Chosen One Ephant Mon

Thanks guys, I'm glad you enjoyed it and tolerated my meta-ness.

Chosen One Ephant Mon coughed miserably as he lay dying in his hospital bed. The nurse had called in his loved ones for one last visit but he shooed them away and went back to badgering her for the WiFi password. Suddenly his generic fatal condition seized him with a final throe, and he knew it was the end. As he slowly closed his eyes and exhaled for the last time, he regretted more than anything that he hadn't posted more on Jedi.net... COEM always thought the next time he opened his eyes he'd be at the pearly gates of the Hall of Fame, but to his disappointment he awoke still in his hospital room. "What gives?" he thought, confused. "Where's Anniekins? Where's hudkina? I thought I would get to see kyoo!" But then it hit him that this was a good thing. It gave him a second chance at life. "Yes!" COEM exclaimed joyfully. "I still have time!" Beaming, he looked around for his laptop and even thought of the perfect thing to post in the ABCs of Harry Potter. He spotted it resting on the adjacent table, but when he reached for it his hand passed clear through. "Shit." He didn't have time to fully consider the metaphysical implications of his ghosthood, but as soon as he realized his bed shouldn't be supporting him at all he began floating up to the ceiling. From above COEM stared down at his lifeless body and lamented what a poor bastard he had been. Then, suddenly, the scene dissolved before his eyes and he found himself soaring through a rush of time and space, and his ghostly intuition told him he could visit any time and place he desired. "Where would you like to go?" a booming voice asked. "Your funeral?" "No," COEM replied. "There's only one place I want to go." COEM closed his eyes once more, and when he opened them he was on the set of a popular daytime talk show featuring a panel of five politically and racially diverse women. "I, uh, don't watch The View...just to be clear,”

Yeah, I think I would have felt the exact same way...I'd be much more frustrated if I got so close and fell just short. If you're going to miss, at least you didn't get to quite that level of emotional investment. Plus with the retreat it sounds like you had really good and understandable reasons for not doing it, so it's not a case of you just straight-up failing. I guess what's good about this whole thing is that even if you fall short, it still gets you writing. And now you've produced something, no matter how long it is, that has value outside of the context of the contest. If it's something you really like, then you've got characters, a general plot, and a solid start for a work you can continue and bring to fruition, contest or no. And even if not, at least it's practice.

Oops! Accidental double post, feel free to delete.

No worries man, I totally understand. To be honest I think the second part is in need of some work, but I hope it still entertains. This one is more about setting up the larger story so there are some necessary evils, but ones that could still use polishing. Unfortunately I haven't had time to spare on this project lately, but I hope to pick it back up again over the holidays. I still think the general arc I have planned is a pretty interesting one so hopefully it's just a matter of getting there and refining some of the rougher bits. EDIT: Okay, as you might tell from the 40+ edits , I spent some time going back over and cleaning it up, so hopefully it's a bit improved.

You are reading it right. Mother of sons! That is prodigious. The last bar in your graph looks Barry Bonds steroid inflation-esque. Regardless of quality, just churning out that many characters in a day is pretty astounding. Well done and congratulations!

December 1st. Did anybody make it?

Part II. New Hampshire's changing foliage always boasted nature's beauty, but the fall it enjoyed now was impossibly scenic. A crisp cool air had arrived in early September, and for several weeks this pocket of New England hung in a state of idyllic autumn: faint winds animated the oaks and elms with a titillating rustle as their leaves traded colors to complete the living tapestry before descending. People of the area remarked what an exceptional fall they were having, especially in towns bordering the forests where they witnessed its beauties at every turn. Whether the weather was sole contributor or there were others to go with it, New Hampshirites felt a peaceful security in those pleasant weeks, though it went beyond merely that. It was nothing that broke the flow of daily life ”“ work, school, and all regular activity proceeded as they always did ”“ but they felt something else, something they could not quite put a finger on and would have struggled to articulate if they had tried. They hardly noticed it in themselves, but they all shared the same unconscious feeling that the fall paradise they were experiencing was the way things were meant to be, and really could be no other way. It was not just good ”“ it was right. But paradise broke in mid-October when out of New Hampshire came a story that caused news cycles to erupt worldwide. For New Hampshirites it must have jarred all the more against the backdrop of a perfect autumn, but the world joined with them in shock when it was reported one Sunday afternoon that the great Charles Branson was dead. Mr. Branson, 64, was killed in an automotive accident six miles from his Rochester home. He had, of course, gained world renown seven years earlier when, after a sensational period of speculation that captivated the globe, it was discovered that Mr. Branson had authored The Proof that demonstrated once and for all the truth of God's existence. There was nothing particularly unusual about Mr. Branson's accident; there was no evidence of foul play and it was only one of more than a hundred auto fatalities in New Hampshire that year (including several during that "rightful" autumn). But something about his death shook people deeply and unsettled them in a way they did not expect. Not only the locals of New Hampshire but people across the world, all of whom knew of the most famous Charles Branson, were struck by the inexpressible sense that what happened that day was wrong ”“ as if his death threw something out of balance or broke some tacit promise about the way things were going to be. This was not supposed to happen ”“ not to him, and certainly not like this. As the world reacted in stunned mourning it seemed that along with Mr. Branson died an unspoken hope ”“ of what exactly nobody knew, but everybody felt. News reporters, political commentators, leading intellectuals, and heads of state all paid tribute to Mr. Branson that night, and they all said virtually the same thing. He was a man of unparalleled genius, the greatest thinker of our time and possibly all times, who had solved life's greatest riddle and most important question. Religious leaders said he was God's instrument to declare his presence and glory into the last frontier of revelation: human reason. His proof realized the dream of a world where God was certain, and every man, woman, and child on earth was indebted to him for the new enlightened age we inhabit today. The story stopped all other news as cable networks launched around-the-clock coverage of Charles Branson: his life, his work, and his death. Broadcasts played reactions from famous figures across the globe who eulogized him as a peerless titan of intellect whose impact and legacy were impossible to overstate. But over all this hung the disquieting cloud that people from New Hampshire to New Guinea felt in his passing. As his home state mourned its favorite son and the world its epochal father, and sensing this unease (for they felt it in themselves), many anchors consoled their viewers with the clever fact that thanks to the genius of the man who found God, we could rest safe in the certain knowledge that he was sitting with him now. * * * The committee agreed unanimously to award first prize to the proof of God, though they had no idea whom to award it to. But the contest became trivial after that rapturous night of discovery. Mr. Branson and the committee knew they had a find of unprecedented magnitude and they spared no time in telling everyone they knew. In those chaotic first days the news spread rapidly in academic circles as committee members took the paper to their friends and colleagues, not to corroborate what they believed ”“ of its soundness they were completely convinced ”“ but because they burst with excitement over what it meant, and they simply had to share it. The remarkable thing was that it struck every person just as it had Mr. Branson and the committee that night. When the news outlets quickly caught wind and the buzz ballooned into global sensation, renowned skeptics went on record expressing their doubts. But once confronted with the proof for themselves, they could only submit along with everyone else to the staggering force of its truth ”“ it was so clear, so simple, so self-evident that the most astonishing thing was that nobody had thought of it sooner. Within a week the news had ignited the globe. The religious rejoiced that they had been right and the irreligious found that they had been wrong, but all this was dwarfed by a universal awe in the stark truth that God was real and this proof had made it certain. It was instantly hailed as greatest intellectual achievement in history, settling the deepest mystery since antiquity and resolving what this world was really all about. In the immediate glow there was not even much debate about which God it was. Everyone agreed on the implications: there was now hope in death, purpose in life, and assurance that the evils and ills of the world would be rectified. The Pope called it evidence of Christ and the Dalai Lama claimed it for Buddha, but to most it did not matter. This was good news, the best news, and those were quibbles meant for another time. These vulgar questions of a quiet few sank beneath the rousing admiration for this lofty human triumph that would surely change everything. But even the world-altering implications of this discovery failed to arrest the world like the mystery of its author. The certainty of God was astounding, and people were just beginning to wrap their minds around it. But more astounding was the fact that whoever wrote this history-rocking paper had dropped it anonymously into an essay contest at a small philosophy journal. Its stealthy deposit excited imaginations and set off wild speculation, especially when people learned of its one simple tag: ”œFor Your Consideration.”

This is an awesome idea. I wish I could participate but November happens to be possibly my busiest month (until Thanksgiving at least). I do have a novel idea I've been kicking around for a while so I'd love to try this next year as my schedule should be significantly different. I'd have to let go of some inhibitions though; I am a very slow writer. I don't do "drafts" of anything -- I just turn over a sentence fifty times and fifty ways and don't move on until I'm satisfied (I'm talking about school papers, let alone the, like, two creative things I've ever written). Can make for an arduous process and it's problem let to many wasted hours but I'm slightly perfectionist that way I guess. It would be fun to pound away at the keyboard though and just create in a stream-of-consciousness way knowing and accepting that I'll have to go back to clean it up. On the face of it though this sounds seriously daunting to someone of my usual pace so major props and mad respect for you all for undertaking it. Without meaning to impinge on this thread as a non-participant (this year at least), let me just wish you guys good luck. I look forward to reading your updates.

Wow, thanks, Tiana! You rock. I didn't think of it standing on its own because of how the larger idea was conceived, but hopefully by taking things in what (I hope) proves to be an unexpected direction will alleviate some of those concerns. It's awesome to hear that the "punch" I was going for was effective. Like you said, I'm sure it could use some editing and rounding out and I'm open to critiques and suggestions (from anybody) for improvement here as well as throughout the rest of the story. Your feedback has been great, so thanks for commenting, guys.

Wow, thanks, guys. You're awesome. I enjoyed reading your experiences with Philosophy BS, LAP. As one finishing a degree in the field myself I've run into a lot of this, especially over the last year. Throughout its history there have been strides made by figures of pure genius whose contributions were nothing short of monumental, but much vaster is the wasteland of false profundity. Mr. Branson is not meant to be overly sympathetic as he is incredibly high on himself, but those moments where you roll your eyes at frivolous arguments that matters much less than its proponents would have you believe is certainly something I've experienced and I'm glad (though sorry to hear, for your sake) that you could relate to it as well. Also very cool that the "ah-ha!" moment conjured up memories of learning Aquinas. Awesome stuff. I know what you mean about the sense of excitement when perceiving clearly for the first time some brilliant concept, though obviously in this fictional scenario, given the significance, it's to be even more magnified.

Part I. The distinguished Mr. Branson fidgeted with impatience as the daylong session of reviewing manuscripts was crawling to a close. Mr. Branson chaired the review committee for the Logos philosophy journal's essay contest, which received dozens of submissions annually from both respected scholars and precocious students. Though he publicly touted the virtues of the journal's contest as kindling and rewarding outstanding scholarship from entrants of any academic standing, the practical execution of his duties ”“ hours spent poring over texts from aspiring ”œthinkers”

Thanks for the feedback, Tiana and Andon. I know it's difficult to do with such little context but your insight is appreciated. Just to provide you with a little more background, the project was actually intended as a 24 fan fiction (so yes, Jack = Jack Bauer) but one different from the show's formula of shoot-em-up, mile-a-minute thriller and instead was to be a pretty intimate psychological piece with something of a noir feel (so I am glad you sensed that). It's a bit ironic that the paragraphs I posted overshadowed the character with descriptions because almost right after I cut off the excerpt is where there is a serious perspective shift and a fair bit of the story going forward is driven by his inner monologue (so your concerns about the importance of character are not lost on me ). It does help to know where I get bogged down in the style in places so thank you for that...I am trying to cure myself of a chronic case of verbosity. I was happy to see these comments because it let me know that something I was aiming for stylistically was actually working. Though the story wasn't zombies or an actual "other world," that slight sense of surreality is something I was trying to work throughout. Jack's arc was to have him come to question some long-held beliefs and struggle to determine what in his life was actually true and real, so painting the scenes with impressionistic swaths for a certain descriptive fluidity was to reflect the running theme of an unstable reality. Yes, actually! About a paragraph later. Thanks! I have about 3500 more words of this story but I abandoned it at two installments because the logistics just weren't working. Maybe I'll return to it eventually...I would have liked to work it out because I was really taken up with the "big idea."

What do you enjoy the most, or find most difficult? Landing that initial premise? Outlining or digging deeper to find the key strokes of plot, character, theme, etc.? Writing and stylizing the actual text? Just curious how you guys operate, what part of the process you like most, and where you may tend to experience the most hang-ups.

From The Third Policeman:

A story I started long ago but will surely never finish.

Wow man, thanks for the detailed reply and high praise! I'm glad you got a kick out of it. I've read some of your and others' satires and always enjoyed them greatly...I am actually in the process of writing a serious (N-SW) short story but yesterday afternoon just felt like I had to blow off some steam. Plus, as I discovered when doing my Arrested Development crossover fic way back when, writing parody/satire is just more fun. Travis's idea of further installments is intriguing...I seriously doubt I would be able to churn out pieces on any kind of consistent schedule, but this site provides enough material that there may be room for more "confessions" yet. Thanks for the encouragement, everybody. No problem, dude...I would be remiss if I wrote a fic about monster post counts and didn't at least mention the title-holder. Okay, that? Is hilarious. P.S. I was hoping I wasn't the only one who found that funny.

We don't, but them Aussies certainly do. Great short, though I don't think that is quite worthy of a rated R label (unless you are adding more which I would like). Thanks, man. You're right, I was trying to be safe but in looking over it against it's probably no worse than PG-13 (I just edited accordingly). I don't have any immediate plans to add more but I may if I happen to stumble upon some further inspiration.

Thanks man! Thanks for being a good sport, I'm glad you didn't mind me using your likeness. And I'm glad you enjoyed it. And Mael, I'll take your word for it, though I still have my suspicions.

"Son of a shit!" exclaimed Chosen One Ephant Mon. "What's wrong, dude?" Sasori asked while dropping 21 posts in the time it took to speak that sentence. "Oh, nothing man...I just noticed Travis has more posts in User Comments than I've made in the last three years." "Damn, man," said Sasori. "Still, that's not that so surprising, is it? I mean, you're never around and he's posting like it's the Space Race." "Yeah, I know, it's just...I don't know," COEM replied with a sigh. After a moment's thought he added, "Hey...can I tell you a secret?" "Of course, brother." "Well, here's the thing...yeah, I don't post much and I know I say it's because I'm busy, but really, I'm lurking all the time. I only don't post because a lot of the time I can't rally up the confidence. I see these rock stars with ungodly post counts and sometimes I feel like I don't measure up, you know?" COEM paused, clearly depressed. He was silent for a few seconds before continuing. "I don't know, maybe I should just stop coming to sites like this. I think I may be developing a complex or something. There are all these guys who are huge posters and it probably skews my perception of what is average. Plus, I don't know why, but I feel like it's leading me into moral degradation. So I don't have the biggest post count...that's okay, isn't it? I always try to make them count with my charm and wiles. It's not about how much you post, but how you post, right?" "Hell no," said Sasori. "But short of increasing your count artificially, you can only work with what you've got. You could try to make it bigger through natural enhancement but I'm not sure if that will be effective given the kinds of results you want. So you'll probably just have to compensate for it in other ways." "But how?" COEM wondered in despair. "That quality over quantity shit won't work. LAP has more posts than anyone, yet he challenged me once to find even five of his that were post inflation. And I had to give up! Dude is a f***ing factory powered by the everlasting fires of Hell. How am I supposed to compete with that? How the hell am I supposed to spread my wings?" "Your species isn't fitted with wings," interjected Aryian Darkfire, surprising everybody by his presence. "Dumbo only achieved flight due to his massive oriculae." Sasori saw that COEM's cyber life would forever amount to nothing but a string of lonely nights and bitter disappointments, and he took pity on him by spewing bullshit. "If it makes you feel any better dude, Brendo's post count is not what it seems. They've got different units of measurement down there or something." "Really?" COEM perked up, surprised and slightly comforted. "For, like, natural numbers even?" "Uh...yeah man," said Sasori. "Like Canadian dollars. You can never trust that shit." COEM felt a little bit better and began coming to peace with his situation. To prove to himself that he could rise above all that, he viewed the site Memberlist and sorted the users by Top Ten Posters in descending order. This proved to be a serious step backwards for his progress. "Hey, Sasori," COEM began while eying the list enviously, "you know I would never go after you, but do you think there's any way I might get some of these top posters deleted? I could, I dunno, send naked pictures to admins or something? I feel like this course of action, or a situation similar to it, might get someone deleted." "I don't know man, are you sure you want to do that?" Sasori cautioned. "Naked pictures? Wouldn't that expose, y'know...what you're feeling self-conscious about?" "What? No!" COEM cried. Sasori was confused. "What the hell have we been talking about?"

I just read this. Pretty great stuff. Your vision of the alternate JNet is chill-inducing. And I can't think of a better Clarence than FARLEY BOBA.

Pretty cool idea, Sasori. Are you recreating the PT from scratch or keeping the characters and events the same and simply writing better drafts of the scripts?

I agree that it depends on the context and the primary litmus test is probably congruity with the narrative as a whole. You don't want it to ring false of the created world. For example, if the work is instilled with debates/hints/themes of God or the supernatural, even if the existence of those elements hasn't been established as true, it's already in the realm of conversation and the occurrence of a miracle lends support to one side of the debate or it manifests a running theme. That would be more consistent with what's been presented than if a miracle were to conveniently wrap up a very worldly soap opera with no other ties to the themes or drama. Another example might be to have a miracle kick off the narrative and the story could include a honest exploration of some of its repercussions. In this case the truth of the miracle is the very premise and presumption of the story so you are establishing it as a miracle-possible world from the get-go, but that world can still come across as unconvincing if it isn't followed through with a sense of realism in its effects. At the end of the day I think you just want a level of consistency that grounds a sense of unity in the overall work. Of course, part of what makes a miracle a miracle is that it doesn't conform to our familiar regularities, but the challenge of the story is I guess to capture this essence while still being believable in the picture of the world presented.

With his vast knowledge of and tasteful appreciation for all things Dunder-Mifflin, I'd say an original Office project would climb to the top of my must-read list.

Hilarious. You've got a great literary voice. Or at least a funny one.