Yeah! I beat Roger!

Now that that gloating moment is over, time for the official motto:

Don't forget to please refrain from saying anything that might compromise your anonymity. Doing so is grounds for disqualification. It's recommended you do dummy reviews of your own stories should it otherwise be easy to deduce which you wrote.

Good luck to all!

Welcome to this new WriteOff round!

We first would like to remind you that this round is dubbed short story, original fiction. The former means that your story has to be no less than two thousand words, but no more than eight thousand or you will be chastised; the latter, that any world building is accepted, although it is highly recommended you avoid pony stories: while not forbidden per se, their submission can cause at best some reviewers to give them the cold shoulder, at worse a fit of grumpiness. If you intend to write a pony fiction, your best bet is to wait for the next round in three weeks.

We kindly remind you that the prompt “Ot” is not trendy any more: please do not reuse. Also do not enter well-known pseudonyms like “Cassius, Genesis of Rust” that could cause some unrest among the community, for obvious reasons.

Failing to capitalise your prompt will result in some sticklers frowning or browbeating you.

No crud spot on your text will be tolerated. Please wash your hands carefully using soap before setting about writing.

We also remind you that it is strictly forbidden to copy/paste or plagiarise any formerly published short shory/novel, on pain of being immediately spotted by Baal Bunny. No name will be cited, but Dubs you’ve been warned.

As per last round, decking up your fellow writer with a “you’re not a native speaker” is highly discouraged, should your assumption turn out to be false. The WriteOff organisers cannot be liable of any mishap happening to you should you disregard this rule.

Submissions are due Monday, 27th June, 12:05 GMT sharp. Missing that deadline means that you forfeit any right to claim your piece of cake*, and it will be stale when the next round begins.

Finally, don’t forget the usual motto: “Please refrain from saying anything that might compromise your anonymity. Doing so is grounds for disqualification. It's recommended you do dummy reviews of your own stories should it otherwise be easy to deduce which you wrote.”

So now, good luck to all!

---

*Individual arrangements are possible. Please PM RogerDoger and have some cash at hand.

Welcome to this new WriteOff round, this time sponsored by Horizon overseas ltd.

This round, you will have to write about flashy pastel four-legged animals with mane, barrel, and Oxford comma tail, more commonly called “ponies”. Sapient ponies if possible, otherwise dialogues risk being severely limited. Ponies endowed with some magic powers, though this is in no way mandatory. Please consider also pony princesses, it seems they are not enough cared for.

Please submit a reasonable prompt. “Ot” or “The last pony in Equestria” are not reasonable prompts, though the last one may still qualify. Avoid personal references, so “Dubs Rewatcher has a crush on Rarity”, while stating an open secret, has no chance of being picked. Neither has “Hat fantasises on Fluttershy’s butt”.

Please keep your meanderings into this marvellous, enchanted and sugary word between 2,000 and 8,000 words, lest you be unable to submit your prose. Additionally, if you try to cheat the server, we will set off Mr Numbers after you, and he is a redoubtable foe, especially when given a broom to fly with.

Equestria Girls™ fictions are reserved for Oroboro. Please do not impinge on his territory, he has a big blunderbuss he keeps loaded to swoop on offenders.

If you agree to comply, your piece might even been perused and criticised by Cold-in-Gardez®, provided that he’s in good mood. With rotten luck, you get one of my reviews, which admittedly are often shallow and pointless. Your mileage may vary.

As always, your pony story will be read, vetted and trashed by bigwigs, pony experts and other members of the Equestrian society of literature. You are invited to get even with the other contestants’ entries. Remember that disclosing any information regarding your fic before the end of the contest (or the end of the preliminary round if your story does not cut the mustard) is ground for disqualification. As a further punishment, RogerDoger, our ruthless tyrant, will UPS you a fucking ‘roo to give you a hiding. You’ve been warned.

Fancy medals are doled out to the three winners, except if you suffer from tooth cavities. All other partakers are awarded a sop in the form of a cute, swanky ribbon to pin on your room wall.

Now with these words, I wish you a good contest and the very best of luck.

Ehi and welcome to this new WriteOff round!

This message is going to be short… I’ve been kidnapped by changelings…

Keep your pony stories under 750 words or Chrysalis will hex you.
Don’t disclose your identity or Chrysalis will cocoon you.
No fancy prompt or Chrysalis will bug you.
Start your work Saturday 12GMT and submit it by Sunday 12GMT or Chrysalis will bore holes in your exoskeleton.

HELP! HELP! SHE’S COMING…


…

Hello! I’m the new Monokeras… Come here my little contestants, I’m so eager to know you…

Welcome to this new WriteOff™ (please remember WriteOff is a trademark of The RogerDoger company Ltd., established 2013 in Adelaide, Australia. Any trademark violation will be liable to prosecution). This round, taking place just before Halloween™ (Halloween is a trademark of The USA inc. established 1776 in Washington, DC) is sponsored by the Hokey spooky Zoey. Recourse to a ghost writer is tolerated for this event only.

Since last round stood out by the number of very short stories written (barely above 2,000 words), this time the organisation committee has decided to proffer you the chance of expressing your most inner thoughts in less than 750 words (but still more than 400). This round is therefore about Original Fiction Minific, meaning you can write about almost anything that pops up in your mind, from the CETA wet squib to species extinction. You can even slander Theresa May or Donald Trump if you like. No one will judge you, guaranteed.

Prompt submission starts right now, so do not miss this opportunity to have your say. As usual, avoid Ot or A glass full of…. Please refrain from citing real persons in the prompts, like, e.g. Dubs falls in a jar of pickles, how can he escape? or A sweltering summer in Gardez. Shakespearian prompts are allowed by special authorisation from the author, so yeah: Hoisted by their own petard will be accepted.

Prompt voting begins Friday 28th at 12 GMT, and the writing period starts the day after, same hour. Also please note two major events will take place this weekend:

1. EU countries switch back from DST to standard time, so for those in Europe writing period ends one hour sooner than it begins (though that still makes for a 24-hour period);

2. There will be a WriteOff get-together in London to be held from Sunday 12 GMT (also Britain local time) on. If you want to partake in this doozy event, it’s not too late: contact Quill Scratch for any further information.

Now, as usual, the organisation committee wants me to remind you that, during the review phase, you must abide by the most stringent anonymity, meaning that breaching this fundamental rule is ground for disqualification and eternal damnation. Additionally, if you still decide to flout it, we’ll send Oblomov to drum some communist propaganda into your brain, which is way worse for your soul sanity than an eternity in hell. You’ve been warned.

Now, the only thing left for me to say is GOOD LUCK!

You knew it.

You should never have turned left at that crossroads and blindly followed the directions of that fucking GPS. Now you’re crawling along that road – but can it even be called a road? Trail would be more appropriate – while the headlights of your car fail to pierce the dense fog that swathes everything ahead in its grey and smothering embrace.

You stop in the middle of the road and direct your attention to the smartphone that you’ve abandoned on the passenger seat. The screen has gone black. Yet another ominous portent. Feverishly, you grasp it with your right hand, click on the power button, but all that appears is a dumb icon betraying the battery’s demise. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! You’re done for. Your USB charger doesn’t even hitch into the car’s 12V outlet. Game over, you’re lost, and your only tie to the civilised world just gave up on you. In a fit, you toss the phone aside; it rebounds on the seat and flops on to the floor.

What should you do? Go back? Since that kiss-of-death turn, you recall passing several junctions, where other roads came from both left and right. If you drive back, which one should you take? There’s no way to know. No, the best solution is to carry on, hoping that sooner or later you’ll either encounter a bigger road or a house whose owner could help you out of this fix.

You shoot a glance at the fuel gauge. Fortunately, your tank is still quarter-full, so you can go on driving for hours before running out of gas. Mildly reassured, you engage the clutch and bump along the road, where patches of old, dilapidated tarmac alternate with crude, rocky, uneven stretches of raw earth. All around you, the fog builds an impenetrable wall of woolly darkness which blocks both light and sound. Even the onboard radio has given up blaring anything but hiss.



One hour later, you’re still driving along that improbable path. You’re miles ahead now, and have encountered nothing. No house, no oncoming car, not even the fleeting form of a skittish hare. If limbo exists, you’re certainly in the heart of it. It occurs to you that you may be the only living being in a thousand mile radius…

But at that very moment, the fog suddenly clears, and your car tilts slightly up. The road curves and starts to rise, heading to the top of a rocky mound you hadn’t noticed before because of the murkiness. Beyond the ridge, for the first time, you see the night sky, studded with stars. That sudden change perks you up, and with a surge of optimism you trample the throttle, eager to discover what lies behind the crest.

You’re about to reach it when the headlights unexpectedly flicker and die, while the engine lurches and cuts out. Upset and puzzled, you look at the gauge, which stubbornly stands by its former judgment: quarter-full. You jerk the ignition key, once, twice. Nothing. Silence. Not even the rattle of the starter. Yet, the dashboard is alive, so the battery has not failed. What’s going on?

You grasp the torch you store in the glove compartment, set the parking brake, fling the door open and step outside. A bitter cold pounces on you, and you shudder. You are about to switch the torch on when you realise that a dim, eerie glow bathes the ridge, as if something very bright was shining on the other side. Maybe it’s a house? Maybe you’ve finally reached the end of that stupid road, and you’re about to find a village where someone at last will tell you where you’re stranded?

You shuffle up. Your feet crunch on the ground, and you realise the path is covered in a very thin layer of rime. Midways, the beam of your torch picks up an ancient, rundown wooden sign, as those once used to mark the entrances of isolated villages. Curious, you sweep it, and barely make out some letters: w, t, f. The others, illegible, have been weathered away.

Intrigued by this discovery, you stride to the hilltop. Arrived there you freeze, flabbergasted.

In front of you, in the middle of a vast expense of turf that reaches as far as the eye can see, a strange metallic vessel rests, bright coloured light oozing out of all its portholes. A small gangway spans the gap between its bottom and the ground, where a score of people sit, each one in front of a laptop computer, deeply engrossed in an activity you cannot guess. They don’t even look up at you, oblivious to your presence.

You shake your head and blink a few times, to make sure what you behold is real.

It is, undeniably.

You are about to yell something, if only to attract the attention of that strange crowd, when from inside the ship a tall shape silently walks down the gangway and towards you. In the glaring backdrop you cannot see its face, only its silhouette: scraggy and rangy. It appears to wear something on its head, something tall and metallic than glimmers in the twilight. Maybe a pschent?

It is only a few steps away when it stops. It bends his arm and waves his hand, in what you interpret as a sign of peace, and you notice how its pinkie balks at joining its other fingers, as if it was phoney. You venture a feeble “Hello?”. To which the stranger, in a strong Australian accent, tersely replies: “Hi! My name’s Roger Dodger. Wanna write?”

(Edited by Quill Scratch. Thanks ❤️)

“Hello and welcome to Radio Writeoff! I am Calamus Squeak—”
“And I’m OnTheBrim!”
“Today we’ve decided to interview a few writeoff regulars to ask them how they feel about the round which starts off now. Oh gosh I’m so excited about it!”
“Yeah, me too. But let me begin by repeating that this is a minific original fiction round. So 750 words tops and no pony!”
“That's right. You can even write 750 words on how to rightly place a comma in a sentence. So cool!”
“Wow, that looks exciting for sure. That would made for a future top contender—”
“—and the complex and intimate relationship between commas and semicolons! Their interplay, their mating dance as the words deftly and gingerly take their proper position around them, the subtle sound—”
“Okay, okay. I think we got the drift of it. Time to begin with our first guest, BudsRelistener. Hey Buds!”
“Hi there Brimstone!”
“Heh. So what’s your feeling about this new Writeoff Buds?”
“Ominous.”
“Eh? Why's that?”
“Skyline will win again, and I'll finish in the dregs.”
“Skyline always wins OF mini, eh?”
“Skyline is a fucking good writer, yeah. A bloody bastard, but I love him.”
“By the way, he's accepted to join us. Skyline?”
“Yeah? Who's this?”
“It's OnTheBrim. Remember you've accepted to say a few words about this new writeoff, right?”
“Uh. Yeah. I mean—maybe.”
“What's up? You not feeling right?”
"Yeah. I mean… My sleep schedule is fucked.”
“How so?”
“I kept looking for my car all yesterday.”
“Gosh. What happened?”
“Well, I got out with the intention of running an errand but my car wasn't where I'd parked it the night before anymore. Or anyplace else.”
“You called the cops?”
“Yeah, did that and had to walk all day.”
“Did they found it?”
“Well… err… yes and no.”
“Uh?”
“Turned out my car was in the garage. I'd forgotten I'd parked it inside.”
“… Okay… I see. So, anything to tell us?”
“Well, not really. I'm not sure I'll enter. Maybe I'll have time to snatch something of low quality in the last five minutes. I can definitely put up with the bronze this round. Anyways… Yeah. Good luck to Gold for the silver!”
“Oh yeah. Gold for Chavez are you with us?”
“Hey team!”
“How do you feel about that new round?”
“Tough competition expected.”
“You say that each time, but you still manage to get well ahead of the pack. What's your secret?”
“Writing, then writing again and on top of that more writing.”
“I feel we should create a platinum medal especially for you.”
“Don't! Besides, Skyline is ahead of me in the scoreboard.”
“That's true, but it's sorta dead heat. You'd both definitely be eligible to it. Thanks for sharing your thoughts Gold.”
“My pleasure and viva la revolucion!”
"Man, sometimes I imagine Gold as an explorer putting down his memories, much like Colombus. Speaking of which, Calamus, you know how they call Colombus in Spanish, don't you?”
“No.”
“Colón.”
“Oh my god such a gorgeous name! Was his travel punctuated with ellipses as he dashed forward to America?”
“Well I guess that's for you to find out, as elaborating into that fascinating question would drive us into too long a tangent. Next guest is Éclair au Chocolat. Hey Éclair!”
“Speaking. Yes?”
“So how do you feel about the next writeoff.”
“Like a brick. I don't feel. I merely passively register.”
“You know winter has passed, right? Time to shuck that meme off!”
“Bricks disregard seasons. They endure in spring and summer alike. Now I feel like a brick in spring.”
“And what a brick in spring feels like?”
“I don't know. I haven't thought about it yet.”
“But bricks don't think!”
“Who knows? Maybe there are sapient bricks? Maybe they all think but they just can't reach out to us? Maybe… Wow that would made for such a good prompt: ‘Like a Sapient Brick’.”
“Hum, okay… And I suppose if you use sapient bricks you can't complain walls have ears, eh?”
“Wow. Such another good prompt ‘Walls Have Ears’.”
“You know it's a single prompt per entrant. So you'll have to choose.”
“Yeah, I guess I'll toss a brick to decide…”
“Right, good idea, and don't break a window. Last guest is Marett. Hello Marett!”
“Hell… oh! giggles”
“Ahem. How do you feel about this writeoff?”
“All wright off course! giggles”
“Right-o… I think we're running out of time. This is Radio Writeoff signing off. Good luck to all!”

Welcome to this new WriteOff round!. This time, Roger, our enlightened and beloved tyrant (don't forget the $10 you promised me), proposes you a Short story pony contest.

• Short story means a story no less than 2,000 but no more than 8,000 words, unless your nickname is Horizon, you feel happy-go-lucky and you goal is to be admired for your ability to flout the rules;

• Pony should be self-explanatory so let's not lose time writing to much about this, though maybe that's what I'm doing right now, so okay, right, I pack it in. I would just add that you can also write about griffons if you like. Or diamond dogs, if you have anything interesting to say about them. Even Rarity's parents.

Prompt submission starts right away. Don't forget to:

• Capitalise your prompt when necessary, unless you want to attract the ire of said tyrant on you;

• Prompts must be short and not name any character (except Pinkie Pie by special request of Trick Question);

• Rating is T so refrain from any explicit prompt (unless 1. you're Trick Question; or 2. you plan to write a Star Trek crossover where Spock mates with Twilight Sparkle in which case go ahead we lack horror stories);

• ‘Ot’ is Owfully tired (what? I made a mistake? Where?);

• As long as the voting process has not started (see below) you can change your prompt any time by deleting the old one and entering a new.

Prompt submission ends Thursday, 14th (aka Bastille Day) at 12:00 GMT, whereupon the voting process begins.

You are allowed to upvote as many prompts as you deem fit. You can have an idea of how your own prompt fares by clicking on the Prompt submission button.

Prompt voting ends Friday, 15th at 12:00 GMT at which time writing begins. All stories must be checked in Monday, 18th at 12:05 GMT sharp. Late submissions will be spurned and ignored. Be wary of using characters or situations that reference too recent an episode, as many contestants do not watch the show on a per-episode basis. Using misaimed words like ‘anybody’ instead of ‘anypony’ risks you being pigeonholed as a philistine. ‘Anybunny’ is reserved to Angel or Everyday. You have been warned.

To conclude, the usual motto which goes along the lines of “Don't compromise anonymity. Doing so is ground for disqualification and we'll send Majin to fuck you as a complimentary punishment. It is highly encouraged – though in no way compulsory – to write a fake review of your own story.”

Good luck, and don't fret too much: whatever you write, my own entry will be worse, so go ahead.

Hi and welcome to this new WriteOff, which won’t be the last one of 2016, but close.
At least, results will be disclosed around Christmas, so rejoice. The winner might win a Santa’s surprise visit, who knows?

In any case, this round is all about Original Fiction and Short Stories which means that you will have to dig into your mind, try your imagination and cobble out at least 2,000 words – but at most 8,000 – to write out a (success) story happening in any universe you deem exciting enough to get and capture the other readers’ attention. This is a challenge we all hope you’ll feel game to take up.

Ponyverse will be accepted but certainly spurned on. You’ve been warned. If you want to write ponies, hold your horses and wait for the next round.

Christmas-themed stories are accepted. You can even feature magical reindeers that glow in the night (such as those living near Chernobyl).

Writing period extends from Friday 9 12:00 GMT to Monday 12 12:05 GMT. Feel free to submit at the last minute, which is Horizon™ self-admitted speciality, but beware of Internet vagaries, especially DDoS attacks directed against the world-famous WriteOff server you’re currently connected on.

As usual, any direct or indirect disclosure of your identity during the review phase will subject you to the harshest punishment: your story will be disqualified and your name put on the target list for the next rotten-tomatoes-throw party, sponsored by RogerDoger ® and sons, Inc.

Ars gratia artis atque in scripto veritas. Fortuna imperatrix mundi, cave canem et vicinum tuum. Vale!

Celestia strode along the streets. She held her head up, looking at the sky, half-concerned, half-angered. Flat out through the busy boulevards of Canterlot she strode, oblivious to her wings and her magic, and the ponies who stood in her way hopped aside as she dashed past them. They looked confused, or rather frightened, and their gaze went from the sky to her white shape and back, as if silently asking her for a clue that would explain the situation. But she had no definite idea on the matter.

Sure, something was wrong with her sister. Because at ten AM, the Moon should’ve been lowered long ago, and the Sun should be shining instead. But no. The sky was dark, and the Moon hang stock-still overhead, stuck at about the three quarters of its heavenly path. No sign it would move on any time soon.

That didn’t bode well. Could her sister have…

Engrossed in her pondering, she reached the magnificent marmoreal stairs of Canterlot castle’s major entrance. She rushed up as guards bobbed low, stormed into the hall under the inquisitive eyes of the few ponies that stood here – more guards and a handful of visitors. In heavy silence she made her way across them. Their uneasy gazes followed her, until she vanished atop the lofty stairs that led to her sister’s private apartments.

A few turns and corridors, she reached her sister’s bedroom door. She stopped, sighed and pressed an ear against the door.

No audible sound.

She banged at the door. "Luna!” she yelled. “I know you’re here. Open that door, would you? Don’t make me beg.”

There was no response.

“Luna!” Celestia boomed again, and she hammered the door so hard the hinges almost went loose. “Come on! We need to talk!”

“Clear off!” Luna’s muffled voiced grated from inside. “Leave me alone.”

“Luna, if you don’t open that door in, say, ten seconds tops, I’m going to smash it and get in anyway!”

The lock clicked and the door cracked ajar. Celestia pushed it further open and stepped into the room. It was gloomy. The windows were wide open, and the sudden draft that hit Celestia bore the crispness of the prolonged night. On the far side, Luna sat at her desk, writing on a parchment to the guttering light of a burnt-out candle. She didn’t raise her head, not even ever-so-slightly.

“What are you doing?” Celestia asked, standing midway into the room.

"None of your business,” Luna snapped, her gaze still locked on the parchment. “You see? I’m here. I’m working. Happy now? Then bugger off!”

Celestia twitched. “Luna! It’s ten AM and you still haven’t lowered the Moon. Shall I remind you about your royal duty? All the city, and probably the land, is seething with unrest!”

“What?!” Luna flicked an eye at a nearby clock. “Oops!” She blushed. “Sorry, my bad…” She simpered, and her horn flashed. Out the window frames, Celestia took a glance of the diving Moon. “Done. You can raise the Sun now. Please, could you leave? I really need to finish this on the double.”

Celestia’s horn glowed in turn and lo!, shadows dissolved in the radiance of the morning Sun which flooded the room. The candle on Luna’s desk flickered a last time and went out.

“What kind of task is so captivating it makes you forget the hour and let the Moon tarry in the sky?” Celestia asked and risked a hoof ahead.

Luna sighed, raised her head and looked at her sister with weary, heavy-lidded eyes. “Can’t you see? I’m writing.”

“What do you write?”

Luna sighed again. “You never give up, right? I’m writing a story. I must finish before noon, and I barely squiggled down a few words. So please leave me alone that I may push ahead. Is that asking too much of you?”

“You’re writing a story? What for—”

“It’s for a contest called the Writeoff,” Luna cut short. “If you want to know more, go ride the organiser, Roger Dodger. Now, for the last time, please GO AWAY!”

“But—”

A blue magical aura wrapped itself around Celestia, who was unceremoniously shoved away across the room into the corridor. The entrance door slammed shut. The Sun princess found herself sprawling, tousled, on the tiled floor. She raised herself to all fours, shook her head, regained her composure, then trotted off, a smile on her face.