At first I thought it was a wilderness cooking retreat. A woman was guiding a group of adults from 18-30 years old through the woods and pointing out edible plants. Romance was stirring between a few of the participants. When the guide told everyone to stop and smell a patch of rare flowers, two participants took the opportunity to kiss. The guide, aghast, stomped towards them.
"Are you two kissing!?" she asked rhetorically. They broke off their kiss and turned their faces back to the plant.
"Nope," they replied.
"Oh, well it looked like...never mind." The tour continued while the pair giggled to themselves.
A day or so later, while the group lounged in some commons area, a small Asian woman toddled into the center of the room defiantly carrying a guitar. The sound she got out of it was more reminiscent of breaking an instrument than playing one. Everyone came out to see where the din was coming from, including the couple from a few days before. The blonde woman from the couple marched up to the Asian and demanded an explanation.
"It's for him," she blurted, pointing at an Asian hipster who blushed behind his thick rimmed glasses, "He kissed me and he didn't say anything to me again, so I wanted to force him to like me."
She moved to resume mutilating music, but the other woman stopped her. Before either one could protest, both collapsed in a fit of coughing. Somehow I knew that it was Mono.
"I - I don't understand," the blonde woman sputtered, "I've only ki-issed..." she pointed helplessly at her man while the wheezing Asian girl pointed at hers. The men glanced awkwardly at each other.
"Wait, you two...to - together?" The men made no attempt to deny it. Somehow the hipster had made the other man a Mono carrier, and it wasn't from sharing pop. If they could breath or stand, the two women would have killed them. As it was, they could only glare.
Several more days passed and it started to look like the purpose of the camp was not nature cooking at all, but rather a writing workshop. The Asian hipster and the recovered blonde and Asian women gathered to compare their grades on the most recent assignments.
"B+!" exclaimed the hipster eagerly.
"A-!" the Asian grinned.
The blonde hesitated, puzzlement playing across her face.
"I got full marks plus 7 extra credit."
"Wow, that's incredible" the two others gasped.
"It would be if I thought I deserved it. I didn't even think you could get a grade this high," ire replaced her confusion, "That bastard!" She stormed out of the room and into a small office. Her former boyfriend and the handful of other people in the room looked up at her in shock as she burst in, forgetting the papers they had been grading.
"You creep!" she screamed, "did you think giving me a stellar grade would make me interested in you again? What sort of person do you think I am?"
"What are you talking about?!"
The woman flung her paper back at him. After glancing it over for a moment, he returned his gaze to her, eyebrow cocked.
"You think it's more likely that I'm trying to win you back with a bogus grade than it is that you wrote an outstanding paper? I can't decide if that's egotistical or self-deprecating," The woman's cheeks burned red, "Actually, I was going to tell you later, but since you're here...you've been chosen for the writing games."
As quickly as it came, the blood flew out of her face. 24 writers went into those games. Only one came out.
Yet more time passed, and the blonde woman found herself standing in a small arena with the other writers, armed with nothing but her pen and her words. The opening ceremonies sped by and before she knew it, the competition had begun. She started writing furiously on the paper-lined ground around her. Before she knew it, someone had shoved a poem in her face. She read it and let out a sigh of relief. Her brief essay could take it. She shoved her piece into the other person's face and watched as he broke down. He begged for death, and she gave it to him. By the end of the day, she wrote more with blood than with ink. Only she and the champion from the previous year remained. They were allowed to retire and prepare their final work. Each could only write one sentence with which to crush the other.
"That won't be enough," the champion grunted over the blonde woman's shoulder. The blonde jumped and belatedly covered her scribbled sentences.
"You aren't allowed here!"
"Hasn't stopped me before. Besides, seeing what you write can't give me an edge. I'm done."
The blonde's stomach sank. How could she stand a chance against this woman? She had survived the writing games more times than any other contestant. She had spent years honing her craft against more qualified authors than her.
"Were you this scared your first time?" the blonde whispered.
"I could hardly hold my pen the first couple times. Then I started feeling confident, even cocky. Eventually, I reached the point where I could only feel disappointment. The writing games have become a ritualized reminder of my damnable superiority. I have no one to admire, for all admire me," it was not arrogance, but bitter resignation that laced her voice.
"I'm...sorry."
"Don't expect me to go easy on you. I still take pride in my work. However, if you could manage to beat me, I'd appreciate it," she wandered out again, leaving the blonde to her sentence.
When the two women met once more in the arena, they exchanged sentence's silently. The blonde's hands fumbled as she unfolded the slip of paper.
The river's meaning is washed away by the rain.
She sucked in a breath. Her heart pounded and her head spun, but somehow she managed to remain standing. The champion, on the other hand, had crumpled to the ground. Sobs and laughter poured from her, interrupted only by the occasional choking "Thank you." The blonde did not even have to kill her. She took her own life, cutting a second smile into her throat. As the crowd roared, comprehension slowly dawned on the blonde. She would live. She had outwritten the best author in the world. She could publish any work she wanted now. She had nothing to fear but success.
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