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Writer's Debate

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Voting Style: Open Point System: 7 Point
Started: 7/30/2013 Category: Arts
Updated: 4 years ago Status: Post Voting Period
Viewed: 1,743 times Debate No: 36155
Debate Rounds (5)
Comments (11)
Votes (2)




This debate forms part of the Official DDO Prepared Championships for Summer 2013. Please see the forums for details.

This debate is a debate to test the creative writing skills of both the debaters. The format debatewise shall be as follows:

1. Round 1 shall be for acceptance only.
2. Each debater (or writer, as the case is) shall have up to 8,000 characters per round, and 72 hours to post for each round.
3. Voting shall last for 1 week, and voters must provide comments.

The rules for this debate in particular are as follows:
1. Each writer shall be writing entirely separate short stories.
2. Each writer shall be writing only 1 short story. This means that each round shall be a continuation of the short story, making the sum of all rounds a single short story.
3. Each writer must use at least one character from a previous work of fiction written by that writer. Links to the works/the actual works NEED NOT be provided. HOWEVER, before beginning the short story, each writer MUST name the character being reused, and title of the work in which that character originally appeared.
4. The new short story being written MAY NOT be a recreation of the previous work in which the character was used. Although this has no way of being enforced, the writers swear they won't break this rule, scout's honor. :)
5. Although not necessary, each writer is encouraged to name their new story, for ease of description in the RFD.

Other than that, I'm excited to be doing this with Citrakayah, and I accept the terms I've layed out (obviously).

However, Citrakayah can raise any questions, comments, concerns, objections, additions, etc. in the comments or via PM before accepting.


I accept, and wish the best of luck to my opponent.
Debate Round No. 1


Note: The formatting got a bit screwy on me during the copy/paste. Apologies if it looks a little bit wonky or there are wide spaces between the paragraphs.

Reused character: The Heiress (Persephone Young). From the short story “Back, Back, Way Back.”

"Deliverance" (working title, MIGHT change)

By the time you’re listening to this, Dr. Bruce, I won’t be in New York anymore. At least, that’s the plan. So don’t come trying to find me, or call the police, or whatever. I’m a grown woman (God knows that), and I’m leaving the City of my own volition. Just so you know I wasn’t kidnapped.


But, now that I got the...unpleasantries out of the way, I can tell you why. Ah yes, I bet you of all people will be dying to know why I’m gone. I noticed that with all my psychologists. Including you, Dr. Bruce, even though you’re secretly my favorite. You always want to understand why. You can’t just leave well enough alone. I guess that’s always been my problem, too, as I’m sure you know. Can’t forget the past. Always have to think about it, every single day of my life. Hopefully not anymore now. But, that’s a spoiler, and you know how much I hate those. You too. So, if you want to hear the story of how I came to leave New York, and how I was (fingers crossed) delivered from all this crap that’s made me come to you guys for years on end, get comfortable, Doctor.

You’re still listening? I hope so. Now anyway, Doctor, I hope you have a glass of chardonay or a nice martini or whatever you drink, because this is going to be a long one. I’m sure I’ve covered a lot of this in therapy with you, Dr. Bruce, but here’s the thing: I don’t know what it is about you psychologists, but even though you hear everything we say, write it down, ask questions, offer suggestions, you never really listen, do you? I mean, I guess it’s not your fault. After all, if I was a therapist, if I actually listened to what my patients - oh wait, excuse me, clients - had to say, I’d need my own therapist just to keep me from beating my head against the wall until blood seeps out of my ears. Seriously. The world is full of messed-up people, Dr. Bruce. You should know. And so should I, I guess.

But my point is, Doctor, I’m going to tell it all, right from the beginning. And this time, I want you to listen. Please. I’m not ordering you, Dr. Bruce. Honestly, I’m leaving this for you because you’re the only one that seems to give a damn about me now. Hopefully that’ll change, and that’s partly why I’m leaving. But again, that’s a spoiler. So let me just stop blathering, and get right to it.

With you and me, it all started with a lime green Cadillac on the side of the road many miles outside Las Vegas. But to explain why I’m not here in the City anymore, the story starts long before. It starts in October, 1959, when I was born in Los Angeles. Beverly Hills, actually. You know this, and I’m sure you also know that my mother was a Hollywood starlet and my father a big oil exec. But I don’t think I ever told you their names. My dad was Kane Allen Young, and my mom was Eve Adelia Young. There. You can add that to your collection of Interesting Tidbits About Persephone.

Yes, I was quite the heiress to quite a fortune. Not now, obviously, seeing as how I came to you on state insurance living out of a dump of an apartment. That’s where I am right now, in fact. Even though it’s a hole, it’s my home. Funny how those two words are so similar. One letter apart, anyway.

I wish I could say I was more of a responsible heiress than the kind you see today, like that Paris Hilton girl. But money has a way of making people idiots. Hey, maybe being poor was a way of making people smart, then? I hope so, because then I’m an Einstein. But regardless, I was an irresponsible, vain girl growing up as an heiress, thinking I was the greatest thing since sliced bread, even though I was a stereotypical little child of Beverly Hills. But being a cookie-cutter Beverly Hills kid was expected. I even remember the boy that I liked so much when I was a teenager: Zechariah Nickelson. He still holds a place in my heart right now. He’s also a reason why I’m leaving New York. But that’s-

Do I even need to say it?

Anyway. My childhood, and teenage years were filled with vapidity and girlish dreams. But then the Cataclysm happened. That’s when chaos and abandonment and loneliness blew through my little playworld. That’s when the lime green Cadillac, so beautiful and shimmery in the Mojave sun, became the leading role in my nightmares.

Of course, you already know what it is, and what happened (I think), but don’t get any ideas about me skipping it.

Like I said, you need to hear this when you’re not being insulated by your books and easychair and couch and professional air. You need to hear this completely naked as it were. You need to hear this, and listen.

Because you might be the last person to hear it.



Peristrixalo, from the Wanderer's Library tale "And I Was Pesent At The Death of a God"

June 18, 2012 – Californian Legacy Facility:

There was a storm today. As Walmajarri and I were visiting the thylacine colony, this meant that we were inside most of the day with the thylacines and comforting the pups as they quivered at the booming of the thunder and the sound of the rain bombarding the windows. It was as if someone had irritated Thor, Zeus, Thunderbird, and half a dozen other storm deities, and they had all pooled together to make the sleep of their enemies impossible—though I know quite a few who would fall asleep quite easily in a storm.

It started raining at about three in the afternoon. Just drizzling, at first. I looked up as the first raindrop fell on my head. “Griffon said no rain today.” Actually, that wasn’t true, he said that there was almost certainly no rain today. But then, he wasn’t around and I wasn’t accusing him of incompetence.

I dimly became aware of claws scraping against my chest, then looked down to discover that there was a thylacine pup attempting to use my shirt as a rain shelter. A few seconds later her head poked out of the neck and stared at me. I stared back. “You’re in my shirt,” I said as I gently lifted her out, held her in my arms, and started walking over to the rain shelter.

The rain stopped hitting me, of course, the moment I was in motion. Or I stopped getting wet. “I’ve known you for decades, and that still creeps the hell out of me,” Walmajarri said as he trotted over to my side, leading a pack of cubs.

The shelter was, in the opinion of everybody who worked at Legacy, far better suited for thylacine pups than outside, at least in terms of climate, but it was fairly small. Walmajarri went through the (enlarged) cat flap installed, and I went through the door. Twenty pups squeezed in after me. Inside, in a display of true incoherence, it was a warm sunny day. I sprawled out on a rock to enjoy myself, and the pups crawled all over me (of course).

Then the power went out. Electric, arcane, everything. The sunlight vanished, the dehumidifier powered down, and the little environmental monitoring unit on the wall went out. Walmajarri growled under his breath. “That isn’t supposed to happen.”

A crack of thunder sounded outside, rattling the windows, and the pups attempted to burrow under anything available, which included the both of us.

It turns out that young thylacines run an uncomfortably warm body temperature.


Those Who Walk sometimes think they are invulnerable to the wrath of Nature. We are not. Time has no hold upon us, but when we are confined to an area, we can thirst or starve.

And we can freeze.

My body temperature has been steadily dropping for the past twelve hours. Examination of the spatial characteristics of my environment lead to the conclusion that some sort of disturbance in the local space-time fabric has occurred. In such a scenario, we are understandably low priority, given our distance from the main compound and our small numbers.

In the morning, Walmajarri and I shall attempt to ascertain what has happened.

Debate Round No. 2


But again, that’s all spoiler material, as much as I hate to sound like a broken record. Anyway.

Don’t worry, Dr. Bruce. I’ll keep it short. In the summer of 1979, I went to Las Vegas with my parents to celebrate my birthday. Sure, I wasn’t allowed to drink yet, but I was determined, and begged - or really, ordered - my parents to take me. And they did.

We drove there, all the way from Beverly Hills. My parents still had a bizarre fetish for driving themselves everywhere in their prized convertible, bought at the behest of my mother. I didn’t mind, of course. I loved the feeling of riding in that car, the wind from driving whipping hair around my face, the sun reflecting off my larger-than-life sunglasses and perfect tan on my teenage skin.

Hey, what’s that one song that came out, oh...eight years ago or so? I heard it so much on the radio here. You know, the one that goes, Beverly Hills, that’s where I want to be! Yeah, if that song was around back then, I’d be blaring it from the radio of that car. It would have been my anthem.

Not anymore, of course.

But where was I? Yes, yes, I know you, Doctor. You’re probably chuckling softly to yourself in your La-Z Boy chair, or on your couch (do psychologists see the irony in having couches to lay on in there own homes?), or wherever. You know I’m a rambler, and I can go off on tangents easily. I remember asking you about that. I said, “Dr. Bruce, you’re a psychologist. Do you have the faintest clue about why I go off on tangents so much?” Do you remember what you said?

You looked at me with the cleverest little smirk on your face, and said jokingly, “Haven’t a clue. It’s one of the greatest mysteries of psychology.” I remember you looked a little bit sad though when you said it; even with my age, I noticed it. Maybe you did have a clue, I don’t know. Maybe you’d say, “It’s because you don’t want to get to the point. Because the point hurts too much.” I don’t know. But whether it hurts or not, that’s what this tape is all about. The point.

So, let’s get to it.

Like I said, I drove with my parents all the way to Las Vegas: just me and them. And Zech, who, being the love of my life then, rode with me in the backseat of the convertible. I still remember his smile whenever he or I would make a joke, how the white of his teeth would stand out against his thin, but chiseled, tanned face, and how his sea-blue eyes would shine with delight, as though they were laughing along with him.

Of course, it wasn’t just me and my parents and Zech, but I also had a whole limo-full of friends - most of them from the Hills like me, some the children of the old white folks in Century City, all of them rich - following close behind our car as we grand-marshalled Persephone’s Birthday Parade across the Mojave.

If only things could’ve stayed that way. But of course, as all things go in life, something always comes along to screw it all up, and the same was true in the fall of ‘79.

Now, I could describe all the wild escapades that happened in the good ol’ LV, I could. But, a man of your education and expertise in the inner workings of the human psyche can probably take a guess at what a bunch of spoiled, naive, and stupid late teens like us would be doing in a city so full of sin and glamor like Las Vegas. The short, couth answer? Foolishness. The long, crude answer? I won’t even bother. Let’s leave the details to your beautifully imaginative mind, Doctor. However, there was one detail that I can’t leave to your imagination. One that I’ve gone over with you, and one that I need to tell if I’m ever going to actually finish telling you why I’m leaving New York.

Late into the trip, literally the day before we were all to pack up and leave, I found myself in need of funds to gamble some more at Caesar’s Palace, our hotel. After a few minutes of badgering my father for money, he finally caved in and we both made our way down to the lobby to withdraw the maximum - only the best for Princess Persephone - from the ATM. While dad was working the machine, my captors burst through the door and into the lobby. There were three - two younger men with guns, and an old, large fellow with nothing but a cigar - and they all wore suits. Being the naive little child of the Hills that I was, I had no inclination that these men were mafiosi. The whole idea of the mafia to me was just something that existed solely within movies, within the dreamland of Hollywood.

But regardless of what I thought, these men were the genuine article, real live mafia men. And they were here to take what they could from the Palace as they yelled “All right, everybody, you know the drill. Get down!” My father, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, complied, and ushered me to do so too. Seeing the guns, I really didn’t have a choice, and I followed his lead.

A couple of security guards emerged, pistols in hand, as though just having the guns wouldn’t require them to actually fire. This mistake was fatal as I, with my face to the ground, heard the loud pops from the mafiosi’s guns. I gasped audibly. After a few moments, and hearing the men’s shoes clack on the marble floor with a purpose, I dared to look up. The two guards lay on the ground, one sprawled on the ground like a ragdoll, clearly dead. The other was curled up in the fetal position, gripping his stomach, as blood cascaded between his fingers. He’d soon be joining his brother-in-arms at the Pearly Gates, I knew that too. Then, noticing one of the men’s heads turning toward me, I quickly put my own back down.

The wait was agonizing, even though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes as one man robbed the ATMs by smashing them, stepping right over us in the process, another took cash from the nearest chip exchange window in the casino area, and the last stood guard. I wondered to myself why they were doing this, when I realized: this was about sending a message to the right people, not about getting money. Money was cheap.

And it was at about this time that I quickly felt a cold hand grip the scruff of my neck and pull me up to a kneeling position. Turning my eyes upward, I saw that it was one of the younger men with a hold on me, who had slicked back hair. The older man stood in front of me, smoking that awful smelling cigar. As I felt something like rope being wound around my wrists in front of me, the old man spoke in a slow, measured voice, but quiet so that only my father could hear him before he started to protest:

“Mr. Young, you’re quite the prolific man of business, so I’m sure you can forgive us when I tell you that us taking your daughter is just business. Don’t worry. You’ll get her back safe and sound in no time.” He turned to everyone in the lobby, speaking loud enough now for everyone to hear him. It was then that I noticed Zech, laying on the floor on the other side of the lobby, looking dead into me eyes with fear, and love. “We have this man’s daughter, and if the police are sent after us, we will end her life. So please remember that, and choose your next few moves wisely. Let’s go, boys. Ms. Young.”

And with that, my nightmare began as I was led out the door and into the trunk of the most beautiful lime green Cadillac I ever saw, then and now. It was hellish in that dark, cramped trunk, and I was so scared I couldn’t even move or speak, or scream. Luckily, the money wasn’t dumped in there with me, so I had some room to breath, and I placed my cheek against the quasi-carpeted floor of the trunk, trying to comfort myself.

And before I knew it, I was asleep. Funny how when your entire world falls to Hell and your life is in danger, the mind is so quick to shut down. Maybe to try and ignore. To forget. Either way, I was knocked out, and thank God for that.


June 19, 2013 – Californian Legacy Facility:

Today I emerged into a world transformed. Birds were singing in the trees, which grew from a bed of smooth, brightly-colored glass pebbles, covered in a few centimeters of water. Fish darted among the pebbles, with strange chiming noises. Something large and bat-like flew overhead. “Well?” Walmajarri called from inside the dome.

“We have gone through a Way,” I said in amazement. This was not supposed to happen. Gods could not go through Ways, they were tied to the land that they had sprung from… but then again, Walmajarri was where the thylacines were. “And before you object, take a look and tell me what you think.” He trotted out and shivered a bit, then scratched his left ear with his left hind leg.


“That would seem to cover it.” Our voices echoed through the verdant forest. The trees broke through the clouds above and scraped the ceiling of the sky. Still, sunlight came through, warming my skin. My mind came alive with energy. I felt rejuvenated. “Fairly close to your home universe, from the looks of things. I’ll explore, see if I can find any hints to where we are. I think it would be best if you stay here.”

The Ravelwoods are truly vast. Few places are as large, or as varied. In the Ravelwoods, it is said, one can find their truest hopes and their darkest fears, often within the same day. A million civilizations of a trillion species. Wonders beyond number and beyond words. Paradise for a wanderer. Some faiths hold that souls go to the Ravelwoods upon death, to become plants, or wildlife, or, if they were very virtuous, wanderers.

From the beginning, I suspected that we had traveled to the Ravelwoods somehow. I can feel the nature of a universe, and the Ravelwoods feel like endless wonder and old lemons. Really old lemons. That isn’t uncommon, though.

My suspicions were confirmed as I dropped down from a tree into a crouch and found myself before a ruined city. Moss-covered pyramids of roughly hewn dark gray stone towered above even the trees. The Tower of Babel could not compare.

Few things are as majestic as the cities of the Asiri.

To enter the cities of the Asiri and not be considered greviously impolite, one must follow protocol. First, one uses a walking stick, if one has the capability, to smite the end upon a small plate of metal with a carving of the sun, with rays protruding. A loud sound like that of a bell being rung shall fill the air, and then one announces themselves in a rather ritualistic manner. Then the Asiri grant entry—possibly.

“I am Peristrixalo, One Who Walks, of Falyx!” I shouted at the silent, ruined towers. “God-Friend, Book Finder, and Member of the Serpent’s Hand! I request entrance to your fair city! If any would speak against me, let them speak now!” Again, I banged the branch I had gotten off the ground on the metal plate. A few seconds passed. Only the echo of the bell could be heard.

Then, the air around the towers shimmered in purple and blue, a minature aurora. Ages were undone, before my eyes, in seconds. The towers lost their moss, became finer in form, became bright and polished. Monuments made of living, carved trees formed, turning from dirt to rotting timber to fresh, well-maintained wood. Many of the larger and rougher glass pebbles formed themselves into sculptures of glittering, multicolored transparent glass, shot through with glowing lines. And before me formed a portal like the film of a soap bubble, swirling with wild translucent color.

I stepped forward into a city, and backwards into the past.

Unknown Time, But Certainly Long Ago – The City of the Asiri:

The Asiri are not very friendly. They are benign, but as they live outside of normal time, visitors are generally seen as wasting resources. Even communication is viewed as something to avoid unless necessary. Therefore, I expected to be escorted by armed guard to their leader.

“A fair complaint,” I acknowledged, dipping my head in respect. “I recognize that my admittance has been somewhat taxing to some of your people. You are not used to strangers, though you have heard of much of where I am from and what I have been involved in.” Inter-universal politics was a surprisingly small world, and the Asiri had been around for millenia of their time, with access to information from almost any time. “I believe, however, that I may be able to compensate for the effort that has been exerted upon my behalf.”

“Something brought not only myself here, but a building, and a friend.” I folded my hands in front of me. “That friend is a god, from Earth. That Earth. Anything capable of transferring such an entity here, I presume, would be of interest to you. I propose an expedition. Let me use your resources to determine how to reverse the process, and I’ll give you the key. I’d venture a guess that it will make the process by which you keep your city isolated much more efficient.”

Debate Round No. 3


When I woke, I found myself being pulled out of the trunk that was my comfort, and would soon be my Hell. I swiveled my head upward as it happened, and saw that it was the third man - Jimmy, as I would soon know him to be - who was lifting me out of the trunk.

“Get on the ground, Princess,” he said gruffly. But as I looked at him, I realized that he had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen, even if it was for just a split second. Knowing that I saw - at least, I think he knew - Jimmy quickly turned his head away, staring across the desert as if to find a solution to whatever emotional dilemma he had out there, in the open air. Poor guy. Thinking back, now that I’ve been delivered from it all, I don’t really blame him at all. He didn’t want to do what he did, that much is obvious when I think about it.

Of course, I never thought I would forgive him. “It doesn’t matter whether he wanted to or not, he did it, and that’s all that matters.” But when you get to be my age, you start to understand people a little bit better. You start to see yourself in their shoes, and learn that, yes, you being held at gunpoint is a fairly acceptable excuse to do damn near anything. But I digress.

In any event, I found myself kneeling on the side of that dirt road, when the old man - Boss - told Mr. Slickback-Hair - Johnny - to let me go. If anything, he was a man of his word.

You have to admire a man of his word.

But then Johnny began arguing with him, saying to keep me, talking about the ransom they could reap from keeping me. Boss shrugged him off, and then...well...

You know what happened. Johnny didn’t respond well. Not. At. All.

I’ll spare the gory details this time, don’t worry. You already know them, I assume. But I will say, it was oddly beautiful, seeing the red splatter against the lime green. Disturbing, obviously. It clearly screwed me up for a good thirty years. But there was something disquietingly beautiful about the whole thing, I must say.

It was here when I really got screwed up, when I was put back in the trunk with the corpse that was once Boss, as blood that seeped from his wounds started to slowly drip down onto my skin. My eyes were closed, as I couldn’t bear to look at this horrible...thing. I just couldn’t.

But then I did.

And what I saw was what really screwed it all up for me, I think. That was what made me start to implode on myself, what made me get disowned from the family (with trust fund in tow, luckily) only a year after. That was what made it impossible to obey my perfect family’s orders for me to become a perfect little girl once again. That’s what made me run to New York City, hoping to escape. That’s what I couldn’t escape, not until tonight. I hope.

When I opened my eyes, I found them looking into Boss’. Those cold, cold eyes. Not his fault of course. He was dead. But they stared at me like brown, cold marbles, his face contorted into some bizarre grin of shock, and possible relief at death.

I wonder whether everyone finds death to be a relief. Who knows? I guess the dead do. Either way, I may find out soon enough. Spoilers.

I...I know Boss wasn’t a cold heart. But those eyes. Those...

I’m sorry, Dr. Bruce. I have to stop for a moment.

Then I’ll finish my story and send this puppy to you, I swear. I just can’t handle dragging on and on. The point hurts too much.

Just, please.

A moment.


Citrakayah forfeited this round.
Debate Round No. 4


Okay. I’m okay. I can finish. But quickly, Doctor.

Yes, I know it wasn’t much of an exhilarating story. And believe me, it should have been a bit more epic than it was. But I didn’t realize how much the wound is still fresh. Maybe I’m not delivered after all. But I’ll find that out later.

Anyway, let’s wrap it up.

After my father, as Johnny had predicted, paid a large ransom for my release, I remember that for the first few days, maybe even a week or two, my entire family, and all my friends, all acted as though they cared. They gave me the illusion that everything would be all right. That they somehow understood what I went through.

I should have known better though than to believe that a bunch of rich kids from the Hills, or Century City, would have any idea about being stuck in a trunk with a rotting corpse for hours on end. Or being tied to a chair in a dark basement, a single lightbulb hanging down, Johnny pacing back and forth waiting for a phone call from my father. Or having the oily barrel of a gun stuck in your mouth, the holder giggling malevolently. A dark look in his eye.

I should have known that the only person who could understand what I went through was myself. The only person who could fully comprehend that dark look in his eye is the person who would return it, barrel in his mouth.

Oh, but I spoiled it, didn’t I?

Let me just explain then how I got there. After that brief hiatus of understanding, everyone that I knew suddenly grew tired of my “issues.” They always said that word like that, with that sense of dismissal, as though it were just a small thing. “An issue.”

An issue indeed.

Eventually, after, oh...two years or so, at last, they had enough. I left the Hills. Or really, I should say my father “asked,” me to leave, reminding me that “my trust fund would always be there.” I took the message easily enough. I packed up my things, and then came to New York City. I wanted to get as far away as I could.

But the City was not kind to me, as you know. Drugs, alcohol, anything to dull the pain of the point, to help me forget the stench of the body, the taste of the oily barrel. All the while, I jumped from psychologist to psychologist, the only good decision I’d say I made during that period. Of course, all those other bad decisions probably overrode the good one. Hence the jumping around.

And it just so happened that I was delivered when I was working with you. It actually was just yesterday when it happened, only an hour after our afternoon session. I got a call here at my rundown apartment. My heart leapt when I heard his voice.


Even though he was nearly 30 years older, I still recognized him. He said he didn’t have time to explain, but he needed me to get to an address. I drove there in my rundown car. Turned out to be a warehouse. Totally empty.

Except for Zech.

And him.


I should have known. Zech was the only one who cared about me the entire time. Even then. I was dumbfounded. Zech said he had connections, that I could finally be rid of this “curse” - his word - once and for all.

I had no clue how he knew so much; maybe he did have connections after all. Either way, he looked at me with those skyblue eyes glinting as he held the gun toward me. The rest was a blur, as I knelt down next to the tied up man, looked him in the eyes with my now dark eyes, and then red sprayed out the back of his head a moment later as the gun roared. I smiled at Zech when it was over, but he didn’t smile back. He just stared, dumbfounded himself. As though he wouldn’t have expected that from me for some reason. Maybe I enjoyed it too much. At that point I realized, my one last friend in the world was gone.

Well, except for you.

And the gun.

And so, Doctor, that’s why I’m leaving. I hear that my aunt is still alive, living in Carson City. By the time you hear this, I’ll be driving there. Hopefully I’ll make it there.


But I want you to know that I still have one bullet with me. I’ve decided that if I am not delivered, if at any time I have one more nightmare about him, I will use it. On myself. I just wanted you to know, so you wouldn’t blame yourself. I hope you don’t, or won’t, as the case might be.

I need to do this though, Doctor. I need to see if I’m delivered. I have nothing left, except maybe my aunt.

And you of course.

Wish me luck, Doc. I hope I make it.

But, we’ll see.


Citrakayah forfeited this round.
Debate Round No. 5
11 comments have been posted on this debate. Showing 1 through 10 records.
Posted by orangemayhem 4 years ago
You guys should publicise this; it's a really great debate. If I weren't in the tournament, I'd vote.
Posted by Citrakayah 4 years ago
Thylacines are Tasmanian tigers.
Posted by TUF 4 years ago

Here is the book I read that this reminds me of, that I was referring to in my RFD video.
Posted by TUF 4 years ago

Here is the book I read that this reminds me of, that I was referring to in my RFD video.
Posted by TUF 4 years ago
I go into a lot more detail in the video. Great writing debate guys, thanks!
Posted by Citrakayah 4 years ago
Interesting fact, I literally missed my posting turn by a second. Not that it matters; I forfeited a round and what I had for this round wasn't fantastic.
Posted by Citrakayah 4 years ago
Into my college dorm, I mean.
Posted by Citrakayah 4 years ago
My apologies. I've been moving in and haven't had time to write.
Posted by DetectableNinja 4 years ago
CORRECTION: In the first line of my R3 post, it should be the FALL of 1979, not SUMMER.
2 votes have been placed for this debate. Showing 1 through 2 records.
Vote Placed by thett3 4 years ago
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Reasons for voting decision: Well unfortunately the forfeit made this decision pretty clear as Cons wasnt completed. I read both of the stories as one entire piece (Pros R2-5 all at once, then Cons R2 and 3) and I have to say I probably would've voted Pro anyway. I thought both were good works but I personally found DNs to be more engrossing. I guess I'm a big fan of introspective stories like Pros. I also thought Pro did a really neat job of characterization. Even if psychiatrists and the long lasting trauma of the kidnapping were never mentioned, the shaky mental state of the heiress is extremely clear, well done.
Vote Placed by TUF 4 years ago
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Reasons for voting decision: RFD in video, and in google docs. Both located in comments. Thanks for the amazing writing debate guys!