratti<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;color:black; background:white">‘Tightening his boots, he started to descend into the desert, leaving a broken heart and all hope of civilisation behind him.</span>’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;color:black; background:white">Overall this week's batch of stories often took a long time to get going. When you have only one thousand words you can’t spend eight hundred words on back story. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;color:black; background:white">Writers also seemed to have difficulty with structure and tense. </span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white"><span> </span>Read your stories aloud to help with tense. If it sounds odd then there is usually a problem with tense ... have you put a sentence in the past instead of the present? This can happen really easily just by changing one word, is to was or hasn't to hadn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">Westerns can have shootouts and punch ups but they are there for a reason. They must either carry the plot forward or develop the character by the choices made when faced with a life or death situation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">Violence to fill up space in the story or because there hasn’t been any action for a while, leaves the reader feeling battered and questioning what was the point of that scene. Too much violence in a story can have less of an impact because the reader switches off. Your duty as a writer is to grab your reader and keep them <u>reading every line</u> because they need to know what happens next ... not to have them skipping lines because it’s just another punch up or shootout.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">Poor old Eddie had a rough ride from some of you, dying in the last few sentences of the story. Killing a character has to be thought out carefully. Does it complete the story in a satisfying way or raise the stakes of choice for remaining characters or leave the reader feeling cheated ... (but why and what happens next?). <span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">This week's winner was Matthew Illing (Read Matthew's story on the winners page.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">Matthew wrote a complete story that had a satisfying end. Eddie returns home as a hero ... but he has a choice to make. Matthew, that sapphire must have been a magic one as the villain's death was very quick ... spend a bit more time on the climax of your story next time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black;background:white">Mozey on down to read my Planet Fabo story...Western style.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; color: black; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; ">Maureen Crisp<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p></div><b>There and Back<o:p></o:p></b><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eddie bellied up to the ridge of the small hill and peered over the top, careful to make no sudden moves. He didn’t want to die before he had taken the first step.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The plains stretched in front of him, fifty leagues of scrubby tussock, unpredictable windstorms and a tribe of fearsome Suckerpunch spiders. He needed money to save the farm and this was the quickest way to get it, if he could stay alive. He would be rich if he could gather a herd of moonstock <span> </span>drive them to the saleyards <span> </span>and find a buyer. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eddie slid back down the hill to get his pack off Sparky, his trusty quadruped. He pulled out the netting his mother had made and began to tie bunches of tussock all over it. When his tussock cloak was finished, he flung it over himself and Sparky.<span> </span>By pretending to be a windblown ball of tussock he could travel safely through the day hunting a sleeping herd.<span> </span>The moonstock were active at night...and so were the spiders. He would hole up at night avoiding the spiders and hopefully the fearsome outlaw Octo8.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After two weeks of drifting with the wind over the plains, Eddie finally found a small herd of moonstock grazing in a hidden gully. He dug into his pack for his secret weapon, salted peanuts. <span> </span>Carefully he tossed a handful of peanuts in front of the lead stock unit. Bait taken.<span> </span>He flung the peanuts in front of as many noses as he could. It was working! The moonstock milled around noisily casting this way and that looking for salted peanuts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eddie’s heart sank. Travelling with a noisy herd of moonstock was not going to help his chances of getting off the plains unseen.<span> </span>He flung the cloak around him and trailed along with the herd, every now and then throwing a handful of peanuts in front of them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">By nightfall Eddie was exhausted and he thought his arm would fall off. He carefully flung a few handfuls of nuts into a small gully and watched<span> </span>the moonstock<span> </span>stumble tiredly about looking for them. Eddie quickly strung a rope fence across the mouth of the gully and covered it with tussock. Then he settled down to wait out the long dangerous night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Eddie woke up with a shiver. He could hear a rasping sound. Spiders were near. The sound was joined by another and another. Soon the night was filled with horrible noise.<span> </span>The Spiders had caught a prisoner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eddie eased out of his sleeping bag, covered himself with his tussock cloak and crept towards the sound. <span> </span>He knew he was endangering his life and all the money on the hoof he had in the gully but he hated the thought of any one in the clutches of the spiders.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He peered around a rock and saw a large circle of Suckerpunch Spiders surrounding a web bound prisoner. It was Octo8, wearing his famous sapphire belt. His tentacles were bound and he was about to be lunch.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eddie thought fast. The reward money for Octo8 was more than he would get from the sale of the moonstock.<span> </span>While the spiders were occupied he could get the moonstock out of the area.<span> </span>Eddie raced back to the gully and saddled up Sparky. He pulled down the rope fence and flung peanuts in front of the herd. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eddie ran Sparky around the dozing moonstock, whacking them on the rumps with his rope to get them moving. ‘Hi yah,’ he yelled. The moonstock stumbled out of the gully in a boiling mass. Eddie grinned, his plan was working. <span> </span>Eddie flung another handful of nuts. The moonstock ran towards them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Spiders heard the sound of charging feet and tried to get out of the way. Moonstock thundered through the camp. Eddie pulled away to one side. He flung handfuls of nuts into the seething mass of stock and spiders. <span> </span>When the spiders were totally confused, Eddie rode forward with his knife. Octo8 fainted.<span> </span>Two slashes later and Octo8 was a bundle hanging from his saddle bow. Eddie lit out, running Sparky straight for the hills. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Behind him the spiders tried to capture the rampaging moonstock. The moonstock<span> </span>ran after the disappearing peanuts. Then Eddie heard a rasping scream of rage. The spiders had noticed their packed lunch was gone. The hunt was on. <span> </span>Eddie out in front, the spiders and moonstock behind. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sparky began to tire. The weight of Octo8 and the half sack of salted peanuts was too much for the trusty quadruped. <span> </span>Down a little gully Sparky stumbled, out the other end and off the side of a cliff.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">‘Arrgh,’ yelled Eddie as he found himself and his steed falling through midair. A gust of wind sweeping up the cliff caught them, slowing their fall. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Behind him the following moonstock tumbled off the cliff also.<span> </span>The wind slowed their fall. The Suckerpunch spiders weren’t so lucky, being lighter they floated up with the wind disappearing into the dawn sky.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sparky hit the ground. Eddie was flung out of the saddle.<span> </span>The moonstock tumbled about him but they were soon on their feet, hunting peanuts from the broken sack. Eddie limped towards Octo8. He was unconscious but not badly hurt. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sparky scrambled up and stood trembling while Eddie untied Octo8. He dragged him into the shade of a cactuspear tree. The moonstock settled down. Eddie made a fire and began to fix up Octo8. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The fearsome Outlaw came to and stared at Eddie. ‘You saved me.’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">‘Yep,’ said Eddie, fixing another splint to Octo8’s leg.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">‘Are you going to let me go?’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">‘I’ve got enough stock here to save the farm.’ Eddie limped over to Sparky with some cactus pears. While Sparky was munching, Eddie took off his saddle and limped back to stretch out in the shade.<span> </span>He would start for home in the evening. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">When Eddie woke up, there was no sign of Octo8, only a belt of sapphires lying beside him.</p><p></p>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-2966577311420720512011-08-07T16:08:00.017+12:002011-08-12T15:18:16.474+12:00Love, Romance, and Goldfish - Judge's Report by Tania Hutley<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IJ4N5YTAIlA/Tj4jF1Al0LI/AAAAAAAAAIc/BpLTq50DUhQ/s1600/goldfish.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IJ4N5YTAIlA/Tj4jF1Al0LI/AAAAAAAAAIc/BpLTq50DUhQ/s320/goldfish.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637982366550315186" /></a>
<br />What a great bunch of stories this week! Romance was in the air on Fabo2, and I could tell you had as much fun as I did writing about it.<div>
<br /></div><div>I was impressed by your brilliantly creative plots and funny lines. It was difficult to choose a winner, but Caroline Moratti has taken the prize. Caroline's story is quirky and funny, and contained my two favorite lines:</div><div>
<br /></div><div>- "<i>Donovan could smell the almond vanilla scent the earwax carried, and it
<br />smelt like heaven."</i></div><div> </div><div>
<br />- And, <i>"Maybe love was like a goldfish tank, Donovan mused. You put two goldfish in there, and they fall in love. Take one goldfish away, and the other one eats its children. Simple!" </i></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Special mention this week goes to Hayley's story, which I enjoyed very much. Hayley, I liked that your heroine was the one who knocked out the bad guy. I also liked that she <i>"... called him a certain word that no one would put in a story."</i></div><div>
<br /></div><div>William's story about a boy's ambition to join the circus was also very good, but William, you forgot to include Donovan in your story. I loved that your heroine could juggle three TV sets though!</div><div>
<br />Anyway, here's my attempt at a romance story. Click the WINNERS button at the top of the page to read Coroline’s winning story.</div>
<br /><div>Listen to the <a href="http://fabostory2.blogspot.com/2011/08/listen-to-voice-from-caves.html">audio recording of A Voice from the Caves</a></div>
<br />
<br /><h2>A Voice From The Caves</h2>
<br />- By Tania Hutley
<br />
<br />Donovan woke in the middle of the night, his heart beating fast. The mournful call that had woken him was still echoing through the cave. Everyone said the voice called out warnings about burgers, but Donovan knew better. Really it kept calling out his name; this time he was sure of it!
<br />
<br />Donovan knew he shouldn't get up. His body was still repairing itself from the day before - his belly hadn't fully tightened and his beard hadn't yet disappeared. But, darn it, he couldn't just stay in bed! The cries had been waking him every night for weeks. What if the legends were true, and there really were ghosts in the caves?
<br />
<br />Donovan sprang up and grabbed a light-stick. As he slipped silently past all the other sleeping-caves, the snores of the rest of his tribe followed him out. Most of them had gone through the pairing ceremony ages ago, before they'd reached 10 solar-orbits old. He and Flicka were the only two people still un-paired.
<br />
<br />He and Flicka would pair at some point, Donovan supposed. The whole tribe assumed they would and were impatient for it to happen. The problem was, Donovan didn't love Flicka. Not like he'd once loved Aurora.
<br />
<br />Aurora's eyes had been golden, and her hair a lovely mud-brown. Her smile still lingered in his memory - more beautiful than any girl he'd ever known.
<br />
<br />Donovan sighed. If only Aurora hadn't been sucked into the black slime pits, suffocating in the sludge while her flesh was eaten by carnivorous slugs. After a love as strong as his and Aurora's had been, how could he possibly settle for pairing with Flicka?
<br />
<br />His thoughts in turmoil, Donovan was hardly aware of how deep he was going into the labyrinth of caves. The long, sad cry sounded again, calling him. Urging him to go deeper into the caves than he'd ever been before.
<br />
<br />It seemed like a different world this far down in the cave. Instead of the comforting dry grey stone of home, these rock walls were covered in slime and cave-worms inched blindly across the dampness.
<br />
<br />Ahead of him, a ghostly light flicked. What could it be? His steps faltered and then stopped. His heart raced.
<br />
<br />The voice he'd been hearing for weeks called out again, clear and strong instead of weak and distorted.
<br />
<br />"Don-o-van. Don-o-vaaaaan."
<br />
<br />Shock made his voice squeaky. "Aurora?"
<br />
<br />The light came closer and now he could see a ghostly shape inside it. The shape of the woman he'd loved.
<br />
<br />"Yes, it's me. Aurora. The strength of my love kept my soul here after I died, trapped in the cave underworld. Yearning for you. Every night I've been calling for you, calling your name, over and over. Didn't you hear me?"
<br />
<br />"Something's been keeping me awake," he admitted. "But most of the tribe think the voice has been calling out, 'Beware the burgerrrrrrrrrrrrr'."
<br />
<br />"Um," said the Aurora-ghost. "That was Fred."
<br />
<br />The ghostly shape of a boy flickered from the darkness and glared at Donovan. "A pile of burgers fell on me," said the boy in a resentful voice. "Didn't know they'd be heavy enough to squash me flat."
<br />
<br />Aurora's ghostly figure drifted forward and held out shadowy hands towards Donovan. "Now you are here, my love, and we can finally be together!"
<br />
<br />Donovan blinked. "But, Aurora, you're a ghost, pale and insubstantial. I can see the cave walls through your body! How can we ever be together?"
<br />
<br />"You must join me. Become like I am."
<br />
<br />"Become a ghost? You mean, I have to die for us to be paired?" Donovan took a step backwards.
<br />
<br />"My love, it's the only way."
<br />
<br />Donovan hesitated, taking in her misty form that hung so weakly in the air. Through her ghostly shape, he could see the wet cave walls glistening and the blind cave-worms crawling. It almost looked like carnivorous slugs were still sucking the flesh off Aurora's long-dead bones.
<br />
<br />He swallowed hard. Then he said, "Flicka expects me to pair with her. I must go and talk with her. I must explain."
<br />
<br />Aurora nodded. Her smile filled with joy. "Hurry back to me, my love! Join me and we shall haunt these caves forever. I will call out for you every moment we are apart, until we are together once more."
<br />
<br />Her voice followed him as he stumbled away from her, back towards the surface, thinking hard. He'd gone so deep into the caves that by the time he got home it was morning and all the tribe were stirring, but he could still hear Aurora's faint and mournful cries.
<br />
<br />"Flicka," he called. "Where are you? I've something to tell you."
<br />
<br />She came out of her sleeping-cave, yawning and stretching. "What is it, Donovan?"
<br />
<br />"Last night I went deep into the caves. Deeper than anyone has ever gone before. And I made a decision." He hesitated, taking a deep breath. "I'm going to get paired."
<br />
<br />A smile spread over her face. "Oh, Donovan! I've waited so long for you to ask me! I'm so happy."
<br />
<br />Flicka threw her arms around Donovan, but instead of hugging her back, his hands stayed by his sides, clenched tight into fists. With a confused look on her face, she drew away from him.
<br />
<br />Donovan lifted his gaze to meet hers. As he looked into her jewel-green eyes, he thought how lovely they were, sparkling with life. Her hair was limp and straggly, but maybe it just needed a good brushing. And her smile, although slightly crooked, was warm.
<br />
<br />Best of all was the way her arms had felt when she hugged him. Solid and real. Not ghostly. Not in the least bit damp.
<br />
<br />Slowly, he opened his hands. He was holding four small, rounded pieces of cave-worm. Although he had no imagination, desperation had driven him to create something entirely new.
<br />
<br />"What are they, Donovan?"
<br />
<br />"An invention."
<br />
<br />"What's that?" She frowned.
<br />
<br />"Dearest Flicka, they're a pairing present for us. I call them 'Ear Plugs'. I have a feeling they're going to come in very handy."<div>
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Listen to the <a href="http://fabostory2.blogspot.com/2011/08/listen-to-voice-from-caves.html">audio recording of A Voice from the Caves</a></div>
<br />
<br />FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-35152405884116724332011-08-07T16:06:00.002+12:002011-08-08T17:41:05.697+12:00Listen to A Voice from the Caves <div>
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<br /> FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-33986354233317470132011-07-31T23:29:00.018+12:002011-08-12T15:25:29.312+12:00Fear and loathing in the lost forest - Judge's report by Kathy White<div><div style="mso-element:para-border-div;border:none;border-bottom:solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; padding:0cm 0cm 4.0pt 0cm"> <p class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="Apple-style-span">I was quite horrified when I was given the job of writing a horror story. Blimey – horror. Horror stories are about fear, revenge and death. They often involve something evil, and they can involve folklore and supernatural creatures like vampires and zombies, but they don’t have to. The only thing they have to do is scare you. Particularly clever authors like Stephen King, Edgar Allan Poe and Roald Dahl do that through unexpected twists and turns. How many of you have read those spooky 'Tales of the Unexpected'? </span></p><span class="Apple-style-span"><p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Writing a horror story was quite a challenge for me. And I loved it. I might even do it again.</span></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></p><p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="Apple-style-span">As for you, you had a heap of fun with this genre. You invented golden spiders that bite grizzlies, creatures called blood-carvers and billyongs, gossbind flowers, and burglar berries. </span></p><span class="Apple-style-span"> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; ">You also created great settings with spine-tingling imagery. Bryn wrote about the sound of something swaying above him. The image of thousands of limp bodies hanging in the trees will stay with me for a long time. Mikayla described trees that were so tall there wasn’t a dash of daylight to be seen. Matilda wrote about “<span class="apple-converted-space">mossy trunks swooping like an elephant’s tail.” Absolutely beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="apple-converted-space">The funniest line came from Matilda Clack (who also wrote a lot of gory things in her story): </span><span> </span>"...he was killing another female creature who you could say was quite pretty and by the way they were married. He was dicing up her head and choking it down his gob like it was a very normal thing to do<span class="apple-converted-space">.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="apple-converted-space">Tim had a great ending featuring razor-sharp antlers; Matthew’s featured boiling caramel blood melting Um Bongo’s skin and insides; Arabella’s character woke up to find a moose brain on the bedside table. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="apple-converted-space">I think Room 20 of Maungawhau School must have been working on writing dialogue, because there were great examples of it in lots of stories. Jamie Eglinton and Seth Schultz combined action, sounds, and dialogue with some nice pacing and lovely detail. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="apple-converted-space">There was certainly no shortage of horrible things happening in your stories. Just remember that sometimes you’re better to have fewer things and more build-up of tension in your story. Then when you get to the most exciting bit, it has greater impact. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="apple-converted-space">With horror, people don’t get to live happily ever after. T</span>errible things happen, and just when you think it can’t get any worse, the worst thing imaginable happens. But of course, the great thing about any genre is that there are always new twists on a theme.</p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="apple-converted-space">Annabelle Ritchie (Balmacewen Intermediate) wrote an unusual story with an almost comical feeling to it. Finding a fridge in the middle of nowhere was the first clue that this story was going to be a 'tale of the unexpected.' It made the murderous events near the end seem extraordinary. Annabelle, I'm awarding you the prize this week because you have a spectacular imagination. Well done.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><span class="apple-converted-space">Read on for my horror story and listen to the <a href="http://fabostory2.blogspot.com/2011/08/wolf-tracker-fabo-story-2.html">audio recording of Wolf Tracker</a>. Click the WINNERS button at the top of the page to read Annabelle’s story. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0); margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="ecxmsonormal" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0); margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-left: 0cm; "><o:p> </o:p></p></span><p></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>
<br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span">Wolf Tracker</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; ">By Kathy White</span></p> </div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span>Wolf lifted the bottle to his lips and gulped the purple liquid.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘You’re sure this will help?’ He looked down at the shantaram creature. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro nodded. His hair shimmered in the sunlight, like the leaves of the fluorescent pukaheke tree. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a purple stain on his shiny camo shirt. The berry juice had a strange cinnamon smell. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘How long will it give me?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The shantaram slurred his words as if speaking was painful. ‘From sssuunnnriiiiisse … to<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>… ssssset.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The sun had already risen through the fog, making the rim of the canyon glow like hot metal. Wolf slung his camera bag around his neck and under one arm, and secured it using a bandalayer stud. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro dropped over the edge, his short legs dancing on the scree all the way to the canyon floor. Wolf’s descent was less graceful. He’d trekked Moratti Mountains during the Roar of hairy moonstock. He’d even probed Thompson’s Swamp to find giant koura fossils, but he’d never been into the canyon and The Lost Forest. It was like another planet.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I wouldn’t be doing this damn fool thing now if it wasn’t for the bounty,’ he thought. He lost focus for a second as the scree moved like marbles under his feet and he tumbled the last 50 metres, landing with a crunch. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Get upppp!’ Monduro snapped. ‘Plenty of time to sssssleeeeeep when you deaddddd.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf’s eyes opened wide in alarm. ‘Get a grip, Wolf,’ he thought. ‘The creature’s joking.’ He shook his head. The Over Council’s experiments on these creatures had never uncovered a sense of humour.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">He flicked his moose-tracker out of his pocket to check that the liquid crystal display screen hadn’t broken. The hairs on his arms were glittering. The pukaheke berry juice was working. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The hours passed. Eyes watched them from the trees. Birds swooped for a closer look, but he was shimmering now. There was nothing to tell them he was an intruder.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf stopped and touched the deep antler rubbings on a brodirusa tree. They were higher than him. And they weren’t old. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">His pocket vibrated.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf nearly dropped the device in his excitement.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The moose-tracker had activated. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘We’ve got one!’ Wolf said to Monduro.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The shantaram squatted and pointed to hundreds of silver fluorescent pellets, shiny and rounded at one end like stumpy bullets.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Hang on,’ said Wolf. ‘The moose poo that I saw in the museum was brown. This looks like candy.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Monduro stared at him. ‘Carrrr … rots.’ </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘What?’ Wolf said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro pointed into the sky. ‘Big birds … drop carrr …rots.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf frowned. The language barrier was bigger than he’d expected<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">.</i> He wiped the sweat off his forehead. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">A screech made him turn but there wasn’t enough time to duck. Sharp claws slashed at his head. He covered his face with his arms and screamed as a beak tore out a chunk of flesh.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro called out a warning and the bird retreated.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf’s hands shook as he wrapped his bandanna around the arm wound. ‘YOU SAID the juice would PROTECT ME.’ He spat the words out as if they were venom. ‘If this is protection, I might as well be on my own!’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro tapped his head. ‘Inside betrrrraaaayys you.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yeah, right.’ Wolf growled. He knew exactly what he was doing. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The last six chocolate moose had been chased over the canyon edge 50 years ago by exterminators. The moose were untouchables - introduced animals that had no place on Planet FaBo. But that was before scientists discovered that the chocolate moose carried a rare and valuable gene and FaBo2 Geographic slapped a million dollar bounty on its rediscovery. That money had Wolf’s name on it. No doubt. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf touched his scalp. It was sticky but it wasn’t gushing blood. He just felt woozy. He waved a hand to show Monduro he wanted to carry on. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘We have to find this thing and get out of here,’ said Wolf. ‘I have a date with a robocopter.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Ro .. bo ..’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>‘It doesn’t matter what it is. Just find me the moose.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro lifted a horn to his lips and blew. The noise was a mixture of grunts and moans that echoed through the forest. It gave Wolf the creeps, but it worked. The screen on the moose-tracker showed the moose had stopped. Suddenly the flashing light began to move towards them.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘That’s more like it!’ Wolf grinned and slapped Monduro on the back. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro snarled.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf didn’t care. He’d have his hands on a million smackeroos soon, and he’d never have to see this glow-in-the dark, bow-legged mutant ever again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">As they walked, he unclicked the bag on his chest and turned the camera on. Nothing happened. He tried again and again, and then swore.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Damn. So much for getting photos,’ he muttered. He fingered the blade on his pocket knife, wondering how close they could get to the moose. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro stopped and glared at him.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘You’re reading my thoughts, aren’t you?’ Wolf growled. ‘Look, all I need is an ear or the end of its tail. I won’t kill it.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The shantaram’s eyes glowed and then went black.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘I’m not going home without evidence.’ Wolf looked around the clearing. ‘I’ve never seen foam around pukaheke trees before. Is it a seasonal thing?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro started to explain but Wolf stopped him. The moose-tracker was flashing rapidly. ‘We need to hide.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf stumbled over some roots and fell face-first into the foam. He grabbed a handful of something slimy as he pushed himself up and pressed his back against the tree. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">His hands were shaking as he pressed his phone’s speed dial. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yo,’ a voice said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Jono? It’s me, Wolf,’ he whispered. ‘How fast can you pick me up? Have you got me on GPS?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Man, am I glad to hear from you,’ Jono said. ‘My boss forgot to warn you about the poison in the canyon and he couldn’t find your phone number.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf wiped the foam off his face. ‘What are you talking about?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>‘You know the Over Council puts animals they don’t want in the Lost Forest?’ the voice crackled. ‘Every year, we take the copters out and dump poison on them. We did it a month ago, but it hangs around for six months, and it’s nasty. Of course, the Over Council wants us to stop now that their precious golden goose is in there.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Wolf swallowed. ‘You mean the chocolate moose?’ </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Yeah, just jiving,’ Jono chuckled. ‘Hey, I wouldn’t worry about the poison, unless you’ve spent the last few hours eating moose flesh and a few handfuls of poisoned carrots. Or pukaheke berries, of course,’ he said. ‘That tree sucks up poison like a sponge, but I’m sure famous explorers know more about that than I do.’ </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Jono slurped on his coffee. ‘Hey, Wolf, I can see your signal. I’m leaving now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Wolf opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He could see two of Monduro coming towards him. He rubbed his eyes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Just keep away from foam and anything fluorescent,’ Jono said. ‘It’s like a signpost to the poison .…’ </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The line disconnected.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro pushed Wolf backwards into the froth, on top of the carcass of a decomposing shantaram. Wolf screamed. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro turned his face to the sky and started chanting.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The crawks screeched and circled above them.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">The DUB-DUB-DUB of the robocopter was faint, like a distant drumbeat.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Help’s coming,’ Wolf’s mind chattered. ‘Hold on.’ </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Poison burnt through his body, but he felt icy-cold. He started to shake.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">Monduro leaned in close. He held Wolf’s pocket knife near Wolf’s cheek and licked the blade. Blood trickled out of his mouth.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB">‘Jusssst an ear for now …. ’ Monduro whispered, as he moved the blade through Wolf’s hair. ‘Then I take your heart.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:14.2pt"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span>THE END</p></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(42, 42, 42); font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; "><div id="mpf0_readMsgBodyContainer" class="ReadMsgBody" style="line-height: 15px; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 12px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 12px; overflow-x: hidden; "><div class="SandboxScopeClass ExternalClass" id="mpf0_MsgContainer" style="line-height: normal; font-family: 'Segoe UI', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; display: inline-block; "><div class="ecxMsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; "><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 17px; font-family: Helvetica; "> </span></div></div></div><div id="mpf0_readMsgBodyContainer" class="ReadMsgBody" style="line-height: 15px; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 12px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 12px; overflow-x: hidden; ">LISTEN TO THE <a href="http://fabostory2.blogspot.com/2011/08/wolf-tracker-fabo-story-2.html">AUDIO RECORDING OF WOLF TRACKER</a></div><div id="mpf0_readMsgBodyContainer" class="ReadMsgBody" style="line-height: 15px; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 12px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 12px; overflow-x: hidden; "> </div></span></div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-16862274878278425122011-07-31T23:28:00.010+12:002011-08-12T15:20:52.783+12:00Listen to Wolf Tracker<div>
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<br />Wolf Tracker written by Kathy White. Read by Kathy White.
<br />A Voice in the Caves written by Tania Hutley. Read by Kathy White.FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-50756193934549652262011-07-10T20:54:00.005+12:002011-08-12T15:22:01.800+12:00Science Fiction - Volcanoes, Craters and Melting Eyelids with Elena<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:14.25pt;mso-pagination:widow-orphan"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:sans-serif; color:black"></span></p><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:sans-serif; color:black">"Science Fiction is the improbable made possible."</span> Rod Serling</blockquote><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">What a great lot of imaginative stories this week! Hot topics included, volcanoes, Neil Armstrong and twins. Most of you included all the setting and character elements set for the challenge, but keeping to the science fiction genre proved to be harder. Magical elements appeared in nearly all the stories, which meant they were more fantasy than science fiction.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There were lots of tasty beginnings, quite a few crunchy endings, but many of the plots went a little<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>bit soggy in the middle and lost their way. It can help to have a brief outline of the plot in mind before you start writing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best beginnings: Callum's, "It was another ordinary day at school in the crater," Kendra Smith's attention grabbing, "Gulp! I Zeeblebarf just ate the mighty, monstrous, massive, monumental, mammoth sized super supreme ... bbbbuuuurrrrpppp ... ham ... buuuuurrrrpppp ... burger,"<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>with its great use of alliteration, and Claudia Weston's lovely "I can't get to sleep, it is utterly impossible with "the lights" flashing purple and orange against my window pane."</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best ending goes to Imogen Wiseman "My name is Zeeblebarf but my friends call me Zeebie. I am only 8 years old and my powers are so bizarre that I could turn you into a frog if I wanted to. If you don't mind I have to go now."</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best single image to Thomas Beckett, "The Professor's eyelids melted off like icecream on a cone on a hot day." </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There were also some horribly (in a good way) inventive characters created. For instance, Thomas Coulter's flesh eating strawberry called Derrick, with his razor sharp teeth called cuttles, made a debut appearance, as did Zeeblebarf's friend, Potato, invented by William Laughton.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Dylan Rush and Felix Cameron's stories both made great use of the first person and were full of<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>energy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jamie and Harriet, whose iced tea tasted like "squashed cheese with salt and boiling water poured over it," and Hannah Berry (who also had great character development) used the senses and detail to bring their stories to life. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But there can only be one winner ... or maybe two. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The winner of the intermediate category is Caroline Moratti.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As a writer, one sure way of getting the audience on your side is to make them laugh. Caroline made great use of humour with her wonderfully funny parodies of Doctor Who, Star Wars and Star Trek characters. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The winner of the primary category is James Kerr. James' story was fast paced and energetic, with<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>great sound effects. I also liked the clever use of time travel (and super powers) and the open ending.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Special mention also goes to Joshua Thompson and Matthew Illing for their superb stories.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>The Great Blue Void <o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>by Elena de Roo</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Zeeblebarf took his last measurement - finally, his map was complete. As far back as he could remember, he knew he was destined to be a map maker. He had made it his life-long task, to complete a survey of the world, but in the end, it hadn't taken as long as he had thought. Here he was, still young, with his survey all but finished. Now what?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Next to him, the wall of the world sloped steeply upward, as far as he could see. How far it extended above the tangled canopy of the rain forest, was impossible to tell. But he did know, from his survey, that the jungle stretched unbroken in all directions. He also knew that the world was an almost perfect circle - if you followed the wall for long enough in one direction, eventually you would end up where you started from. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once, he'd asked Beeblebarf, one of the elders of the tribe, what was beyond the wall? The great blue void, was his answer. He wouldn't say any more. After that, Zeeblebarf<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>would occasionally catch a tiny glimpse of blue, through the leaves above. He had a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but it seemed he was the only one who was curious. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The others in his tribe thought he was odd, bizarre even. 'You have to understand, Zeeblebarf,' they'd say, 'that you're a new generation. You see things differently to us. You can put two and two together and make five hundred, but we only ever get four.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">They were twenty six, in total. The others carried out their assigned tasks - collecting rock samples,<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>mining the earth for radioactive materials, maintaining the power packs. They never asked <i>Why?</i> or <i>What if? <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As he looked up at the steep wall, Zeeblebarf knew what his next task would be. The others were right - he was different. He couldn't live out his days not knowing what what lay beyond. But how to start?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He thought back to his years surveying the circumference. Had there been any part that looked climbable?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As far as he recalled, it was equally steep all around. Then it came to him. The crevice ... that was it. That would be his way out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It took him two weeks to find his way through the undergrowth, but this was something he was used to. The crevice was just as he remembered it - a jagged crack in the rocks about a metre wide, forcing its way upwards, like a bolt of lightning, towards the great blue void. He had no idea how far up it went, but there was only one way to find out.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He wedged himself between the two rock faces, and slowly and carefully, using opposing forces, see-sawed his way upwards, towards the unknown.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">How long had he been climbing? He'd lost track of time. The view from the crevice was limited to a tiny slice outwards, upwards and below. The tree canopy must be far below him by now, but he didn't think about that. His vision was trained on the crack of blue far above, that was growing, ever so slowly, larger and closer. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was many hours later, but at last Zeeblebarf crawled out of the crevice. The light was so bright here. The featureless earth looked faded, the space above glaring, over-exposed. He supposed it would take a while for his vision to adjust. Nearby, some large hairy creatures ate the tender green shoots which grew everywhere underfoot. Judging from their anatomy they would be very slow moving compared to the creatures in his world. So this was the great blue void. How flat and empty it looked. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A strange sound made the air around him vibrate. What did it mean? He couldn't understand. He tried signalling, but the sound just got louder and more shrill ... </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>***************<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The boy and his father were moving their herd of hairy moonstock out of danger. Usually the cattle wouldn't venture this close to the crater, but an unusually dry year had driven them to eat the long grasses which grew near the edges.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">'Dad, look!' shouted the boy, 'some kind of metally, stick insect thing's crawling out of the crater. It's got purple eyes. No, wait ... maybe they're not eyes ... they're flashing orange now.'<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">'What the ...? said his Dad.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>'By golly ... I wonder ... I say, I never expected to see anything like this in real life. It looks just like the picture in The Classic Robots Manual. If I'm not mistaken, this one was the last of the Eebelbarf series. If you'd have come along to the Classic Robots Club with me last month like I asked, you'd know all this. Doctor Eebelbarf? Ring any bells? No?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">'But Dad, it's getting away.' The boy sighed, he knew his father was unlikely to listen to him, once he'd got started on one of his long winded explanations, and he was right. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">'He was famous back in his day. Because of the dangerous levels of radiation in the crater, he designed a series of robots to explore it instead. Twenty six, the good doctor made in total - one a year. A different model for every letter of the alphabet, from A-eeblebarf to Z-eeblebarf. But none of them ever returned. The Z model was the doctor's last hope - a new generation nanotech robot, with advanced, artificial intelligence, that could adapt to any terrain. Of course he's long dead now, but if only he could see what we're seeing now, son ... Hey, where's it gone?' </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>***************</p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Zeeblebarf rotated swiftly along the flat ground of the vast blue void, leaving the shrill noises far behind him. He had a survey to complete.</p><p></p>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-38866146455974214682011-07-03T14:26:00.007+12:002011-08-12T15:22:35.742+12:00Thrilling Words On Writing Thrillers...<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">BB the Clone and the terrible secret – Judge's Report by Michele Powles<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With clone tanks, Mentos and coke bombs, the ghost of Captain Blackbrain, a dog who is in love with clones, water dynamite and a lot of blood, guts and even brain-eating, there was a great range of stories this week. Awesome work! There were certainly plenty to choose from and it made picking a winner very hard.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A quick tip is to make sure you read instructions carefully – just like when you’re doing a test at school! A few of you missed that 67XY3BB (BB for short) was a clone rather than a human resident of Paradise Island. Remember too that this week’s genre (type of story) was thriller. Unfortunately that meant stories that were fantastic but missed these ingredients didn’t take top prize.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best opening goes to Caroline Moratti – “ Mr Tim Cruise frowned over his morning glass of sparkling water and his freshly delivered newspaper. "Mercurium prices are dropping," he darkly mumbled to his wife, who was standing very still in the corner, with a blank look on her face.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Honourable mention has to go to Mikayla Carter and Chloe Hicken for their idea of projecting a fake castle, what a cool concept. Miriam Leonhardt for her clone’s extra long ears,<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Alex Dougan's United Nations dish-washing traps, Erica’s sparkly Tinkerbell eyes, Rebecca Skelton’s ghost of Susie Smith-Williams, and Hannah Berry’s wonderful descriptions of the baby clone incubator. But this week’s winner is ten year old Matthew Illing. Well done! Good job on getting inside BB’s head in first person and keeping the tension up for the Thriller genre.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">For next week remember to check that your punctuation and tense are consistent (that you use the same time period all the way through your story) and that you don’t rush the ending. And of course remember to use the character, setting and genre set out by the FABO2 writers. Great job everyone who entered and we look forward to reading your entries next week.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">BB the Burger Clone and the Dream Virus </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; "><i>by Michele Powles</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">The vibrating was new. So was the humming sound. For fifteen years, clone 67XY3BB had looked at the smooth walls of his station and noticed nothing except their blank white sheen. That they now moved and hummed should be noted and passed on to his supervisor. He didn’t move. Not for the first time he wished someone else shared his station so he could check this was real.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Whatchu waiting for BB?" The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. “They’re gunna catch you if we don’t do this thing soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>BB held his breath but no one burst through the door.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">The voice gave a little chuckle. “That’s the way, good to be on alert. It won’t be long now. I hope you’re ready.” Then there was silence.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>The walls stilled and the quiet grew till BB was sure he could hear the rapid thurrrrump of his heart beat. He let his breath sigh out. “Just dreaming,” he muttered. Turning back to his workbook he checked again that the ingredients were in the right order and ready for assembly. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Burger buns, check. Salad, cheese and beetroot, check. Tofu peanut patties, check.” His muttering was against the rules; he’d lose merit points and they might even put him on report if the Incubator Supervisor clone caught him at it, but with everything that had been happening lately he needed reassurance that things were normal. Or at least normal-ish. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">It had all begun innocently enough. A word had appeared in his brain. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Dreams. </i>He’d looked through his workbook to be told what to do about it. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>He’d gone to his supervisor for advice. But when he’d opened his mouth to speak a voice had whispered through his mind. “No. Say nothing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Eyes bulging BB had snapped his mouth shut, laid his daily report on the white counter and shuffled out of the room in the correct manner.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Back at his station he whizzed through his burger building tasks, all the time expecting a pair of Incubator Enforcers to break down his door and drag him off for reprogramming. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“They can’t hear me. Just don’t react and you’ll be fine.” The voice was low, silky and smooth like the tofu BB blended in his vegetarian burger pattie mix. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Who are you?” BB hissed at the quiet empty walls of his station.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“I’m a figment of your imagination,” said the voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“A what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Damn, that’s right, you lot got stripped of imagination. Must be awful.” The voice sighed. “Have a look at this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>A picture of a tall building sprang into BB’s mind. Its surface sparkled and glinted, reflecting some wondrous warm light that BB had never seen before. Inside its windows he could see people walking about, talking to each other, their faces twisted into strange shapes. “What’s wrong with their faces,” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Wrong?” The voice paused a moment, then burst into a strange sound, something joyful and light. “Bahahahaha,” went the voice. “They’re smiling, that’s all. Their faces aren’t wrong, they’re how yours should be.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Smiling.” BB tried out the word but it sat strangely on his tongue. “And what was that noise you made just now?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Oh dear, we have a long way to go with you don’t we. I was laughing. Laughing!” And the voice made the strange sound again. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>BB tried to make the laughing sound. “Bohohohoheheha.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Hmmm. Well you can’t really expect to get it right first time. But don’t worry, you’ll get it. You’ll get everything. The sun on your face, a share of the Mercurium mine, it’s all going to be yours. Better go, someone’s coming. Laters.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: 36.0pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">After the chatter in his head, the silence felt big and heavy to BB. Worse, he hadn’t been able to ask what he was supposed to do next. Or what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Dreams</i> were made of. But he didn’t have a chance to think about it too much as the Incubator Inspector walked into his station and held out his hand to test BB’s burgers, all twenty five different flavours. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">Since that first meeting the voice had put hundreds of new words into BB’s brain. Some of them had been long and curly, words that twisted BB’s tongue when he tried to get them out but which sounded bright and round and beautiful when the voice spoke them. Other words had been short and spiky and BB knew even without it being explained that these were words that meant bad news. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Over weeks and months the voice filled BB with new knowledge and BB began to be able to paint his own pictures in his mind, to imagine, and to dream. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“So you understand the importance of all this?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>A chill crept over BB’s skin. The voice wouldn’t let him forget it. “What if I can’t do it?” he said. “What if you’ve got the wrong clone?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Impossible. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t the one. The virus would have created me in someone else instead.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“But I’ve only got a week to go until I graduate. Soon I’ll be Outside on FABO2. They’re making me chief burger boy for Mr. Presley.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Exactly.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>The chill grew till BB was sure there was a living thing crawling over his skin. Something that crept up his back, coiled its fingers through his hair and wouldn’t let go. “How will you tell me when it’s the right time?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“You will know.” As usual the voice disappeared before BB could ask it anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>And now the walls had started vibrating and there was a humming that hadn’t been there before.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">The sunshine was just as the voice had promised it would be. After all these years cooped up in the Incubator, BB couldn’t quite believe that just beyond his workstation the world of FABO2 had been waiting. “Oh my.” The ocean surrounding Paradise Island hushed in and out, its surface flecked with glitter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Everyone report to their new supervisors. You know your roles. Do not soil the good name of The Incubator.” BB’s old supervisor turned away and was swallowed by the smooth white walls of the Incubator Pod. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: 36.0pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">Five other graduates stood with BB but their faces were blank. None of them showed that they even noticed the sun or the ocean or the clean unfiltered and salty air. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: 36.0pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif"">BB opened his mouth to say something but realised that just talking to the other clones was pointless.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>The word formed as if it had been painted in front of him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Dream. </i>Of course<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">. </i>Now that he was out here it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">was </i>obvious what he was supposed to do. BB shut his eyes and let the thought of dreaming flood him. He undid the lock that had been placed around his imagination at birth and let the unrealised hopes and ideas and wishes of a million billion Incubator clones fill him up to bursting. They twinkled there a moment, ready. Then he set them free.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Across Paradise Island the fat lazy Residents looked up from their dinners and tennis games and televisions. Their world seemed suddenly empty. No one came when they called.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Across Paradise Island the clones began to smile. <o:p></o:p></span></p>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com74tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-832702550385724872011-06-26T09:09:00.015+12:002011-08-12T15:23:05.326+12:00Mysterious happenings on Planet FaBo2 with Kyle Mewburn!Wow! What an amazing collection of mystery stories you sent in this week. And talk about mysterious. I was scratching my head the whole time, trying to solve the mystery before Sher did. (And no, I don't have fleas!) Lots of you scattered cunningly clever clues through your story, which is exactly what a good mystery needs. There were lots of trapdoors and secret passageways, too. Which is always good for adding mystery to a story. And in Chloe & Sophie's story, Sher had to unravel some clever alibis, just like a real detective.
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<br />There was lots of blood, too. Grace's story had a blood-stained dagger and people dying like flies. While in Maddie's story, Sher cut a monster in half and ate its two hearts! Urggghhh!
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<br />There were mysteries about missing jewels, a missing Star of Scotland, missing cupcakes, missing wallets and even missing grandmas. There were poisoned drinks, a plague and a murderous king. And talk about imagination! The Over Council of FaBo2 will be amazed when they read this week's stories. There was everything from magic wands to dragon trainers to talking dogs (called Ricky and Leonard) and even talking FURNITURE! And there were lots (and LOTS!) of goldfish, too.
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<br />Along the way, poor Jock McWat (who was <em>supposed </em>to be Sher's best friend) was everything from her brother to her boyfriend, a villain to a hired assassin! That was very confusing. I liked Sally's story about terrible King Humphrey, too, but it was more like a fairytale than a mystery.
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<br />But there can only be ONE winner! And this week I've chosen Caroline Moratti's story. Caroline is in Year 8 at Balmacewan Intermediate in Dunedin. I loved her quirky humour and the way she made Sher come alive. I also liked the twist at the end. You can read Caroline's story by clicking on the tab above! Caroline not only gets an awesome prize, she will also have a place on FaBo2 named after her. Check out what it is on the Planet FaBo page.
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<br />Hmmm, actually, the Over Council has just informed me we're now going to pick TWO winners each week - one primary and one intermediate. What a generous council! So this week's primary winner is Matthew Illing who is in Year 6 at Maungawhau. (Who is currently Number 1 on our Best Schools list. Well done!) A special prize is on its way to Matthew. He also gets a planetary feature named in his honour.
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<br />Oh, and a special mention to Millie Brown of Maungawhau for her great introduction! You can read it on the winning entry page as well.
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<br />In the meantime, here's MY mystery story called ...
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<br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The Mystery of the Missing Mist
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<br />Jock McWat twisted the lens of his telescope one way, then the other until the towering spires of Glottis Castle came into sharp focus.
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<br />“Hey, Sher, check this out!” he called.
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<br />"Mffflogrmmmlfrrt?” came the reply from behind.
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<br />“What?” Jock asked as he turned to where his best friend, Sher Lock, was busily polishing her gumboots by the fire.
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<br />Sher spat out the ends of her pigtails. She always sucked them when she was concentrating. Which is why they always looked more like two wet rat’s tails than pigtails. “I said - I’m busy.”
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<br />“No, seriously, you have to check this out,” said Jock. “It’s ... it’s ... I don’t know what it is.”
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<br />He sighed. It was a very long sigh. Sometimes it was very frustrating not having an imagination.
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<br />Sher’s sigh was even longer. It lasted all the way from the fire to the window. Considering she was dragging her feet as if they were made of Gloomstone, it was a very long sigh indeed.
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<br />“So what’s sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo important, McWat?” she asked, rolling her eyes dramatically. Nobody could roll their eyes quite like Sher. The thick lenses of her glasses magnified her eyes to the size of those weird puffballs that grew in Thompson Swamp.
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<br />Jock was so mesmerised, he could only point.
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<br />Sher’s eyes swept along Jock’s arm, leapt off his pointy index finger, then plunged out the window. They vaulted over the sleepy village of Gloomingdales, skipped across three mirror lochs and raced up the rocky slopes of Epi Hill, before finally landing on the stark shape of Glottis Castle outlined clearly against the clear, blue sky.
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<br />Her jaw dropped and her glasses nearly fell off her nose.
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<br />“It’s ... it’s ...” she stammered. “It’s totally weird.”
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<br />“I know,” said Jock. “Isn’t it amazing? You can actually see the castle. And the sun! The mist is like totally gone!”
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<br />Sher rolled her eyes even more dramatically.
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<br />“Nooooooooooo,” she said. Even though what Jock said true enough. For the first time in her entire whole life, there was no mist filling the village streets, and no dark cloud concealing Glottis castle from view. Which was totally weird when you thought about it. But Sher wasn’t going to tell Jock that. Besides, there was something even weirder than a clear sky in the Gloomingdales.
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<br />“I didn’t mean the sky. I meant the castle. Look at it! Have you ever seen such a weird-looking castle?”
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<br />Frowning, Jock stood studying the castle and tugging his left pigtail. (Everyone in the Gloomingdales wore pigtails. Even though it made most of them look pretty silly, they couldn’t imagine any other hairstyle they might choose. So pigtails it was.)
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<br />“I guess it does look a bit weird,” said Jock.
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<br />“A bit???” said Sher. She started to roll her eyes again, but stopped when Jock’s cheeks turned as red as a strawbeet.
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<br />“OK! OK!” cried Jock. “It’s like totally weird. It’s the weirdest castle I’ve ever seen.” (Which was true, too, because it was the only castle he’d ever seen.) He cleared his throat. “So what do you think is the weirdest part?”
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<br />Sher pushed her pink deerstalker hat back and scratched her head.
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<br />“Well, for a start, have you ever heard of a castle with four enormous chimneys?” she asked somewhat hesitantly, glancing slyly at Jock to check his reaction. After all, she had never seen a proper castle, either. But she had read about them in fairytales so many times, she could almost imagine what they might look like if she had an imagination. One thing for sure, they wouldn’t look anything like Glottis castle. No way!
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<br />Jock shrugged. “It’s probably cold living in a castle.”
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<br />Sher sighed. “Aren’t castles supposed to have towers and battlements and moats and stuff, too?”
<br />“I guess,” said Jock. The castle did look a bit odd. It was a long, squat rectangular, grey building that needed four adjectives to describe it because it didn’t have any features except for the four towering chimneys. “But what’s that got to do with the missing mist?”
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<br />“I’m not sure,” said Sher. “But it’s our first clue, I think. Let’s go.”
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<br />The normally bustling streets of Gloomingdale were eerily quiet. If it wasn’t for the sounds of children laughing and a moghorn symphony drifting on the breeze, Sher and Jock might have thought the whole population had vanished with the mist. (Assuming they didn’t notice the signs on every shop reading “Gone Fishing” or “Closed until further notice”.)
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<br />As they puffed their way up Epi Hill, Sher kept stooping to inspect strange objects littering the path. There were octagonal stones with grooved holes through the middle. Peculiar sticks that looked like mushrooms, with grooved stalks just thin enough to fit through the holey stones. And the hillside was dotted with tangles of rusting gloomstone.
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<br />“What are they?” asked Jock each time Sher paused to peer at an object through her magnifying glasses.
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<br />“More clues,” said Sher.
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<br />Finally they reached the castle entrance. There was no moat or drawbridge, just a simple door with a sign reading – “Glottis Gloomstone Co.”
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<br />“Just as I suspected,” said Sher.
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<br />“What?” asked Jock, scratching his head. But his voice was drowned out by a loud creaking as Sher heaved the door open.
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<br />Inside was a vast, silent cavern with a damp, stone floor. As Sher paused in the doorway to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom, huge shapes slowly separated from the darkness. Her head swivelled left, then right. When she saw the small, red light, blinking like a dying star on the far side of the cavern, she gave a grunt of satisfaction, then set off towards it.
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<br />Her hand touched cold metal first. The skin of some enormous machine. Then she found the light. With one gentle press, it turned green.
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<br />The cavern filled with clanking, grinding sounds as Sher retraced her steps. By the time she reached the door, the first holey octagonal stone rolled off the end of the machine’s conveyor-belt tongue, and onto the pile that had been creeping towards the machine like a slow-motion avalanche for a hundred years.
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<br />“What did you do?” asked Jock.
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<br />“Nothing,” said Sher with a smug smile. “I just solved the mystery of the missing mist. That’s all.”
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<br />As they wound their way down Epi Hill, the famous Gloomingdale mist began to thicken around them. At the foot of the hill, Sher glanced back over her shoulder. But there was no sign of Glottis castle.
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<br />The people of Gloomingdale never suspected their famous castle might be a factory. So they never imagined the sun might return again with a single push of a button.
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<br />And Sher? Well, she never imagined it might be a good idea to tell them.FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-14750751240511421342011-06-19T18:57:00.007+12:002011-08-12T15:26:33.328+12:00A FaBo Fairytale : Melinda SzymanikWell it was an interesting bunch of stories submitted this week to start this year's Fabo story challenge.
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<br /><div>Melinda certainly rose to the challenge of introducing imagination to the FaBo Planet...nostril hair tho?
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<br /><div>Check out the winning students story on the Winner's page and Melinda's report to get some cool writing tips and join us for this weeks challenge, (see the sidebar....)</div>
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<br /><div>Take it away Melinda!</div>
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<br /><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal" align="center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span lang="EN-GB">The Three Arty Faeries<!--?xml:namespace prefix = o /--><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>
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<br /><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Once upon a time, in a far away place, there lived a proud and important man. Lord of the Over Council Imagination Committee, Professor Nottin Spyre had been charged with the job of protecting his people from their own imaginations. He had a beautiful wife, a perfect baby daughter and more power than any ordinary man could ever wish for, although he lived in a dull, grey world without art or creativity. Not long after the birth of their first child, Enid, the couple planned a party to celebrate her arrival. They invited everyone they could think of but because they lacked any imagination they forgot to invite Gouache, Arpeggio and Grammar: the three faeries of the Arts from the abandoned <!--?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /--><st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Institute</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Combined Arts</st1:placename></st1:place> and General Creativity. One of the Professor’s first tasks when appointed Lord of the Over Council Imagination Committee, had been to shut the institute down. Now parents kept their children away from the derelict building where strange coloured figures were seen flitting along empty corridors and weird noises were heard, with haunting tales of mysterious ghosts.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">On the day of the party guests bestowed their best wishes on <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Enid</st1:place></st1:city> as they arrived and passed their gifts (mostly nappies, socks and soap on a rope because they lacked any imagination), to Professor and Mrs Spyre. Everyone enjoyed their glasses of water (without flavouring or carbonation because of the absence of imagination) and bread without any spreads (you can guess why if you are getting the hang of this no imagination thing by now). The guests shared boring chitchat and admired the pale cream walls of the grand hall at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Spyre</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Mansion</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The Professor and his wife remained at the front door, their baby cradled in Mrs Spyre’s loving arms.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The sky darkened. In a flash of searing brightness three faeries suddenly stood on the doorstep.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In unison they spoke,</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Imagination cannot be denied…”</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Then Gouache, dressed in a rainbow coloured gown said, “My birthday gift to your daughter is the gift of art. Her paintings will be beyond compare and will inspire anyone who looks on them.”</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“My gift is the gift of poetry,” recited Grammar, clothed in sweetest pink. “She will combine words in a way that breathes new life into them.”</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“And my gift,” sang Arpeggio, in a cloak of shimmering blue, “is the gift of melody. Your daughter will put her poetry to music. Her songs will delight and cheer everyone who hears them.”</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The three cackled in chorus, waved their wands over <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Enid</st1:place></st1:city>’s head, turned three times and were gone.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The professor turned to his wife. “We can’t allow this,” he said so only she could hear. “This would be the end of my job if word got out that our daughter is artistic.” </span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Meanwhile, ignored by all, a fourth faerie in a black cape bestowed a gift. “You cannot suppress the imagination forever. On her sixteenth birthday a dashing hero will come and unlock young <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Enid</st1:place></st1:city>’s creativity.” The sprite breathed on <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Enid</st1:place></st1:city>’s head and before anyone even noticed she was there, she had gone.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">When the party was over and everyone had left, Nottin locked his daughter in the highest tower of his palatial home, paid a woman to take care of her and never spoke of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Enid</st1:place></st1:city> again. When she realised she could not persuade her husband to change his mind, and too afraid to have another gifted child, Mrs Spyre consoled herself with McRonald’s burgers until she eventually died of a broken heart. The years passed and Professor Spyre, satisfied that he had well and truly eradicated any sign of imagination, stepped down from his job with the Imagination Committee. Now deaf and more than a little vague he had forgotten all about <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Enid</st1:place></st1:city> and the faeries and how many years were passing.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Young Dash drove his clapped out Fabota car through the dark forest. He’d left his home in New Yawn on the east coast of Allerica days before, bored with everything and sure there must be more to life than this. With no car radio or audio books to listen to he began feeling sleepy until suddenly a shadow stepped out of the shadows. It was an old woman, hunched over with age, swathed in a black cape. Dash slowed the car as he watched her raise a knobbly thumb in the classic hitch-hiker gesture. The Fabota slid to a halt and Dash wound down his window.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">A vicious smell blew into the car. Filth crusted the old woman’s cape and Dash saw enough dirt under her fingernails to grow pomatoes in. But Dash didn’t mind. He covered his nose and said, </span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Need a lift?”</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The old woman shook her head.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“What a nice boy you are. You <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">will</i></b> find what you are seeking. Take this magic hamburger,” she said passing him a small round parcel wrapped in greaseproof paper. It felt warm in Dash’s hand. “And these three hairs,” she continued, pulling three long, dark, brown ones from her left nostril. “You will know what to do with them when the time comes.” Dash took the gifts and climbing back into his car, cranked the handle, pumped the gas pedal and took off into the gloom.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The trees closed in around him, growing taller and thicker and closer together with every passing mile. Again he felt sleepy. Dash wound the windows down to try and keep himself awake with the cold night air. Instead a strange noise came down the road towards him and like a magnet he felt drawn towards it. Soon he found himself parking in front of an old mansion house in the middle of the overgrown forest.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">There was that noise again, a lilting sound floating down from above. Dash could not help but feel cheered. Looking up he saw a fair young woman peering from a window in the highest tower. The wonderful sound was coming from her and Dash was overwhelmed with the desire to meet her. </span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Um,” he said, staring up at the smooth wall above him. He pulled the old woman’s gifts from his pocket. The package was mushed but he opened it up and the smell of the burger was so delicious he gobbled it up immediately. He felt strong but the window was too high to jump up to. Dash needed a ladder. As he looked at the three nostril hairs in his hand they thickened and lengthened until they were each like a rope.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Hey that’s cool,” he said scratching his head but he still couldn’t figure out what to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Someone tapped him on the shoulder. </span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“A bit of creative thinking would have been handy,” a voice said. Dash wheeled around. The beautiful young woman stood behind him, a bed-sheet rope dangling down the wall behind her. </span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“It’s alright,” she said. “I’ve been climbing down for years. My name’s <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Enid</st1:place></st1:city>. I’m the singer in a band ‘The Faeries’ down at the Institute. Then I teach an art class at eight. Can you give me a lift there? Walking is such a drag.”</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Sure,” Dash said smiling and he unlocked his car and opened the passenger door for her.</span></p>
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<br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The End</span></p></div></div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-15305613112887947932011-06-12T14:25:00.005+12:002011-08-12T15:27:57.937+12:00Launching Now...Off To Planet FaBoHi Everyone, <div>
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>WE ARE BACK!</b></div><div>
<br /></div><div>The 2011 FaBo Story Challenge is now live. Our magnificent student winner, from last year, <b>Angus Smith</b> has provided the first story to get you into the FaBo story atmosphere and he has set the challenge for all of you this week. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Don't forget that one of the FaBo team will be taking up this challenge along with you. Their story and the best story submitted by you will be up next week along with the next story challenge. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>The Fabo team are looking forward to seeing what you come up with this year. We are ready to pit our writing wits against you (we've been practising...)</div><div>
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Bring it On Kiwi Kids...</b></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Take it away Angus.</div><div>
<br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span lang="EN-AU">Mr Groat Becomes Confused <o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU">Deep in the velvety blackness of space, parallel to the Great Nebula of Pork-Chop, spins the ancient planet of Fabo2. Now, Fabo2 is not a particularly remarkable world. It looks quite similar to Earth in fact, although the poles are slightly different and the continents positioned oddly. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Hurtling through space towards Fabo2 at that moment was a meteor. At least, that’s what it appeared to be.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr and Mrs Groat owned a plantation south of the Missislurpy, a muddy river running almost the entire width of the Combined Districts of Allerica. The old couple raised goats and gardenias on their land; although, due to lack of imagination, not much raising was involved. Mr and Mrs Groat and the goats usually just sat in front of the telescreen with their feet and hooves up, munching on the hamburgers they had had delivered from the fast-food restaurant McRonald’s in the city. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>One ordinary, unimaginative evening, Mr Groat put the trash out (even those without imagination have to do chores). Grumbling under his breath, he detached his bulk from the sofa and scooped up the rubbish bag from the bin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Mrs Groat, I’m taking the garbage out,’ Mr Groat said, stomping out the kitchen door.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘That’s nice, Mr Groat,’ Mrs Groat said with disinterest. She was watching a Poppy Street sing along for kids. (‘Arm bone connects to the hand bone, hand bone connects to the Eye-Phone, Eye-phone connects to the internet, internet connects to the Goooogle, Goooogle connects to the Over Council.’)<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Groat waddled down the dusty track leading away from the farmhouse. He dumped the fetid bags of filth into the battered steel bin then turned to walk back up the track. But something made him pause. He turned his podgy face skywards. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>There was a burning orange light in the sky, gradually getting bigger as it came nearer. A faint roaring noise, like the sound of a fire flaring up when you toss human body parts into it, accompanied the light.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘What on earth is that?’ Mr Groat frowned. He had no imagination, so he couldn’t work it out. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Shrugging, he began to plod back towards the house. A few seconds later, a massive meteor entered Fabo2’s atmosphere and slammed right into the Groats’ property. Ash, piping hot space debris and asteroid rocks flew everywhere, crushing the house and all the surrounding landscape flat. Mr Groat had been a strongman in a Travelling Sir Cuss, so he managed to stand his ground. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Groat blinked and looked around in despair once the oily black smoke had cleared. ‘No!’ he moaned. ‘The gardenias! The goats! Mrs Groat!’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>A swishing noise made him turn to look at the meteor itself. In fact, it wasn’t a meteor at all. It seemed to be metallic, and was a perfect sphere. A door-like section at its centre lay open, and a figure was crawling out of it. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>The person emerging from the spacecraft (although Mr Groat didn’t know it was a spacecraft, as he had no imagination) was very similar to you and I. He, for it was male, had on a suit and carried a cane in one hand and a large movie encyclopaedia in the other. The man blinked, then noticed Mr Groat. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,’ the strange man enunciated slowly, after a moment of consulting his movie encyclopaedia. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Eh, wot?’ Mr Groat frowned, squinting at the man leafing through the thick leather-bound volume. ‘Who are you? What’s the meaning of crashing your thing on my land? By ecky thump, this is positively queer!’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ the man said solemnly, advancing unsteadily towards the rather confused Mr Groat. ‘Bond. James Bond.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘O-okay, Mr Bond,’ Mr Groat stammered. ‘Will you bloody well tell me what you’re doing here? I don’t know, see, ‘cause I have no imagination.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Bond rested a hand cautiously on Mr Groat’s shoulder. ‘Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘My name’s not Louis, it’s...’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘I’ll be back,’ Mr Bond told him, patting Mr Groat jerkily on the back. He then marched off briskly in the direction of the city, umbrella and movie encyclopaedia tucked under one arm. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Groat stood blankly for a few seconds, attempting to think. Eventually he gave up. All he knew was that his house was destroyed and his wife probably dead. Then some instinct took him over, and Groat hurried after the stranger.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Wait! You can’t just leave me here!’ Mr Groat pleaded, tugging on the back of Mr Bond’s jacket. ‘Can’t you at least take me with you?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘You had me at ‘hello’,’ Mr Bond said. Without any further ado, he punched Mr Groat hard in the face. There was a metallic crunch.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Groat drooped to the ground, unconscious. Mr Bond hauled him up and effortlessly slung him over one shoulder. He began the long walk to the city. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU">Mr Groat opened his eyes. He seemed to be lying down, and could see a row of trees to his left. He rolled over, to see a busy sidewalk to his right. He sat up. Groat’s back hurt something dreadful, probably due to the park bench he was laying on. In the distance he could see the Urbandome and the Mall of Allerica.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘What?’ Mr Groat frowned. ‘I’m-I’m in Mineapplepolice! But how…’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>It was then that he noticed Mr Bond standing behind him, beaming and holding out an icecream cone in his direction. Groat coughed uncomfortably. ‘Is that for me? I don’t like icecream.’ </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,’ Mr Bond said, after flipping through the movie encyclopaedia. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Groat was confused. No one had called him ‘dear’ before. ‘Say, can we go and get a hamburger?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU">They sat together at a booth in McRonald’s, Fabo2’s premiere fast-food eatery. Mr Groat was halfway through his eighth Heart-Attack-In-A-Bun. Mr Bond watched him eat with interest, his own food remaining untouched.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Groat finished the burger then began to study the menu again. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Take me to your leader,’ Mr Bond blurted out abruptly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Huh?’ Mr Groat looked up from the menu. ‘Leader? Like, the most important person?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Bond paused to look over his movie encyclopaedia. ‘Marilyn Monroe?’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘No, no. You must be meaning the High One, the head of the Over Council.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU">All of a sudden, a change came over Mr Bond. He leant across the table and grabbed Groat by the collar. He hissed into his ear with a metallic-sounding grate to his voice. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family:"Helvetica","sans-serif";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"">‘TheHighOneHasTrickedYouAll.YouAllAreNotOfRightMind.TakeThis. Imagine.BeFree.LIBERATE.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Bond pressed a yellowed envelope into his palm, then stood up and walked briskly away. ‘May the force be with you.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘But…where are you going?’ Mr Groat asked, watching helplessly as Mr Bond walked away. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.’ </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>And then he was gone. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Mr Groat cautiously drew a piece of parchment from the envelope and began to read the words typed onto it. After a few moments, there was a curious buzzing in his head and he had to put the paper down. A small voice in his head whispered: Forget it. Have another burger. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Waiter, I’d like a Double Everything With Extra Cheese, thanks,’ Mr Groat said automatically.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Forget that nasty stuff you read, the voice purred. The High One has helped all his people be free. Now your minds are uncluttered and you have bliss. Isn’t that right?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>‘Dunno, I don’t have any imagination,’ Mr Groat said out loud, although he was unsure whom he was talking to.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Exactly, the voice purred. </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family:"American Typewriter""><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p></div><div>
<br /></div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-2005856236773553822011-05-24T19:45:00.007+12:002011-05-26T22:24:03.025+12:00Planet FaBo - Into A New DimensionFaBo 2 -The Next Frontier<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWy7YMMiNvv_DFUtbFT_R573hLVZaFAe6GXaJpe_VI61h23GOvfkOarfxGQVlrfuHi3lZYUQ0MTE8ESJFid9rEuUWRiV8hJM000ZpOz0-8kkxTdnpQjv60IjDoXt1NHcvRM0f6J3nH1k5/s1600/precambrian+earth.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 218px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 231px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610196234923361554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUWy7YMMiNvv_DFUtbFT_R573hLVZaFAe6GXaJpe_VI61h23GOvfkOarfxGQVlrfuHi3lZYUQ0MTE8ESJFid9rEuUWRiV8hJM000ZpOz0-8kkxTdnpQjv60IjDoXt1NHcvRM0f6J3nH1k5/s320/precambrian+earth.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>Spinning in the velvety blackness of deep space is a wondrous blue planet known as FaBo2. </div><br /><br /><div>On first glance, it looks a lot like Earth. But the second glance informs you that the familiar continents of Earth are missing. There are no super sized continents. The Poles are not as large and have moved slightly. It looks like Earth from a long time ago.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>The inhabitants of FaBo2 are a very evolved species. They have the same hopes, dreams and desires as the people of Earth. They want peace, wealth, beauty and a really decent hamburger. But what they all want more than anything else, is imagination. Because, sadly, somewhere along their very long evolutionary journey, imagination became extinct.<br /><br />The people of FaBo2 are barely content and terribly bored.<br /><br />The Over Council of FaBo2 want their people to be happy. So they have called in the fabulously dynamic FaBo team to help.<br /><br />But writing stories to inspire imagination and creativity (as well as aid their search for the perfect hamburger) for an entire planet is a BIG JOB. That's why they need YOUR help.<br /><br />Each week, the Over Council will choose a genre, setting and inhabitant for a story. One of the FaBo team will take up the weekly challenge. And they offer you the chance to write alongside them for a share in the fame.<br /><br />Simply write a story using the genre, setting and inhabitant specified by the Over Council (1000 words maximum) and send it to <a href="mailto:fabostory@gmail.com">fabostory@gmail.com</a> by Friday 5pm.<br /><br />Each week the Over Council will select the most briliantest stories to go forward to their planet where there will be rejoicing and lots of hamburger eating. They will also be posted on the FaBo blog (<a href="http://www.fabostory2.blogspot.com/">http://www.fabostory2.blogspot.com/</a>)<br /><br />Winning authors will have fame and fortune across the planet, and the occasional gift from the Over Council judges. Planet features will be renamed in your honour and your stories will become part of all school teaching on the planet for generations to come.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So sharpen your wits and your pencils and get ready to write! </span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Lift off: June 13 2011</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div></div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-57399697348142206902011-02-05T16:48:00.001+13:002011-02-05T16:50:55.061+13:00What's in a name<p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like naming children, naming our characters can be a daunting prospect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Get it right and our characters and their names are a seamless whole,the words tripping off the tongue and sticking in people’s minds – Harry Potter, Voldemort, Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, Verruca Salt, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Lyra Belacqua and Thursday Next. A good name fits the character like a glove, suits them and can provide an additional clue to who they are or be an extra riddle to challenge the reader.</span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Sometimes characters turn up with their names already attached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The result of a sort of writer’s intuition, that name is often the best choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Trust your instincts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However sometimes I find when naming multiple characters in a longer piece of fiction that I have subconsciously made many of the names start with the same letter and changes are necessary to avoid confusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A book of baby names (or two) is a good resource.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you are writing historical fiction, try the internet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I also check out Births, Deaths and Marriages columns for names and also sit through movie credits with pen and paper at the ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Movie credits can be a fantastic place to find interesting and unusual names and I’m not just talking about the actors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sometimes the foley artists, the special effects guys and the grips have the best names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is a good idea if you are getting into this writing gig for the long haul to collect names that you like or that have a strong connection for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like screenwriters who write scripts with particular actors in mind I have several names I am keen to write stories around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However liking a name is not always enough on its own to make the name right for your character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It still has to fit with who they are, how they behave and when and where they lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Names must suit the tone and setting of your story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Names are era, socio-economically and of course gender sensitive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For example, think of the names Nigel, Rupert, Bruce and Matt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or Charlotte and Tiffany, Kylie and Lisa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What about Mabel or Myrtle and Agnes or Jeremiah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Paddy and Duncan could have a Scottish background while Marcelle and Dominique are most likely French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And what about Inga, Olga and Hans? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It can be tempting to use unusual names and this can work really well, but it can also fail miserably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Standing out is not always the right thing for your character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you are writing for children, everyday names can make it easier for the reader to connect with your character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of course while unusual names can be a curse in a novel or short story they can be the whole point in a picture book, for example Hubert Horatio Bartle Bobton Trent, Mog, or Hairy McLairy and Bottomley Potts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In picture books, rhythmic and rhyming qualities may be the deciding factor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In my picture book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">The Were-Nana</i>, while rhyming wasn’t an issue, choosing the name Simon for the brother gave me the opportunity to echo the Simon Say’s children’s game in several places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This name also helped with the rhythm of the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The name Nana Lupin from the same book is a play on the root word for wolf.</span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Phew – there is a lot to take into consideration when naming your character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It can be one of the hardest decisions but ultimately you want it to look like it was no trouble at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And like naming your own children, if your character makes it in to print the book will have to live with that name for the rest of its life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you think the names will stand this test then you’ve done your job. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span></span> </p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">Good luck with your writing</span></span></span></p><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: 200%; TEXT-INDENT: 36pt; MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">Melinda</span></span></span></p>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-8850567579053688352010-12-09T10:57:00.004+13:002010-12-09T11:09:15.611+13:00Your first rule for writing - there are no rules<span style="font-family:georgia;">Hello faithful readers (and writers). I thought I'd get the ball rolling with some writing advice that I think every writer should know before they read any other writing advice. This is one of my most important writing tips - there is<strong> NOT</strong> one proper way to write<span style="color:#0d0600;">. Yes, it does help to follow all the usual rules of grammar about verbs and nouns and adjectives and sentence structure and all the usual rules of punctuation about fullstops and commas etc...but otherwise you should just follow those bits of advice that work best for you and DON'T WORRY about the rest.</span></span> <p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: none"></span></o:p></span></u></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"></span> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;">The following article about this very topic was written by the very experienced writer Nicola Morgan and appeared on her blog <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><a href="http://helpineedapublisher.blogspot.com/">http://helpineedapublisher.blogspot.com/</a> </u></b>which is full of great advice, inspiration and other sensible stuff that will most likely help you enormously.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"><em>There are no rules for writing – just results<o:p></o:p></em></span></u></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"><o:p><em></em></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;">You want to know </span><b><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#cc0000;">how</span></b></em><em><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"> to write? Well, I cannot tell you. Yes, I have written more than half a million words on this blog; yes, I've had a large number of books published; and yes, I am writing a book called Write To be Published. And yes, aspiring writers ask me and other writers things such as, do you plan? Do you talk to your characters? Do you outline? Keep spreadsheets of characters? Know the end before you get there? Use Moleskine notebooks? Talk to yourself? Drink lots of coffee? And I have answers to these questions but the answers and the questions are entirely irrelevant to you.<br /><br />Entirely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Irrelevant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">And.</st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Except.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Me.<br /><br />This is because how a writer writes is entirely irrelevant to anyone but the writer. </span><b><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#cc0000;">All that matters is the result</span></b><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;">: </span><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;">what you write</span></em><em><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;">, what the words sound like when you've written them, what readers think of them, whether they work.<br /><br /></span><b><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#cc0000;">The method, the route you take, matters zilchly</span></b></em><em><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;">. No one cares whether you plan or whether you fly by the seat of your pants. No one cares whether you interviewed your characters or spent the night dreaming of them. Well, OK, they might care, but only out of weird reader interest. If you are asking these questions in order to find out how to write yourself, you are barking up the wrong tree.<br /><br />Please. Just write your book in whatever way works for you, even if that means hanging from a chandelier naked. It will be judged only on the result. Don't get hung up on method, or at least on other people's methods. You will find what works for you and that's all that matters.<br /><br />Fair enough; sometimes another writer's method is worth trying, to see if it might work better for you than the one you use, and for that reason the questions are not entirely pointless. But only as long as you </span><b><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#cc0000;">never get hung up on the answers, and never worry if you are doing it differently from others</span></b></em><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#0d0600;"><em>.<br /><br />Just write, eh?<br /><br />When you look gorgeous, I do not need to know how you got dressed.</em></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><em><span style="color:#0d0600;"></span></em> </p><p style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:#0d0600;">Merry christmas and happy holidays everyone - take care and see you next year - Melinda</span></p>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5456965541808655580.post-278117511219366082010-11-23T15:20:00.000+13:002010-11-23T17:07:26.635+13:00FaBo Story is over ... or is it?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIdtI4Ju079oaJ61bLnfHBPoq97DWDQAw8yd9q2F6DE3VMyMkJ7uZqfcHyhFok2OsOWCzp0JWcHHC2FryUS7LvOdQ5_5aM8IsCZvAkLU5GsswHqZ2uvg-YwJ0OnOQqPrc9AnKhj8yvn_ti/s1600/fabochapter+8+illo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIdtI4Ju079oaJ61bLnfHBPoq97DWDQAw8yd9q2F6DE3VMyMkJ7uZqfcHyhFok2OsOWCzp0JWcHHC2FryUS7LvOdQ5_5aM8IsCZvAkLU5GsswHqZ2uvg-YwJ0OnOQqPrc9AnKhj8yvn_ti/s320/fabochapter+8+illo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542572238935739202" /></a><br />We promised it would be a wild ride! Eighteen hairy chapters later and the first FaBo Story was complete - thanks to you. <div><br /></div><div>If you haven't read it yet, go and find out about the heroes of our story - Remy and Lewis - alien gorillas, exploding cupcakes, intergalactic police ... oh yeah, I shouldn't give it all away. <a href="http://fabostory.blogspot.com/">Go here</a> and read it for yourself. Make sure you read the winning students' chapters down the right-hand side.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to all the kids and teachers who took part in FaBo Story, whether you read it, wrote for it, or helped to keep your kids motivated to follow it. There are some brilliant young writers out there.</div><div><br /></div><div>BUT WE HAVEN'T FINISHED YET.</div><div><br /></div><div>FaBo Story will continue. The whistle will blow for the new story - FaBo Story 2 - in term two of 2011. Angus Smith, the 13 year-old student who won the final prize this year, will kick off the first chapter. But in the meantime, we're going to share writing tips, showcase great examples of writing, publish photos of the people who took part in FaBo Story, and YOU can share what YOU know.</div><div><br /></div><div>Remember the story's not over till the mad lady swings. Off you go, Mrs Jones!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Illustration by Jenny Cooper featured in FaBo Story chapter 8. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>FaBo Storyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01196749681837027483noreply@blogger.com1