The Grammar Games series finale
A FAREWELL TO ALMS, Chapter ??
(And the last time we #WillWriteForDonuts)
(with apologies to Jon Westenberg and Henry Wismayer and
anyone who hates really bad puns)
[Somewhere in Australia, Day — lost count, but who cares?]
In spite of the fierce attacks, Jon Westenberg was still standing. Well, wobbling a little, considering a lion had eaten one of his legs. But standing tall regardless. He had taken all the rebels could give without flinching, and now it was time to unleash his counter attack¹:
I plunged my hand deep into my pocket and drew out the biggest, longest pen ever seen in the kingdom of Medium.
I reached down and removed the pen’s cap, causing the throngs (and thongs) in the stadium to gasp. With deft subtle movements, my body started to twitch with excitement. I turned the now erect writing instrument skyward and blue sparks of energy illuminated the dark pit of the battlefield. All in attendance — spectator, gladiator, and lion, from street urchin to emperor — held their breath, as the engorged pen pulsated, growing in size. With a desperate scream of release, my pen sent explosions of light up to the heavens. The night sky was illuminated as words formed…
Just fucking go for it
and
We all want the fucking donut*
By the thousands, people in the arena raised the cry of victory, chanting each phrase over and over again. They reached into wallets and purses, showering me with green hearts and filling me with virtual love.
Henry cursed under his breath “I can’t fucking believe this” and a smaller part of the arena cheered and covered his feet with green hearts as well…
All of a sudden the night skies parted…
(thought it was going to be another “suddenly” didn’t you?).
Unicorns sh*tting rainbows flew across the sky.
But one unicorn stood out from all the rest, for seated upon that unicorn was the hottest startup CEO in the world.
She flew down to the floor of the Colosseum, handed Jon a box of freshly baked Krispy Kreme donuts and waved her magic wand. The crowd oohed and aahed as Jon’s leg was restored and he was dressed in the finest silk and linens. Jon’s jaw dropped as he beheld this vision of corporate beauty.
Smiling at the crowd, the CEO whispered, “Jon, put your pen away.” He blushed at the sight of his now drooping pen, and quickly complied.
The CEO waved at the crowd and begin to speak with the low rumble of James Earl Jones in drag:
“Thou shalt write 200 words… no more, no less… Blessed be he who understands the creative brief and executes final deliverables in a timely manner. I now award you our seven figure social media branding campaign.”
The games came to a standstill as the crowd rose to its feet and fell silent…
[fade to black, insert commercials here]
The people got over their shock and cheered like never before — they all turned their knobs up to 11 (including the women, because we were talking about volume controls, you wankers), breaking all crowd decibel records (sorry, Seahawk fans), shattering windows throughout the kingdom, breaking the repairs in the Colosseum walls, and ruining smart phone and tablet screens inside the arena.
[Insert Apple or Samsung commercial here, sold to the highest bidder]
Showers of green hearts filled the entire arena floor. Only the Emperor stayed seated and silently composed a text message.
Henry was slumped over and pulling out his hair, when Jon tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Donut?” he asked.
Henry looked up, then stood up and smiled, saying “don’t mind if I do.”
As they ate together, Henry said “you know, locking horns with you was actually pretty good for business. And I read your latest stuff and it is really good. Much better than the crap produced by those other guys. It was a bit unsporting to single you out as a poster-child for the life-hack brigade.”
As he licked a bit of glazed sugar off his fingers, Jon said “It did hurt, but I licked my less tasty wounds, and became a better writer because of your critiques.”
Henry nodded and said
“I enjoyed the back and forth. You write with great clarity and, often, a confessional vulnerability that is affecting and authentic. And I appreciate the maturity of your response to my criticism.”
Jon smiled and handed him a green heart.
Henry looked up at the adoring crowds and said “Jon, maybe we could turn this back-and-forth verbal jousting into a public event and make some bank. It could be as big as wrestling, like the Rumble over Crumble, The Craze over Glaze..”
“The Thrilla of Vanilla!” shouted Jon triumphantly.
“That is, of course” continued Henry, “if you’re not too busy with the unicorn lady.”
The CEO unicorn nodded her head in approval, then flew off into a cloudy night sky.
Jon extended his hand, yelled “let’s f*cking do this!” and the crowd and the unwashed masses flowing into the area roared its approval, a sound heard throughout the entire kingdom of Medium all the way to Quorapolis. A reporter pushed his way onto the field, along with his camera dog to record this joyous event for all time.
Henry toasted Jon with another donut saying “cheers.”
They shook hands and turned to walk away from the arena. As the former foes walked away through the still smoking field of battle, the orchestra struck up La Marseillaise, and in between bites of a chocolate beignet, Jon said “Henry, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
THE END.
But it wasn’t the end.
The dog’s ears laid back and he growled while turning the camera in the direction of a sound that didn’t belong in the celebration. It was an ominous text alert, the sound of malice, dark and foreboding, coming from the field of battle.
The lights went out, and the crowd fell silent. A single bare light bulb dangled over Jon and Henry, illuminating the space where they walked.
Out of the darkness, a calm, extremely rational voice from behind them purred “Don’t do it, Jon. Success is a catalyst for faliure.”
The new friends stopped in their tracks.
Entering the solitary circle of light bobbing and weaving on the arena floor, Benjamin P. Hardy approached them, carrying a gun that looked like it came out of Jim Carrey’s “The Mask.”
Bringing a bull horn up to his mouth, he began his siren’s song:
“8 reasons you can never socialize with a humorist
8 reasons contrarians are the real conformists
8 hacks into your personal yacht
8 joys in being awesome
8 secrets to offload stuff you don’t like doing
8 ways cupcakes destroy donuts”
The crowd was mesmerized, their now glassy eyes transfixed upon the mighty writer, and unconsciously showered this God of Medium with TWENTY-THREE THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT green hearts.
The stadium management supervisor cursed, turned back on the stadium lights and picked up his walkie-talkie, spitting instructions to his crew. “Carl, clean up on the arena floor next to the giant hamburger.”
Jon said, “I’ve found a new path and I’m leaving our old world behind. Come on, Henry, let’s go.”
As they turned to walk away, Hardy aimed his gun and said “you’ll be leaving the world behind, all right, but not in the way you intended.”
But just as he was about to fire, a tired voice that sounded like Terrence Mann rumbled from somewhere along the first base line and said:
This field, this game is a part of our past… It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again…
Suddenly, a building-sized number eight came whistling down from the sky, crushing the popular Mr. Hardy as flat as a bill of the largest denomination of American currency currently in circulation.
Jon looked back and said “Damn, dawg, it’s all about the Benjamins.”**
Henry said “F’sho, that’s keepin’ it a hunnit,” and they walked off into the night.
The heavens opened up and torrents of rain fell upon the Colosseum, cleansing the field of battle and creating a really cool effect for the TV pilot.
From the VIP section to the now-washed masses in the streets and shops outside the stadium walls, to the entire kingdom of Medium, everyone looked heavenward, waiting for another message from the powers that be.
Bad actors everywhere rejoiced as this made their crying scenes more believable.
And a voice sounding like James Earl Jones whispered down from the heavens:
People will read, I say. People will most definitely read. Now get up off your asses and write something meaningful.
Much to the displeasure of the Emperor, people started to turn off their phones and tablets. They grabbed real notebooks and pens and started to write from the only hearts that matter, the reddish ones beating within their chests.
The green hearts stopped glowing. They fell to the ground, taking on the dull color of the arena floor and finally fading into nothingness.
The Emperor screamed “You will come back to work now, you ingrates! Think of all I’ve done for you. How can I monetize this?”
His VP of media relations whispered “we’ve got multiple film crews on this, working the field and the crowd, plus all the security camera footage for the entire kingdom.”
The Emperor hissed “excellent,” remniscent of a “diablo con dinero,” and continued screaming at the people, and firing his pistol in the air to get the maximum recorded reactions from them.
One last time, a lonely image was projected in the night sky, bidding farewell to the beloved Benjamin P. Hardy…
In the stands, one spectator [THIS COULD BE YOU, KICKSTARTER SUPERHERO CONTRIBUTOR!] asked another “where did that big eight come from?”
The other [THIS SPACE FOR RENT] replied “looks like a chapter number. I guess there wasn’t enough interest to support the story past chapter seven.”
EPILOGUE
The people were so busy writing, they did not even notice the Lion, who spit out Thomas R. Barton, JD, and an unnamed attorney from the law firm of Shyster, Shyster and Blackstone, before beginning his final soliloquy with a rumble that sounded like Mufasa:
I am the resurrection and the life of the written page. Anyone who writes into me will live, even after dying.
With this, the Colosseum was miraculously transformed into the largest coffee shop the world had ever seen, equipped with free wifi, and enough electrical outlets for everyone (now, there’s a miracle).
The dungeon walls imprisoning the writers inside Medium’s Content Lab were transformed into comfortable bench seating and those overstuffed chairs everyone hopes to find open. And the wretched souls praised the heavens for their new found freedom.
Elliot Nichols finally escaped to the loving arms of his family, and was then immediately placed in the dog house for having missed so many chores during his long weeks of imprisonment.
JoJo Magno was finally released from the drudgery of editing in the Content Lab, only to find the school year was beginning again, filled with students who didn’t know the difference between The Magna Carta and Magnum, P.I.
Todd Hannula 🤓 started to break dance in celebration, joined by Notorious DCI, and Savanna D'Amato, whose two minds finally agreed on something, saying “it’s time to party!”
Gloria DiFulvio, Colette Clarke Torres, Jack Herlocker, H. Nemesis Nyx, Sean Howard, Randomly Me, Insideout, Tremaine L. Loadholt, Dave Grigger, Emily Friedel, Paul E. Roberts and Jules cheered on the dancers and drank lousy mimosas.
The revelers were pelted by water balloons, and looked over at the culprit, Jeffrey Field, who said “It ain’t what you think!”
Sherry Caris set up a large dinner party for all the undernourished prisoners, yelling “donuts for all!” Everyone joined her at the table to begin the feast, when j.s.lamb sadly asked “what about the crows?” The rest of the party yelled “Who gives a sh*t? This is where the party’s at!” and continued with the feast.
Far above the coffee house, the now-freed black crows took turns sh*tting on the building, cawed “so long suckers… again” and flew off toward a cold grey eastern sky.
But they were crushed by a no-longer high Victoria Easterday who was falling from the sky at incredible speed. Fortunately the crows broke her fall on the roof, and she made her way into the party, with a serious case of the munchies, saying “I’ve got a hole in my stomach larger than the air around the donut’s hole.”
Brad Decker emerged from the men’s room, which used to be solitary confinement in Medium’s dungeon, looking none the worse for wear.
Lisa Robbie came in through the back vomitorium (not what you think, you wise guys), asked for a Sfogliatella, but was instead given a bear claw. “Oh well, close enough!” she replied, happy to find more gratis cubis at the party.
Elizabeth Hughes finally got her return ticket and joined the celebration.
Even Heather Nann somehow got back from “motherfucking Jupiter,” even though she never did apologize.
A McEnnis walked in from the back, past the startled baristas, and said “I’m afraid I’m totally out of the loop on all things… did someone mention something about donuts?”
In an unlit corner of the shop, Graham Anderson and a misfit couple shared some dark, dark roast, while streaming “wolf sounds from around the world” on Pandora. One of his companions, Friedrich, said, “Listen to them... children of the night. What music they make?”
High above the room, alto’s meditation was broken by the smell of fresh donuts, and he came crashing to the floor, muttering “what the hell, eh?” But then he thought better of it, apologized to the floor, and made his way toward the tray of maple donuts.
Even the innocents, those kidnapped into the madness by The Grammar Games contestants and co-conspirators, like elizabeth tobey, Deral F. Fenderson, Ruben Alexander, and bibles, Mirah Curzer, Mike Essig, Greg Gueldner, John Ward, The Bosha, Ayesha Talib Wissanji, Beau Johnson, Denise Smith, Thaddeus Howze, and Darin Ross (dragging along the burrito guy in a head lock) didn’t seem to mind the donuts and some good coffee for once.
Jason Smith, Niya Marie, Joel Leon., Vikram Babu, umair haque, John Fisher, the ghost of Jennifer Smith, and all the other beloved, but missing writers returned to share stories, because who could resist free donuts?
Clay Rivers said
You guys inspire me … not to write crap. Wait. That didn’t come out the way I intended.
But Gutbloom came to his rescue, saying “It’s okay, I tag my writing ‘dreck,’ everyone writes about their own sh*t, and regardless of whether the prose is soaring or absolute garbage, if we care enough to read your words, we know what you mean.”
Suddenly (for truly the final time), the people inside the coffee house stopped their celebration as they witnessed the greatest miracle of all through the floor-to-ceiling pane-glass windows of the giant coffee house…
Kel Campbell was making her glorious return.
Lon Shapiro bowed to her outside the entrance and said “please allow me to open the door for you. What, too soon?”
Kel replied:
AND NO I THINK IT HAS BEEN WELL ESTABLISHED THAT I SMITE DOOR HOLDERS WITH ALL MY FEMINIST FURY, WITH MY OWN HAND I CAST THEM INTO THE BRIMSTONE BELOW AND CHERISH THEIR BURNING FLESH AS IT STINKS UP TO MY HOOVED FEET ABOVE. But thanks so much for the offer.
And so, she, too, finally contributed to the story. The prophesy was fulfilled. And lo, the people were happy.
But the miracles did not stop, as the fallen were raised.
A considerably thinner Ellie Guzman slithered out from under the giant hamburger, saying “Awesome, now I can do that modeling gig for dunkin’ donuts!”
Benjamin P. Hardy pushed away the giant eight and asked “would you believe seven ways that cupcakes are better than donuts?” and was showered with tasty cinammon crumb donut holes that not even he could resist.
Suddenly (okay, I lied, so sue me) the coffee house lights were replaced by strobe lights, smoke filled the air, and a voice that sounded like James Earl Jones doing an impression of the Chicago Bull’s PA announcer roared:
Annnnnnnnnnnnnd now, back from an acid pool of tears, Morrrrrrrrgan Roooooooooooooock Loehrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Out of the smoke, Morgan Rock Loehr materialized next to the dinner table, to the applause of everyone at the feast, saying “Hey guys! Did I miss anything?”
Finally, Michelle Stone woke up, mumbled something about Tom Selleck and remember she needed to rush to the store before breakfast, taking a list that seemed to be written on an empty roll of toilet paper…
THE END.
Or was it really the end? Only time and other contributors will tell the tale.
¹Without his contribution, I had to create Jon’s winning 200 word post.
²NOT a typo, you perverts
*Grammar Games wiki: Chapter 7, Ellie Guzman, world renown donut whisperer, met her fate with one telling question.
**If you want to help buy a box of Krispy Kreme donuts for all our writers (including Jon) to share, please go here.
Thank you to everyone who contributed in any way to this crazy collaborative effort. Interacting with you, being inspired by your imaginations and seeing where the Games would go was an enjoyable social experience beyond description. I hope everyone enjoyed their fifteen sentences of fame and no one was offended by the horrifying and gruesome fates that they brought down upon themselves (remember Chekov’s donut!).
The last chapter of The Grammar Games has now been inscribed in the virtual tablet, and placed in the sacred publication by the same name, so every story can be found in the same place.
While it is no longer an open-ended saga, The Grammar Games will remain an open-middled saga, with plenty of air space between chapters, outside the Colosseum, on the outside edges of the Kingdom, in alternate dimensions and wherever you envision the hereafter. If, after reading the finale, you feel like the fans of Firefly or Agent Carter and want to keep the story alive, you have the power to do so by writing your own experience, one which I will try to work into the structure of this living opus. Just remember, no one is safe.
And now, a shameless promotion for the cause of literacy, (non-profit recipient to be determined):
It felt like we created a real community here, which led me to the create a true collaborative book, “The Tao of Blogging,” a collection of online wisdom, and a weekly source of smiles and inspiration. Think of all those treacly daily affirmation books turned upside down and infused with adult humor and real world experience.
If you haven’t done so yet, please check it out. You can see work in progress here, here, here, here, and here.
The book is now 75% complete, but we still need funny, quirky and strangely profound quotes. Our author list is incredible, including Medium heavyweights Gutbloom, Todd Hannula 🤓, Ellie Guzman, Lizella Prescott, Elliot Nichols, and David Graham. I hope some of the other incredible writers I have contacted will allow me to quote them as well (C’mon Hassan, you’re too hilarious to leave out!)
Thanks for reading.
UPDATE 6/3: So, the finale has gotten more recommends with far fewer reads than the first seven chapters (combined in the original story). That tells me two possible things: either people are telling me how they are happy I won’t write any more, or there are benefits to naming 61 people directly in the story. How appropriate. This may be the ultimate CTSF of my career at Medium.
