|
|
Thread Tools |
#46
|
|||||
|
|||||
November 2013 Competition Entries Topic: In Remembrance Challenge: a storm, half a story, and failure Winner: The Test by GeneT The Test by GeneT [733 words] Josua stamped his feet upon the welcome mat and shook the umbrella before entering the house. Rain lingered upon his shoulders, little beads like gems, translucent with distorted light, images unclear. He brushed them off when inside and they sparkled as they fell to the wooden floor, fracturing into little winks of light. He leaned his umbrella into the corner, alone it stood, slightly askew, like an old forgotten man, used up and standing in the soup line, partly wet and frayed around the edges from the biting wind. His coat, now hanging high upon the hook, felt vindicated. He walked the short distance in and was headed as usual to the kitchen down the hallway for a spot of tea when sight of his wife stopped him in the halfway space of the arch that led to the main room. Caught by her outline as she hunched over a box sitting upon the small table in front of the couch, he hovered uncertain, transfixed as if peering into bright lights. There was no leaving. The sound of his arriving was indisputable. “It’s here,” she said without turning. “What?” “The Baby.” The box was plain, brown cardboard with postal tape sealing the seams and edges. Emily had signed for it, her hand shaking, name ineligible. But it didn’t matter, the clock did not start until the box was opened and the contents spilled upon the floor, the button that resembled a turkey timer pulled, the instructions disregarded, and that first cry echoed through the house. Emily wondered if it had been like this for her mother. If the box had been just as small. How she had managed to pass the test. What wisdom she could have imparted. But her mother was dormant, sleeping and no longer In-sync. They would not meet again for fifteen years and Emily would have to tell her memories in half pieces of story; how she managed the first days of hunger and crying, the next week the middle years of hand holding and accidents that needed soft words with cuddling, the suffering long week of teen years of building tension and loss, and the waiting for the letter of Rejection or Approval to Artificially Conceive after Parental Testing was complete. “I thought we talked about this.” “We applied.” “But..” “I applied.” The intervening silence commiserated with Josua, unwilling to give up its dominance, the heavy moments that it covered Emily as she lay awake in bed, eyes open as he slept, the yearning in her blanketed by his breathing. She slit the taped seam with the long nail of her thumb. There was no sending it back now. There was no putting it on the porch to be picked up undisturbed and refused. “I did not agree to this Em.” “Then leave.” “And you think to pass the Test alone.” The rest of the enclosing tape yielded with a squeal as she ripped the top open and answered him. She removed the instruction sheet and cast it aside and carefully lifted it out, its face silent under the clear plastic wrapping. It seemed too small, too delicate. She teased the wrapping off, carefully unrolling it, round and under, and round and over, until it was free. Cradling it, beaming, she looked over her shoulder and found the arch empty, the wind of the storm blowing through the open front door throwing spent leaves the color of embers across the floor. Alone, she hesitated. Josua was right. She would fail, but unlike him she would suffer in the attempt whereas he had given up at the start. In the end, what was in her would wither, desiccate, shrivel into a normal life. She would sleep. She would wake. Now alone, she would shift her In-sync Pattern countless times with only herself as a constant. And for what? Looking down, Emily realized she had activated the Test. She had started the process, her fingers caressing its soft skin pulling the timer as she lamented his leaving. It squirmed in her arms and it didn’t matter that it was not real, not living, that it was a replica made for the Testing. All that mattered were its large brown eyes and the warmth it began to blossom. The rest could be learned by some degree of failing. Remembering what we had been. That’s what her mother would say. The Washout by Jimothy [1061 words] Thunderclaps sounded but were given a run for their money by the noisy barrage of rain on the roof and the windows and the sills which had all of the pomp and presence of a military parade. It was proper weather. It was weather with attitude. The storm had subdued the town and sent most of everyone indoors, scurrying for dry refuge in buildings, or to the nearest convenient shelter. Under siege, some had to fight off incursions of the rain into their homes, hurriedly deploying a last stand of buckets and pails against leaks in poorly-maintained roofs. Others were left standing in doorways or at windows, gawking at the downpour most unprecedented and a few of the more worldly-wise commented that it was like the monsoons you got in far-off places though more commonly the spectators were pleased to exclaim how it was absolutely pissing it down and they’d hardly ever seen the like. The implacable, unstoppable rain, truly a conquering army, imposed its will on the people to turn paths into streams, soil into bog and a productive day into a day of disruption. Johnno certainly felt defeated. If the sudden storm was a foreign invasion then he had been particularly picked on during the subsequent looting and sacking. He stood in the open front doorway of his large house, with the rain kept at bay by a little overhanging porch, and regarded the state of things. In front of his house, which was a reeve’s residence and rather more impressive than most of the cottages and huts of the village, there was a large clear area with a somewhat gravelly surface. In other times of the year it was used variously as a marketplace, a processing point for peasants to wrangle with the tax collectors about what proportion of their produce was due to the lord, a makeshift law court and a place for festivities as it was large enough for a great bonfire to be lit in the middle and for near enough the whole village to dance around. Now it was indeed festooned with the trappings of a celebratory event. Around the edge of the yard wooden posts had been erected and on ropes slung between them were paper lanterns in pretty colours, alternated with equally colourful paper streamers. These had fluttered beautifully in the morning breeze but were now wilted in the rain. The coverings of the lanterns had torn in places and collapsed inward. A great store of wood had collected in the centre of the yard to light a great fire for the evening but that was now utterly sodden would be unlikely to burn. The centerpiece of the preparations had been a wooden stage on the northern side. A troupe of players had spent the morning getting ready papier-mâché decorations underneath an awning of canvas but the driving rain had found it’s way under the canopy and ruined much of this work; the canvas itself had collected a large quantity of water and was sagging dangerously. Johnno thought briefly of running out and pulling down one edge of the canvas to drain off the water, but remained ultimately inactive, paralysed by his despondency. It was supposed to have been a great evening. That now looked unlikely. His moody figure stood and watched and a pair of arms gently wrapped themselves around it. He turned his head and managed a smile for his pretty young wife who had appeared behind him from somewhere within the house. “So glum, John,” she said, sounding herself rather cheerful. He sighed with exasperation and nodded toward the sheets of precipitation marching across the yard and his motion said, “of course I am”. “Just a summer storm. It’ll pass. They always do soon.” “It’s a mess. Why today?” “It’s not as bad as you think. The rain will stop, the sun will come out, we’ll all have a good time later,” his wife said reasonably, thinking to herself that he probably wasn’t listening properly. “I’d gone to the effort - got everything looking really pretty, best show we’d had in the village for years it was going to be.” “Going to be?” There was an edge of irritation in her voice now. “John, it will be. It’s rain, not floods, the performers haven’t been washed away. Listen to them! They’re in good form even in the wet!” And she was right. The troupe of players were audible, having retreated to their little enclave of caravans and covered wagons as the storm hit. They were not far off from the house and could be heard still, just, above the noise of rain. Someone was playing a flute. Others were singing, and there was the occasional ripple of laughter. Spirits were clearly something other than dampened which was not at all surprising; it was their job to be merry. They were the resistance against the tyranny of the weather. “Hmm,” murmured John. “You think they’ll let this bother them? As soon as it stops, they’ll be out, taking it all in stride. They don’t need the stage all dressed up to entertain people they just need themselves. You’re being silly. The players will make the best of it and the village will make the best of it and it’ll all work out grand. Just wait.” John looked as if he might be prepared to take her opinions on board and was beginning to cheer up. He tended to generally, when her pretty face intruded into his bad moods, and she made him feel foolish without fail when she did. She had a point. Paper bunting and decorations didn’t make a good time did they? It was people who did that. “You’re right again, my love…” “Always am you silly man. Look. It’s still raining. Let’s spend sometime inside until it stops. No-one will come bothering us.” It took a moment for John to get the point of her words and the meaning of her expression but a boyish smile soon spread over his face and he lifted his wife, who gave a little squeal, into his arms and kicked the door shut with the back of his heel, closing it against the rain which had in any case lost some of its former vigour. After a while it began to slack, and eventually stopped altogether. Presently, the sun came out. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 15th, 2013 at 10:51 PM. |
#47
|
|||||
|
|||||
December 2013 Competition Entries Topic: Winter Solstice Challenge: sound of snowfall, snowball fight Optionally: sleigh bells, a large elf in red, dire flying reindeer Winner: The Glittering Trail by GeneT Eyes in the Dark by Lushmoss [924 Words]
Looking wide-eyed over his shoulder, Jarsiin quietly opened the flap of the pavilion and left midnight festivities to the adult, as they sang, drank, and played music loudly to celebrate the gathering. The young boy released the door and the cloth fell back into place, whipping away the film of warm firelight on his back like swift silk, leaving him awash in the pale blue light of the moon. This part of the desert was always cold at night, but Jasiin had good robes to ward off the extremes of his homeland. He pulled his hood down a bit and walked up the tallest of the surrounding dunes, the sound of pipes and drums fading into the quiet air. He was no stranger to the shifting sands, and was light enough to skim almost easily to the top. Once there, breathing a bit hard, he turned around and sat firmly down, and took in the sparkling view. Below the tent was dotted with small windows which leaked out long beams of onto the camels and horses tethered by a few dusty palms, and the odd spark from the central bonfire danced their way high enough to escape out the top of the open ceiling before extinguishing, seeming much like fireflies. The landscape was a still ocean of silver blue light draped on dunes, and the stars almost seemed to buzz as fireflies around the creasent moon. But there was another pair of lights. Not so far away, like a pair of mismatched eyes staring at Jarsiin from the dune over. Had his parents been there, they would have told him not to investigate. But the adult were not there, instead drinking and eating and talking about boring things, so the boy let his curiousity lead him on without another thought. It didn't take him long to reach the dune, and the first of the lights which shone with shining blue. As he got closer he saw that it appeared to be a gem, glowing brightly. He paused, wondering where the treasure had come from. He looked over at the other light, which shone blood red but twice a dozen paces away. Stopping no more to question his luck, he reached down to take the stone... And the moment his skin touched the gem, a tall plume of smoke erupted from the facets of the gem and sent the boy reeling backwards down the dune. His robes tanged and filled with sand, it took him a while to make himself right again. When he did, he saw that were the gem once sat, now stood a mighty Djinn! Tall as a tree with skin and hair as black as coal, wreathed in smoke, attired in silver and blue silk breaches, and veins of saphire light. His eyes were cold cobalt slits, and they looked down at the boy with supernatural intensity. Jarsiin shook, awed by the terrible creature. The the red light blurred into motion, and the djinn turned his attention to the new activity. Sand and cloud cycloned around the red light... and from the dust a short man, oddly illuminated by his own light, stood up and slowly brought his hands to his hips. He seemed old, yet full of life, and dressed as richly as the boy had ever seen, with red rubies on every ring on his finger. The light in his eyes was enough to say that this was another djiin who stood before them. The short djiin outreached a hand, and a gout of sand jumped up from the dune and floated in a sphere above his palm, where it morphed from one marvelous shape to another. But the smoke djiin had not idle. It took a deep breath through unseen nostrals, and exhaled a cloud of ash above his head. His hands moved as the magicians would, and a power built within the ash. It was near noiseless, only faint crunching, but somehow the tension of the ash building up made it's own sound of anticipation. Finally, with a grunt he released the energy and sent a ball of blackness at his short counterpart. Jarsiin held his breath as the sphere exploded in the face of the short djiin. Which the smoke cleared, there was the blackened face of a very unimpressed man. And then he coughed. And then the smoke djiin laughed. And the cloud djiin grinned. He threw his own ball of sand and cloud back at the tall man, sending him reeling and sand all over, and again the smoke djiin laughed in his deep voice, apparently unharmed. And so too, did Jarsiin laugh as he watched both elementals take to the air and pelt one another with orbs of sand, cloud, smoke and ash. Their war was joyful and lighthearted, a playful dance that was a graceful thing to watch as they swooped and dove and banked in the sky to avoid the missiles of their opponant. They played an hour before suddenly both deciding to stop. Jarsiin had taken a seat in the sand and thought himself forgotten, until both spirits casually floated towards him. With smiles, they bowed to the apprehensive child and drew from their own pockets the gems he had seen before. Giving these trinkets, they turned about strolled back across the night-covered dunes that had so recently soared above, laughing and jesting as they disappeared across the still silver sea. Leaving Jarsiin with a pair of jewels in his hands to remember the friendly performance on the longest night of the year. The Glittering Trail by GeneT (1755 Words) Hovering slightly above the ground, he descended ever so slowly and let his shoeless feet settle. His toes curled, burrowing through the light dusting of snow to find the hard ground beneath it. It had been long, very long, since he had walked upon the land. His people died centuries ago. He wished his brother Nabu was here to speak or read him the spiked cuneiform from clay tablets, words of prophecy he needed. And despite their differences, he missed Ninhursag. The world had died without her even if those living in it did not know. Few of his brothers and sisters had survived. Man had more need of and desire for Demons. Only Ereshkigal and he remained of all of them, and his sister wandered like a shadow bereft of solid thought. Gone was An, Enki, Inanna, and Nammu. How he wished for Inanna’s spite and Enki’s sharp tongue these days. But there was just him and his sister’s shade against the Demon as Night reached its zenith. Snow twinkled under the flood light that illuminated the graveyard of cars littering the fenced side lot next to Cal’s Automotive. He could hear it land upon the mountains of twisted steel around him, the metal creaking under its chill touch, occasionally letting out a ‘pang’ or moan as the temperature steadily dropped, everything marked in time by the patter of snow upon the ground like a complex orchestral arrangement. Only he and the dog could hear the sound of the snow falling, like two remaining friends in witness to a dying man’s last words, a whispered oracle’s secret. The old german Shepard, grey framing her muzzle, edged around a rusted and mangled dodge truck to look at the intruder. She held her head low and bared her teeth, but had learned by error that it was best to approach softy with little sound. She was nearly upon him when the man turned and regarded her with glowing eyes. There they stood, old dog and older god, as the snow thickened, each unable to remove the other from their sight until the old god gave ground. Dropping to one knee, Enlil beckoned and she came to him, wary at first, tail tucked, lips high against her teeth. Great gouts of breath issued into the frigid air from her long nose as she gathered in his scent from a short distance and then, as if satisfied, relaxed, only stiffening slightly as he reached forward and scratched her chest. Man’s touch had not been kind to her these last years. Content, the god stayed. In that moment, reveling in the warm feeling of another living thing, Enlil forgot to breath. Interested, the dog waited, tilting its head a little, finding the god curious. “You are not Uridimmu, eh.” The dog barked once, a deep sound. “Then what shall I call you?” A short growl and clicking teeth answered him. Enlil’s eyebrows rose a little and he laughed while shaking his head. “So, a boy named you before a man put you behind a fence.” Rising to his feet, Enlil knew it was time to go. Without question, the old dog led him to the fence line and then squeezed under a small hole she had dug when she was younger and still found chasing rabbits in the adjacent field entertaining. Meaning to destroy a portion of the fence and proceed, Enlil began speaking forgotten words of power until interrupted by the old dog’s low growl. The menacing intervened. “It is just a fence. One that has kept you unfairly.” Unable to convince the old dog, Enlil lowered himself to the ground and crawled as she had under the fence. Halfway through, he began laughing. Ninhursag would enjoy this moment and Enlil could imagine Enki filling the shallow depression with freshwater making sure he was completely tested not just by groveling in the dirt, but belly down in a muddy pit. Brushing the dirt from himself, Enlil wondered at the old dog. Why she had remained? What reason would hold her even under such conditions? “Perhaps I should rename you.” Satisfied, the old dog ignored the god and began a slow lope to the road. They walked next to each other for some distance down Route 63, the snow swirling around them in the darkness; the dog leading by ancient cunning, the god’s bright eyes looking down the blank path following Pazazu’s glittering trail. Past a sign that read ‘Westhope - Pop. 461,’ Enlil and the old dog walked, a shadow coiling behind them, collecting errant snow, rolling it outside of the god’s sight. Westhope had a single crossroad, but it was enough to obscure Pazazu’s passage, such was the power of those spaces. The dog bent her nose low and Enlil cast his eyes in every direction, but neither could find a certain way. The old dog startled as a snow ball shattered across Enlil’s right shoulder. They turned, Enlil and the dog, and snow balls erupted from the dark to explode upon the god’s body. The final snowball, uncontested as all the rest, rolled across the frozen road to Enlil’s right foot. “Ereshkigal?” Enlil bent and picked up that last snowball. The first one was enough, but there would have been no fun for his invisible assailant in just one. Turning right, the god and the old dog moved east along a row of houses, each one peeling paint, the smoke of fireplaces weak against the weather. Enlil and the old dog found Pazazu among pastel gnomes. The gnomes stood half buried by snow under low bushes, along the edge of the concrete walkway, and lining the barren flowerbeds of a single house midway from the end of the row. Had Enlil time, he could have sat in the thickening snow and quietly studied the gnomes, odd as they were, and easily determined which ones were favorites of the woman of the house and which ones simply filled space, which were painted with great care by hand or simply bought, and which one was newest of the lot. But time was not his to spend, the god had few moments left. Pazazu, ever capricious, did not take the form of a rotund pastel colored gnome. Instead, he stood among them under a hedge near the front window, a thin elf swathed in red, a pointed hat upon his head. Nor did Pazazu change his form at Enlil’s approach, so sure the Demon was of his power. The old dog, undeterred, growled and stepped in front of her god. Enlil turned his shining eyes to the old dog and spoke softly as a hand held the bristling fur of the dog’s neck. “I release you. This is no place for you. Go and Hunt. You are free.” The old dog nipped Enlil’s hand but understood she was dismissed and with a low howl faded into the night. God and Demon regarded each other. Words were unnecessary. The battle began furiously and in short time Enlil found himself bested, thrown flat upon the ground into the snow, the Demon standing upon his chest still dressed as a diminutive red elf, a wicked lopsided smile creasing his painted wooden features. “You are a God no longer while I have grown. Man needs not name me. His selfishness and singular entitlement feeds me none the less. I continue while you shall cease.” Enlil, God of Air, Patron Deity of ancient Nippur, had no useful argument. He felt cold enter his bones. He felt the hardness of the frozen ground. The smell of the wind was lost to him. Despair should have ruled his person, but every God knows the moment of his true death and Enlil, upon his back, knew for some reason that this was not it. A shadow careened into Pazazu’s diminutive form, long sharp teeth snapping and tearing upon the Demon. Strongly pressed, the Demon hurled power against its attacker. The force of that power threw Pazazu off Enlil’s chest and into the snow next to him. The broken old dog tumbled through the air and landed some distance out into the street. In that moment, freed and finally awake, Enlil’s hand smashed Pazazu, crushing the red elf under his hand and finally dispatching the Demon to Irkalla. The Demon could only wail as the Underworld siphoned away his essence. Near exhaustion, Enlil had begun to stand when he heard the clapping. Sitting upon the steps of the porch, Ereshkigal smoked a long thin cigarillo with one hand while rolling a small snowball in the palm of the other. They regarded each other from the intervening distance for some time. The falling of snow slowed and finally stopped. The remaining time punctuated by the intermittent glow of each drag of the cigarillo Ereshkigal took. Enlil broke the silence. “Why?” “Pazazu would run if we both came for him. Only you could entice the Demon out and succeed. I had little choice.” “Little choice, Sister,” Enlil said, the echo full of meaning. Ereshkigal shrugged and stood, her form the curving scent of a woman clothed in shadow and mystery. It had begun. “Come brother. We’ve work to do. The spawn of Pazazu need hunting before the last days of old gods like you and I. Balance must be made before the End of All.” Moving to the road, Ereshkigal flicked the spent cigarillo into the snow while waiting for Enlil to join her, turning sour as she found her brother next to the dying old dog. “Have you grown sentimental? Her time is done.” Enlil did not move. “There are Others who control these things. I do not meddle.” Enlil turned and looked at his sister, glowing eyes enough to call her a liar. Sighing, Ereshkigal, once Goddess of the Underworld, once Ruler of Irkalla, relented. She knew what the old dog had done and could not discount it. Kneeling next to the old dog, the ancient Goddess of the Dead looked at her brother. “I need the dog’s true name for it to have a chance.” Erishkigal paused as Enlil spoke it and then laughed, the sound a cacophony of small bells. Her whispered words joined with the rhythms of the Long Night, rising until they captured that which they desired. Down Route 63 an old dog named ‘Lucky’ walked between two dead gods into a cold North Dakota dawn; the old dog leading by ancient cunning, the dead gods following a glittering trail left upon the blank path. Wintersfall in the Iron Kingdom by Gray [984 Words] Drimmer had his head down and the hammer falls rang in his ears. The going was typical for a Gurickday, even when it was the Wintersfall. Drimmer was not as interested in the Wintersfall festivals anyway, the Kingdom of Iron was not the place to celebrate the breaking of the Wintercycle and the hope for spring. In the Iron Kingdom deep in the heart of what makes the world tick Drimmer was always warmed by the everburning fire. Hibrick the flamboyant elf foreman, in his gaudy red tights and odd bed cap of a hat was all a twitter about the festival in the hall later that night. The workers of the forge department were in for a “treat” Hibrick had promised the dwarves. Hibrick had little understand of the dwarven ways, how little they cared where the sun passed or how the seasons changed, under the Hills of Iron there was no change to be marked, only the passing of days. Drimmer pounded his hammer and his mind began to drift. He folded the iron over and over. He shaped it and molded it, more in habit than actually planning his next move. The pieces he made were for the finest homes in the other Kingdoms, for you see they always want what they don’t have. The dwarves all want the finest carved woods for the Forest Kingdom, and the Sea of Sands all was want the shells and corals of the Island Kingdoms. As he thought about this he began to have strange feelings. He began to feel the need to see more of the world. To see those things that he had not. To be discontented with his place in the vast Kingdom of Iron. He felt the tug of the world on the strings of his heart. Drimmer did not care for the feeling and a scowl began to form on his face. He thought to himself, how you could want something you cannot have. How can you be somewhere you do not belong? Every dwarf knows that they have a place and that the only sky they are to see is one of stone and the only sounds they are to hear are the hiss of the bellows and the clank of the hammer. This was his home, and a place only a dwarf could feel truly at home in. Hibrick was always complaining about not seeing the stars at the night hours and about not feeling the warmth of the sun in the day hours. It was a wonder that the elf has lasted as long as he has. On one occasion the elf had actually talked about the landing of a snowflake in the stillness of the forest, he claimed that the air was so still and the forest so quiet that he heard the snowflake land with a soft crunch. Hibrick claimed that each flake of snow was a different shape, all unique. Drimmer could not imagine the possibility of something such as that, dwarves enjoyed the continuity and reveled in the replication of patterns and designs. Such chaos was odd. The done bell rang out across the working grounds and Drimmer looked up to see Hibrick prancing down the walk. He was giddily directing each dwarf into the meeting place. Drimmer quickly stepped out of his post and tried to keep his mind on the daily schedule. Post shift meeting with Hibrick, unfortunately, followed by third meal and finally a nice moss pipe before a good sleep. His tired body was more looking forward to the second two when he found himself face to face with Hibrick. "Noble Drimmer, it is a fine Wintersfall! Please join us for our meeting, there will be quite a treat!" The red tights on the elf and the red coat and cap reminded Drimmer of the flames in his forge which brought some comfort to him, but only for a moment. Drimmer managed a grunt of "Good Gurickday to you as well." At this Hibrick raised an eyebrow, but Drimmer was already making his escape, down the hall and into the meeting room. It was at the threshold of the meeting room that he paused, not just him, but every dwarf paused. He heard some shouts from the back of the group where he found himself mostly in the line of “Hurry it up!” and “Get moving you lot!” Finally with much pushing from the back of the group the front of the group made its way inside the meeting room, quickly followed by the rest. What they were greeted with made them all pause in awe, wonder, anger, confusion and an altogether lack of comprehension. Drimmer found himself with the rest of the shift in the meeting room, not only full of snow, but actual snow was falling from the stone ceiling. He thought for a moment that there was a hole in the ceiling as he had heard of once before. A hand landed on Drimmer’s back, there stood Hibrick with smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eye, "It is a fine Wintersfall Drimmer, isn’t it?" After thinking about the odd things that had passed through his head earlier that day a slow realization began to dawn on Drimmer and as it did the corners of his mouth forgot themselves and moved upward under his heavy beard. Drimmer was now one of the ones that had something from somewhere else. Something that did not belong was now a part of him. He had for the first time seen and touched and heard snow. And with this new understanding he became a part of a bigger world, a wondrous world, the world outside the Kingdom of Iron. Other dwarves were the first to start the volley of lightly packed snow balls, with the guidance of Hibrick, but it only took moments for Drimmer to join in the Wintersfall fun. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Jan 17th, 2014 at 07:00 AM. |
#48
|
|||||
|
|||||
January 2014 Competition Entries Topic: Rejection Challenge: an inheritance, a woodshed, and a dead bug Winner: Little Ladybug by Spankucus Death's Embrace by GeneT Light stabbed through the holes and crevices of the woodshed’s warped boards, shafts of brilliance in the dark interior like the rays of the sun through fissures in dense dark clouds. In that light dust danced and floated lazy courses determined by the movement of air, back and forth as if the woodshed breathed, lived; a thinker’s breathing, chin on fist, slow and haphazard, punctuated by forgetful unnatural pauses brought about by the chasing of dreams. Josua joined the woodshed, one deep breath and a pause, and then blew it through pursed lips. The dust agitated and swirled counterclockwise as if an invisible tornado was born in that small space, infinite pieces spun in and out of the light, occasionally flaring, reflecting that brilliance until pushed into the dark and lost. It took some time before he could smell the burning of the main house. Josua huddled between two stacks of wood and he knew they would find him. Next week was his twelfth birthday, his coming of age, and his mother had made plans for just the two of them. But now she lay burning in the fire they had set upon the main house. He knew that to be true just as he knew which stars to look upon for Guidance, that the East Wind’s words were mean in spirit, the South Wind lazy, the West Wind lies, and the North Wind cold truth. She had taught him those things. Taught him how to hold power and when to let it die. That joy was in planting seeds in black earth with your hands and watering them every day rather than making them sprout and seem to live when they should not. That careful care beat forced success, or success bought through power alone. She had taught him these things not because he had power she did not, but because he was hers. A life she had brought into being with her own body, without Rune, or Number, or Word. Josua started crying, the tears giant upon his face until they coalesced and ran toward his chin. He could see her eyes as she pushed him out the back door and told him to run just minutes before they had arrived. But he couldn’t go far. He hadn’t the strength. He could see what her eyes said. How much she loved him even as his teenage boyhood had fought and rejected the passing of her bloodline to him, that he should listen more closely than believe he was right because of the greatness of power he could bring into being. He tried not to sob. He tried. Brushing away the tears, he found a small ladybug at his feet, three spots upon its back, two on the left and one on the right. Three was his Number, born the Third Day of the Third Month of a Third Cycle. Picking it up, he could tell it was dead, legs curled up upon it in those last moments as if trying to be small and hide, perhaps thinking Death would overlook it. He remembered bringing things back. First it was small things, spiders and frogs. He was too young to see, too young to notice how those things he brought back moved, how they were not the same. How it was wrong. His mother would find him, breathing hard, and nervously ask him what he had done. Power like that makes a loud sound to any with the ears to hear it. The dead do not like to return. Why? You’ll find out. Touching the ladybug, Josua disobeyed his Mother’s warning once again. He had done the same yesterday, rejecting his Mother’s advice and sending his invisible mark high into the sky by performing all his chores at once with but two words, his power like the finale of a 4th of July fireworks. The ladybug stirred in his hand, flipping over after a few tries. Josua bent close and whispered to it, apologizing for his need, and asking forgiveness. In response, the ladybug unfurled black gossamer wings from under its red carapace and lifted into the air. It careened through the small space of the woodshed like a school bus weaving through traffic and then out through the sliver of air between sprung boards, three white spots upon a red background glinting in the rays of light. Josua held his breath and the woodshed obliged. He knew what bringing the ladybug back to life would feel like, how loud it would call those that hunted through the burning house for him. His eyes were closed when she returned to him, settled upon the curve of his upper ear, her antennae brushing his skin revealing what she had seen. Josua gently took her in his hand and let her go. The ladybug curled up upon itself and rolled over, legs bent, as if finding a comfortable position to rest, glad to be dead again. By then, the smoke was thick inside the woodshed as he stood and blew it apart, obliterated it completely. He had no choice. Thirteen stood around the shed in a circle at perfect intervals, men and women wearing lettered jackets; FBI, CIA, DEA. The hunters had people in all organizations. It allowed them to more easily find and become aware of people like Josua and his mother. It made it easier to kill them and rid the earth of their existence. Others would come when these first thirteen did not report in, uncertain after no contact. They would find the bones of these original hunters in the exact positions they had occupied, arranged in a circle in thirteen perfect intervals, stacked up neatly as if the flesh had been stripped from them where they had stood. Josua left his footprints burned into the grass, the mica in the soil turned to glass. One doesn’t think of such things in moments like this. Not when they’re twelve. He staggered into the forest behind the house. It took him months to make it out while his pursuers had become hopelessly lost trying to follow and end him. The forest has a mind and will of its own. By then he preferred the darkness of covering trees and understood why the things he brought back were not the same. Returning to life after the comfort of its ending, they found the bright light of life’s memories too painful, the agony of life remembered after the dark warm waters of death had washed them away and one was at peace. Regret is something the living carry Josua. The dead have no need of it. Birth of a Witch by Tongue Running down the back lane between old wooden buildings, a teenage girl pelts past in the humid night. She has a box under her arm. It is small, heavy, and it slows her so. The scritch-scratching sound of her driving footsteps echoes off the walls. To her they sound impossibly loud. Deep shadow aside a building ahead grabs her attention. An addition of some sort? It beckons. She slides into the dark corner and drops prone on her stomach, raising a small cloud of dust. Listening hard she leans her head left and right, straining. She tries to locate the pursuer but can only hear the wheezing bellow of her own lungs in the still night air. Many minutes pass, there is no sound and her breathing slows. The small cloud of dust she kicked up settles with impossible slowness as she waits. Clearly visible in the moonlight, it floats on gentle eddies and thins, this way and that, curling, and thins again, fading by degrees until it is no more. Everything is finally still again, just her pounding pulse distracts her now and she listens again. Nothing. A rock is digging into her ribs. It’s time to move. She slowly pushes against her palms, preparing to rise. SHE STOPS! There. Just where the dust was settling. Something was wrong, a new shadow, or a deeper one at least. A FOOT! Hovering an inch of the ground. Now that she recognizes the foot, the rest can be traced with her eye. A leg, knee, a torso, neck and finally… his face. That long lean face, the stubbly cheeks and the subtle shine of his black silk cloak. Uncle. He doesn’t see her... Yet. "I can smell your perfume Corelle." He muses. "Give me the stone and you can go free." He waits…Listening. "Eh Corelle? What are you going to do? Resurrect bunnies in the forest? Please, I can do much good with it." More waiting, she was starting to sweat. "Come now, I’ll even pay you for it. A hundred thousand…Eh Corelle? How’s a hundred thousand sound?" He tilts his head listening a moment more, and then floats further down the alley. The girl gets up silently. Which way? It is then that she notices the door around the back side. It’s not an addition, it’s a separate structure, pressed close. She tries the handle and the door swings inward silently. The smell of fresh cut wood, Cedar and Tamarack assault her nostrils. A woodshed. The perimeter of the shed is stacked to the roof with fresh split wood. Cords and cords of it. In the corner on the floor is a small collection of sealed glass jars. Perhaps six, but she has not time to investigate further. On the far wall, framed by the wood stacks, is a small, dirty window which looks out into the alley. She puts the heavy box quietly on the floorboards, and tiptoeing, she flits across and peers out. Nothing is moving. Straining to see further down the alley she leans her head to the edge of the glass and looks hard left along the wall outside. Her heart stops as she looks straight into a lean pale face, straight into Uncle’s eyes! Yanking back she drops and plasters herself against the woodpile beneath the window. Seconds later his hand deftly lifts the window and he crouches to look through the small opening, trying to penetrate the darkness without much success. "Please Corelle! Please." "It’s MY inheritance." She shrieks back, breaking her silence. "So it IS you in there my love." He answered coolly. Slowly he reaches through the window. His open hand palm up and his large ruby ring flashing in a shaft of moonlight. "GIVE ME the Phoenix Stone Corelle." He ordered, a hint of anger now leaking into his voice. The young teen rolled away from the window, she scrambled to the corner with the jars, knocking them alarmingly askance in a rolling, clinking, cacophony. She lifted one up to the light and smiled wickedly. Boys will be boys. The savage expression is off-putting on such an innocent face. Crouched in the darkness she started to chant quickly and rhythmically. The man heard her voice, he felt the energy roll through the ground. It warmed his toes. He yanked his hand from the window and took a step back. He knew her ability, the one spell she could manage. But manage it she could, and it was something to behold. "What are you doing my niece? "He half grated, rising to finish in a half yell. She chanted faster holding the jar to the light so she could watch her pet transform. In the glowing sliver of moonlight she watched the centipede race around the bottom of the jar. Nearing the climax of her spell she unscrewed the perforated lid and opened the jar. There was a loud bubbling and a painful clicking screech as the centipede grew exponentially, exploding out of the jar. Fattening and elongating it doubled again, and again, and again, until it was five feet long. A powerful, hideous, nightmare creeper. Her uncle outside the window could not see the monster as it crouched low on its hundred legs below the window. Crouched and waiting for Corelle’s direction. It raged against Corelle’s hold but to no avail, it was hers now, until she released it. It had grown so fast, it’s body was starved for energy. Wracked with pain it wanted only one thing, the one thing that dominated its mind utterly. To eat. There was a long moment when no one spoke. Not the Uncle. Not the niece. …The uncle broke it first. "This was your choice my Corelle." He uttered angrily. Outstretching his arm the ruby ring flared to life. Fire appeared at his fingertips, and spreading quickly it licked around his hand growing in intensity until the hand was white hot. Corelle didn't see the light through the window until it was almost too late. "GOOOO! "She screamed at the centipede. With blinding speed the insect raced up the wood pile to the window. It was met on the sill by a concentrated cone of searing fire which incinerated the racing monstrosity as fast as it raced out the window. The heat blurred the world and Corelle screamed, cowering from the furnace. The wall of the shed was ablaze and the window glass sagged, slumped and then flopped melting from the now ashen pane. The molten glass fell onto the floor of the woodshed with a heavy splash. Inside Corelle screamed in pain wiping a sizzling glob from her shin along with a blistering strip of skin. And then, with a sizzling *POP*. The fire stopped. The heat stopped and the back end of the centipede fell back into the now burning shack, legs snapping into crunchy burnt pieces. The man stepped again to the window opening. With a wave of his hand the flames extinguished and he looked in, spotting the shaking girl instantly. He held out his hand. "The Phoenix Stone Corelle. "He repeated. Trembling she crawled to the box and opened the lid. A glittering sapphire shone coolly back. NOW! He demanded. She plucked out the gemstone and felt its cool power run through her. The red angry skin of her right side seemed so much worse by comparison, and the blistered mess of her shin was throbbing, almost unbearable. But. She had an idea. The resurgence of light behind her got her attention though and she turned to see her uncle staring back at her, his hand ablaze once more. "Don’t. "He warned, searching her eyes for motive. She could not meet the gaze and she looked at the floor. Slowly, shaking and whimpering, she crawled back towards the window. The floor was hot, covered in charred remains and she forced herself to stand. Head bowed, she held out her hands, one atop the other, as if presenting a holy artifact to the heavens. The man held out his other hand and kept the blazing one trained on her. She looked up into the man’s eyes and held them. Just for a moment. And then she placed her hands over his and opened them. The glowing gem fell heavily into the man’s palm and so… did something else. Something she had been holding in the other hand, hidden. A tiny piece of burnt debris. The man felt it but thought it only dirt, the possibility never even registered. Stepping back from the window he squeezed the gem tight in his grasp, felt its cool rush of power and marvelled in triumph "FINALLY. Its MINE." There was a crackle of blue light from between his fingers and he laughed again in triumph. Louder now. For the world to hear. "MIIINNNE." He looked back at his niece, wobbling unsteady in the woodshed, and raised his glowing hand. "Sorry Love. " No! Can’t trust ANYONE. Aiming down his raised his arm he stopped. His fingers, the ones holding the gem were shaking, were prying apart. Uncle held fast. Confused. And then... He realized what was happening. The charred piece was a sliver of a foot. A centipede foot. With gruesome force his hands were peeled back, the Phoenix Stone dropped on the gravel of the lane and from that sliver of foot it grew. The creature grew much as it did before, explosively and grotesquely. It wrapped its sinuous body around the man. She did nothing to stop it. Hundreds of gripping hook like feet scratching and clawing as the pinchers took fist sized bites with blinding speed. His screams split the night and Corelle watched in horror, repulsed yet fascinated, as the monster devoured her uncle, head first. A wicked grin split her face as she bent and picked up more charred remains. Yelping she clambered painfully through the window. She had to hurry. "Stop." She ordered her pet. It took a final savage bite and slithered off the body. Corelle limped gingerly over and picked up the glowing blue stone. She placed another piece of charred centipede in her hand with the stone…and squeezed. Minutes later she limped out of the alley mouth and headed for the forest with seven giant centipedes racing along beside her. Up the buildings, under benches, and around tree trunks they followed. Racing from shadow to shadow just like their former little predator selves, but now bigger and far more terrible. The sounds of the watch could be heard in the distance. They found the body. Come my pets. She beckoned disappearing into the tree line. No one is EVER going to lay a hand on me again. Of Unending, by Lushmoss Colus sat on an outcrop of mountain that overlooked the Unending Green, well above the tops of the tallest pines that cast long shadows over their shorter kin during the sunset. The animal-skinned tents were adorned with paint from blue dye and strings of stones hanging from the doorframes, said as they were to ward off the ghosts that danced in the Unending. But it seemed as though the fetishes were not infalible. R'fa had been sitting on a grassy boulder, looking out to where the green faded into the gold on the horizon. For a man of his tribe he was not unusual: leather and wool leggings, a cloak of wolf fur to cover his bare chest and symbolize his warrior status. His young face was aged with grief that cut lines into his tanned face, more insidiously that the scars left by the former owner of his cloak. Eyes that looked out over the land saw further, and yet nowhere at all. Most of his kin respected his need for solitude, so few were outside of their tents this evening. When he heard the scuffle of knees and foot on dirt, he knew that it was the apprentices leaving his own abode, which he shared with his wife. With no great passion, he hefted himself from his perch and passed the robed ones as they filtered out. Inside, a small ring of fire surrounding a cooking stone illuminate his bride, as she lay wasting away on her bed. The scent of the shaman's medicines mixed with that of uncleaness. So different from the honey and flower aroma that used to dominate that spring, and now those plants that coloured the room in violet and white were now withered and brown, an apt mirror of how things had come to be. The shaman's cloak was of feather and wool, and in her tattooed hand she held the woman's face, and a half-empty concoction of desicated insects and crushed moss in the other. She turned to R'fa, not immediately, only once the man had knelt with him. "It did not work. The medicine flowed through D'rii, but the flower remained. It will not stop it's eating of her ." A flower, of all of the things. Some flowers were good for dyeing, some were sugary and could be eaten. Unfortunately, his wife had unknowingly strayed too far into the Unending, past the shelter where timber was left to dry. She'd discovered an enticing bud, fiery and alive, and in her folly swallowed the thing. It would not leave her belly, and her body could not absorb it. Nothing that belonged to the Unending belonged to a man of Colus. From under a cowl, the shaman continued quietly, "You will need to say goodbye, soon." R'fa's face turned inward in anger. "D'rii is my love. She will not die." "Will alone will not cure her of this. One way or another, there is no time left." Sadly, the feathered woman rose and moved to the door. Before she disappeared outside, she said "However you decide, I shall have my children bring her to the stones," and then made the usual farewell that consisted of the wishing of luck and thanks; a common word amongst their tribe to thank the host for allowing them to share their tent. Then R'fa was alone again, with the comatose form of his wife lying before him. Truly she was thin. Bone pressed through stretched skin. It would only be time before the flower would take her heart. Kissing her once, that was his farewell. Before it was one way, or the other. Outside once more, he sat upon the stone that itself sat on the edge of the outcrop. Wind brushed the tufts of long grass on his legs, but now it was his body that experienced nothing only. His eyes pierced the horizon once more, but this time he saw everything about the land as the sun slowly hid behind mountains and coated the forests in shadow. The Unending. It was not a place that a man could ever own, as it had it's own mind. Many of one. An anti-thesis of what it was be human. The question that played through his head, was how much was that worth? When the stars lit the dark sky R'fa knew that there was indeed no more time. But it was not until he took his last, halting step into the ring of mighty standing stones that his mind was decided. The shaman was there, wearing a mask of wood to protect her soul. Her apprentices, her "children", were similarly attired, as well as holding aloft a pair of torches. In the centre of the ring, D'rii lay surrounded by the same angry red flower which had caused her ailment. Potentially, this was also her pyre. With a slight tilt to her head, the shaman asked: "You have decided the way?" R'fa nodded. "She cannot accept the flower. It is Unending. But I will, because I can. It will pass to me." With that, he set aside the axe he kept at his side; unclasped his cloak and let it fall to ground where he stood; removed everything and place his axe and cloak atop of the pile. Fully bare, he knelt before the stone and prostrated himself. The shaman knew the words. The warrior barely heard them. All he could see was the withering of the flowers as their pollen ebbed out like smoke, the cloud floating above D'rii but thankfully not touching her. He hoped he saw the pollen escaping her nostrels as well, but the moment held his eyes to the cloud. He felt suddenly the scruteny of the ring of stones that surrounded them: how they too judged as part of that known as the Unending. A note beyond his hearing chimed. And like a snake, the cloud ribboned around him. When vision returned to the spiritmongers, they saw that the warrior was brushing his fallen hair from his skin... his jet black skin. No more were his eyes brown. Now they shone white. Not a folicle was left on his body. But even if one could overlook those features, or cover them up, the anti-thesis of human nature remained like an unnerving pressence around he who was once R'fa. There was no place for the Unending in Colus. And R'fa knew it too. He saw it in the disturbed eyes of the apprentices behind the masks. Man could not cope around what he was now. He could, because he had given up his humanity to the Unending, and it had not left him with the slightest bit of it. He stood, and without looking once at his former wife, or thinking of what he had given up, made the walk down into the forest, and beyond to that faded horizon at sunset. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Apr 2nd, 2014 at 10:25 AM. |
#49
|
|||||
|
|||||
February 2014 Competition Entries Topic: Unexpected Result Challenge: a hero, rotten pancakes, artwork Winner: The Tie That Blinds by MimeRifle Birth of The Speaker (1842 Words) Excerpt from the diaries of Abigal Exton, First Mother, Sword of Retribution, and Speaker for All June 24, 2034 Mommy knows I know. I can tell. She made me pancakes with chocolate and peanut butter chips for breakfast. They tasted bad like garbage from her touch. Rotten like what’s inside her. Mommy’s smile was slinky. I could almost see the tentacles licking over her teeth. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid. Must forget she…..It is mommy. Mommy is long gone. It has eaten her. I must kill mom…IT. I MUST KILL IT. It must die. For Mommy. I love you. Fall, 18 PC (post-collapse) Abigal Exton hunched low against the broken concrete barrier bordering a portion of road that had once been US101 just outside Sausalito. Most of the road was cratered patches of asphalt intertwined with dead ground and short weak weeds. She could see Jeremy and the others strung out further down the embankment waiting for her signal. Abigal refused to call them Demons like most. That was pure foolishness. The Collapse was a hysteria made by such thinking. If there ever was a thing as God, he had long since left for a better place somewhere else in the universe. Maybe that’s how they got here. Followed his glittering trail to Earth. Here. Have my children and eat them. They have grown undeserving. Abigal smiled, wildness in her eyes. She would have laughed at the voice in her head, but that sound could get them all killed. Four of the seven in the group walking down the road into the remnants of Sausalito where not human. The question was whether or not those three humans knew it. Ya can’t save’em all Abs. Ya can’t save’em all. Winter 2037 It’s so damn cold. I don’t know if I can make. Chanced getting found and ate at the shelter on 5th street this Tuesday. Sat next to Whisper. He couldn’t take the cold anymore either. He was either sick or as scared as I was cause he didn’t even talk to his food or make his plastic spoon and fork dance on the frigid aluminum table to make me laugh. No gap toothed smile for me either when he left. He just looked at me with those clear eyes of his. We had long since given off pretending with each other. We knew the difference. “Don’t sleep here.” That’s what his lips said when he turned to go. I found him on Saturday frozen under a tree in Golden Gate park. The snow piled up to his shoulders. He had cut his own throat. I didn’t have to dig to find the knife in his hand. I knew. Will I do that? Will They make me kill myself? The next part turned tricky, but it always was when you’re trying to save lives. If she had known how it would end, she would have just killed them all without expending so much effort. Effort that left her tired and empty. Vaulting up onto the concrete barrier, Abigal placed her feet wide and let her voice ring out onto US101. "Stop where you are." Hope wasn’t an emotion Abigal fostered. It was weak. Hope was always in continual need of shoring up, perpetual efforts to brace its thin rickety legs against breaking. The Hopeful had all died long ago. Abigal put her money down on Vengeance. That emotion could feed itself. "You heard me. Stop or….." And that was it. Surrounded by those Abigal led, one of them got twitchy. Before he even got his shotgun level, it was over in a ruckus of gunfire. She could hear the high pitched squeal of the four who were not human as they died, black ink spilling from their wounds, oily and slick. The smell of them was acrid, an electrical fire that burned her nose as she breathed. Summer, Year 1 PC Lost radio. Probably for the better. Harder for Them to find me if there is no beacon to track. Eventually it had to come to this as more and more of Us could see them and the secret became Truth. Riots. Paranoia. Killing. The Blind only need reason to kill others if they don’t look like them, talk like them, walk like them. Have Faith like them. Proof is an expensive commodity these days. I heard that Nukes took some of the East coast. At least a few of the bigger cities. And portions of rest of the world. Japan was the first to go. Hit by ‘hundreds an leveled flat’ or that’s what Charlie-niner said when I still had a working radio. Payback for the 40’s and Nanking. Bastards deserved it, he said. But I don’t know much about history. Someone, a number of someone’s, had sense and cut short a nuclear nightfall. Shame really. We’re all gonna die. Might as well be in a Big Bright Light that kills all of Them too. Abigal hovered over the lone survivor. The woman was tied to a metal table, arms and legs held tight, head pinned down by a strap across her forehead. It didn’t matter that she was human, that They weren’t inside her. She was corrupt none the less. "Your lying," Abigal said, voice creeping with hysteria, beginning to jump and skitter across her teeth. "No. No. I’m not lying. I can take you there. I know the way." Abigal sank her left thumb deep into the bullet wound in the woman’s thigh feeling the bone of her fragmented femur. The woman screamed until she choked on her own spit and vomit. In the end, she never backed off her story but Abigal had gotten want she wanted, directions. "There’s no reason for someone else to do it. More than half can see them now and lead patrols." "It doesn’t have to be you Abi." "Yes. Yes it does Galen and you know it." "Fine. Then we’ll send your whole team." "No. Too risky. I can move quieter and faster alone. And if I somehow fail, you only have to worry about my mouth telling them Truth. We both know that won’t happen." "Damn it Abi. Damn it." Galen had always been a pushover, ever since she found him beaten and dying along CA Hwy 1. He probably figured out the real manner of his rescue. That he wasn’t left for dead. That they were still arguing over his warm body when Abigal showed up. There is no manner of words that can convince a starving person from slacking their hunger with another’s flesh when they’ve already consigned themselves to such a path. Reason has long abandoned them by that point. "Take Jeremy." It was Abigal’s turn to cuss. They looked at each other a long time, Abigal’s hands quiet against her packing, the silence thick. "I’m sorry." "No. It’s alright. Tell him to get ready," she said as she put her back to him and cinched the straps of her pack. Galen waited a moment to leave, regretting his words at first until understanding that it didn’t matter. Jeremy wouldn’t have stayed behind anyway. The two of them may refuse to let it happen, refuse to admit it, but they wouldn’t be parted. Spring, Year 15 PC Found Jeremy as the snow thawed. Why now? I don’t deserve it. I won’t have that kind of pain again. The room They put her in after capture was nice and clean. The bed was soft so she slept on the floor. She figured Jeremy was dead but didn’t think about it. In the morning, They gathered her and escorted her down white halls to another room. All the doors had small black oblong plaques with gold numbers. The walls were lined with an odd assortment of artwork, paintings mimicking the old masters mixed with modern stuff like she had seen when she found an unwatched back entrance into the San Francisco Modern Art Museum that summer of the killer heat wave. Abigal doubted they were reproductions. Across from her, He sat. Jack Thomas. His hair was black, parted in the middle but ruffled as if he had just rolled out of bed, small wormlike ribbons wriggled out from the corners of his eyes over silver rimmed glasses that sat slightly askew on his face. When he spoke, rows of sharp white triangular teeth gleamed under the fluorescent lighting. "The serum we gave you to cure the virus should begin to work shortly Abigal. In a few hours." "So what. I still won’t believe it." Jack Thomas sighed. It was normally like this in the beginning. It didn’t really matter how convincing his arguments were or whether the preponderance of facts that had been presented stacked up. People still didn’t believe, couldn’t believe even if it was an old clichéd story. Perhaps that was part of the problem. It read like blogs one could find in a conspiracy theory website when the internet still worked. The U.S. government in conjunction with allies in Europe had bio-weapon research. They had, regardless of assertions, always had bio-weapon research. In the early 2030’s, a compound was developed that when administered created a form of delusional psychosis that was semi-permanent. At first unpredictable, it was adjusted and refined but still proved difficult to control until two novel viral vectoring agents were developed that seeded the compound in a very specific manner into the cortex of the brain. First, one virus pushed the thalamus’ impulse activity into the dual neurologic pathways of fear. The shorter pathway, leading to the amygdala, was left unaffected and allowed the vague alarm of fear to sound rampant without modulation. But the sensory cortex, the portion that gave greater clarity and fine tuned that alarm, gave it life in imagery, was infected with the second virus bringing into reality a structured delusion reinforced by subsequent viral replication cycles and the compound’s integration into the viral genomic pattern. The research, yet unfinished, was stolen. Governments, if anything, are always fallible and we all know the consequences. It has taken too long to develop the cure. Too long. In her room, Abigal sat surrounded by white walls, tears glistening on her face. They had returned her belongings once the serum had taken effect. Fall 18 PC I've killed so many people. I killed my own Mother. How will I ever live with it? How can I ever live with it? Suicide would be easy. Cowardly. I must make amends. I must. For Mother. I’m sorry. I love you. "Do you think it will work?" "Certainly. At least for a while. We can not make much of the serum and it’s not permanent." "Then we can not eat him." "Correct. We need her yet. They will harvest for us and all we need to do is set the table for the bounty. There will be time to eat him and Abigal Exton. There will be time." What had been Jack Thomas smiled, a slinky smile, black tentacles licking his sharp white teeth. No Such Thing as the Five Second Rule General Melba walked through the ranks of his men, not in straight and dignified line that a slice of his station deserved, but weaving to find a clean path between where soldiers had fallen butter-side down from exhaustion. They had fought several times in the past week and the last march had been hard and forced. The general couldn't fault his men for their lack of propriety. "Wow, this is a real duck pond," marveled the subordinate that accompanied the General, a small bun. "Yes, it is. And we haven't seen most of the ducks yet." Of course, the general was not talking about real ducks. No, that was a metaphor, and actual ducks appearing to attack a batallion would be just plain silly, as I'm sure you would agree. No, he was talking about the pancake people who had risen from dead and that were rampaging through the good breakfast pastries who lived in these fair lands. A naive but innocent prince of the pancakes had fallen in love with a peasant who was unfortunately past her sell-by date, and she died the day before their marriage. In an act of desperation, he'd turned to the occult and attempted to revive her by placing her in a microwave for more than 30 seconds as she lay upon the Deadpan. The result was a undead creature that took a bite out of the prince and started to spread the plague of undeath amongst the populace. Being the flip-flops they were, the pancakes couldn't decide on how best to deal with the threat and soon fell to a cake to the zombies. From there, the undead horde had expanded to nibble on anything they could find. And it was up to this slice of toast to deal with the surprising repercussions of this ritual gone awry. General Melba, of a long line of noble-born, had been dispatched with the largest army that could be mustard to deal with this unexpected threat before it would spread to other kingdoms. However, the numbers he faced were many and although he'd won the first few battles the pancake's more-ish nature had brought more hordes than the general could handle. He'd made a full retreat to the boarder of the territories, and to his credit he'd managed to draw every dead pancake into a single massive pile, which now threated to tip and fall over his weakening army. Metaphorically, of course: having a single tower of rampaging undead is also something that is too silly to actually happen. The army had set camp on a mountain with a flat top, providing a suitable and dramatic final stage for battle. Barricades of porsaline and serviettes rolls had been erected to make cresting the top of the mountain as difficult as possible for the invaders, and kettles of PG tips were already starting to simmer in preparation for pour down onto the decaying masses. But there was another reason why the general had chosen this particular battlefield, as it did come with a very big drawback: they would be easily surrounded once the dead pancakes arrived, which effectively made this a final stand. No, he'd pinned a wild hope on another gambit, one that called upon legend and myth... "The zombies will be upon us in a matter of hours," the general said, and his assistant raised up to listen. "Get them lined up and ready for battle. It's time for a roll call." ~~~ Several miles away, away north from the table mountain, a trio made their way down into an ancient structure, overgrown with ivy and moss. The wooden panelings that decorated the tall walls of the passage that led inwards bore depictions of wary figures and a plaque on the bottom. Each read the same three words: Let it lie. However, the three brave heroes were not about to be put off by the warnings. Well, two of them weren't. The third was another story. "We shouldn't be angering ze spirits of dis place, mon ami," quivered the half-moon form of Crescent, a frenchstuff from the southern kingdoms. In response to this, a much larger version of him wearing an apron lovingly and motherly gave her son a swift kick to the back and sent him through into the deeper darkness, narrowly missing the baguette who was leading the way. "There isn't any other choice now, Crescent." Stick helped his childhood friend up as his words echoed through the hall. "That mob of zombies spotted us, and they'll be down in this crater any minute. We can only go forward now." The croissant brushed off some dirt, looking no less relieved. "I'm almost afraid of what iz in front of us as what iz behind us." At that, his mother, the grand Matron Moon, loomed large behind him and wringed a huge wooden club in her grip, in such a way that could be considered frightening and parental at the same time. "I'd worry more about the latter, myself." said Stick in a voice of utter seriousness. ~~~ Melba had barely time to inspect the last of the barricade before the horde below started their ascent. Like a gooey pool of compost, the undead horde spread around the mountain's foot with sinister intent and moved inwards and upwards to absorb the living. "Scramble! Scramble!" commanded the general at those closest to him. Eggs were thrown onto a heated skillett which fed down into an engine-run beater. Globules shot through the air at breakneck speed into the masses, making the front line jagged like a giant bite out. Despite this, the wave still progressed upwards, undaunted. "Reload and fire again!" This time, however, the order was not followed. A freshly baked ran up to him with his hands covered in red jelly. "We can't, sir!" exclaimed the recruit. "The gears are jammed!" "Jammit! Where is that tea?!" shouted Melba, looking behind him for the kettles. It was his assistant who responded this time. "The blind ones are still tending to the boiling. Someone opened their eyes, and the process took longer than usual. They will be here in two minutes, they think." It may take two minutes, but the general knew from experience that it was going to feel like ten. Without the machine egg beater to drive back the dubious pancakes, this part of the horde looked to reach and breach this part of the wall in seconds. With a face of pure determination, the general knew what had to be done. He unslung his massive claymore, which was flat-bladed and toothed on one side, and heroically leapt over the rough barricade and charged down the hill, cape flowing behind him, and into the waiting philanges of a hundred decaying circles. His impact splattered goo everywhere. Without missing a stride he continued to slash and hack through the masses. He cut slices out of cake. He chopped off a dozen crusts. His blade moved through pastry like a hot knife through butter. The general lost himself to the fight. When the leader was pulled away finally he hadn't realized that his men had joined him in the fight, and that they'd managed to push back the wave for long enough for the kettles to get into position. The last of the buns just made it back over the wall as the scalding liquid was poured over the rim. Hundreds of the undead were washed down. But still, there was hundreds more. Catching his breath, Melba could only watch as the last drop of dripped out of the kettle, and horde resumed it's climb upwards. The battle would soon reach the barricades. "Looks like we're toast," he said to himself. ~~~ The thirty-seven traps that the trio had rushed by and somehow evaded had slowed them down little, and fortunately they helped to stem the tide of undeath that was creeping behind them. However, number thirty-eight was providing a riddle that the three had difficulties in deciphering. A pair of doors, with the word "Bread" and "Chocolate" above each. "Pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat? Zere iz no way to know which one is the right door!" exclaimed the poor Crescent, the excitement getting to him. The baguette scowled back. "Hush! I'm trying to think!" But it was hard to think when death was just a minute behind you. He was pretty sure that the waffleiron trap wasn't going to catch all of the pancakes. However, it was the mute Matron Moon who solved the problem for them. Without regard for her own safety, she hauled open the wooden door labeled "Pain" and prepared herself for the worst. Sure enough, searing hot jelly splattered into her, knocking her back into unconciousness and smelling of deliciousness. At the sight of his mother's form, Crescent rush forward to cradle her. "Non! Ma est a malade!" he shouted in distress. Stick could only look on, dumbfounded by the woman's sacrifice, but somehow his gaze wandered up to the passage beyond the door. They were nearly there. The Beast lay not so far now. Looking down with concern at his companions, he didn't want to leave them behind. Crescent look up for a moment and saw his friend loafing on the problem. "Go, I'll stay here and protect her. Like you said, zere iz only one way out now. Find ze Beast!" With great reluctance, the baguette rolled on through the doorway and deeper into the dark. Now only the figures on the panels kept him company, their written warnings becoming more imploring, and prounced. Let it lie. Let it sleep. But in Stick's mind, there was no choice. Soon, the air got hotter, and he could hear heavy breathing from a creature many times his own size. He only hoped that the monster remembered one thing: the sacred laws that had been taught to it so many years ago. Otherwise, the loaf might not leave this chamber at all... ~~~ The fight had been taken to the slope and some edges of the barricade. On all sides the fight raged. Berserker buns attacked with red-hot elements. Maple syrup was deployed to slow the masses of dead. The sound of a thousand pops reverberated through the air as blows struck against the defender's shields, and though many of the foe were skewered on 4-pronged tridents there was always more ready to try their luck. Soon the apples would bruise. The grapes shrivel. The pastry grow stale with fatigue. The pushing out tactic would not be able to sustain itself for long. Melba cut a pancake in half, and had a brief moment to size up the situation for himself, and soon realized that it wasn't good. He started to call back for another retreat, when he saw something in the distance... something huge, and fast, and furry.... and bobbing... Suddenly the general knew what it was. He called a mass retreat, and horns were sounded so that everyone knew the order. Every last remaining soldier pulled back to the barricade, and holed up for the inevitable counter assault. But slow moving as they were, the zombies took too long to clamber up the hill. They were barely there when the monster with a massive maw and huge, floppy ears started to gobble up the horde several legions at a time. Apparently, it didn't care for expiry dates, and ate the foul pastry with clear glee. It's tail swung back and forth behind it, sending pancakes flying. Upon it's back Stick, Crescent and Matron Moon held onto the cord that was circled around it's neck. Melba strictly commanded his men not to go over the barricade. Sure enough, no man was devoured by the Beast. For it remembed that that sacred plateau on the top of the flat mountain was not a place to kill, or to eat. Instead, it contented itself on the what lay on the floor below it. Soon the beast got too fat for it's own good and lay prostrate on the ground, but it had done it's job: the remaining zombies were too few to possess a major threat, and were soon taken out with the trash. In the days to come, there were several medals awarded in blue, silver and red foil tops, to acknowledge the bravery of those who fought that day. The general and the trio were awarded the top honor, each given the sacred plaque, a plaque which read: What the heck did I just write? Natalie by Elrood (872 words) Him He could picture her. He could feel her. Inside his 4th floor apartment he could almost smell her. He closed his eyes and imagined. The storm raging outside was even worse in his mind. No thunder. No lightning. Just rain. Buckets and buckets of rain. Inches of water covered the streets and filled the drains. The nearby railway stations clock tower chimed midnight. That was her time. She would be coming for him now. In his mind she was opening her window, slipping out, and closing it behind her. She’d leave it unlocked due to the weather. No one but her would be out anyway. Not in this rain. Soon he was picturing her on her apartments rooftop down on 37th Street near the bridge. Her black hair would be up in a ponytail. Her brass rimmed goggles gleaming in what little moonlight there was, reflecting rain, moon, and lights. She would be wearing her black leather shirt. She always wore her black leather shirt, the one with lace and drawstrings, for her special assignments, of which he was definitely one. Her black pants would be full of pockets and gadgets that never seemed to make a sound. Her black leather shoes would be brand spanking new. As always. It was unfolding before his closed eyes, he could sense it. She ran from rooftop to rooftop with a grace he’d never seen from anyone but her. His eyes darted underneath his eyelids trying to keep up with her, the rain unable to slow her movements even the slightest. She always sang to herself on these missions. He wondered what she would be listening to. He could picture her singing softly “I want to make love to you all the time” which was from her current favorite dance tune. She sang that song to him for hours a few nights ago, nearly drove him crazy. She’d probably ruin the ear buds she was using out there in weather like this but she didn’t care. She had to have her dance music on assignments. And she had to have it loud. It was always so loud her target could hear her coming from twenty feet away. Not that she ever cared. By the time you could hear it, it was too late anyway. If he was keeping pace with her, she’d be approaching 45th Street now. He probably wasn’t on pace though. He never was. Just three more streets and she’d be there. There wasn’t much time left now. He opened his eyes. Some hero he was. Her She approached his building. Her hair and clothes were soaked. The load music was already causing her eardrums to ring. She sang her favorite dance tune quietly to herself, “I never knew a love, a love that could be sweeter”. Her thoughts turned to him. Just three more blocks and she’d be there. He was probably sitting there in the dark waiting on her. She wanted to feel sorrow for him but couldn’t bring herself to it. Now wasn’t the time. She had an assignment to do. She wiped the rain off her goggles and proceeded to climb the buildings windows and water pipes to the fourth floor. Taking a glass cutter out of one of her pants pockets, she cut a hallway windows glass and slowly crawled inside. The dirty and stained carpet soaked up the water that ran off her leather outfit. She went down the hall, right, and into the next hall. Standing outside Room 407 she hastened to recall the layout of his apartment. Would he have moved the furniture? Doubtful. What about boarding himself up in the loft? No, he wouldn’t do that, he’d have accepted his fate by now. He’s probably sitting on the floor meditating next to his unfinished painting of rotten pancakes and worm-riddled apples. He has such horrible taste in artwork. Still, she wanted to be sure. She could never be too careful. After all, she wasn’t about to turn her music down and she still needed the upper hand. Unplugging one ear bud she puts her ear to the door and tried to listen but heard nothing over her own music. Replacing the bud, she headed back to the window, climbed outside and scaled the walls over to the balcony above his. Upside down, she lowered her head just far enough to see inside. He sat on the living room floor, legs crossed, arms at rest, with his eyes shut. Figures. Her ears were really starting to ache, she needed to hurry. She lowered herself down to his balcony off to the side. She could probably cut the glass and him not hear, but he’d catch the breeze and rain soon as she popped it in so the sword is a no go. Revolver it is. Reaching to a waist pocket she pulls out some tape and covers a part of the balcony window with it. Putting the tape roll back and grabbing her revolver, she put the muzzle over the tape. Almost as if on queue he opens his eyes just as she pulls the trigger. Epilogue The Tie That Blinds A short story set in the Shadowrun universe – By Mimerifle (3,093 words) It was just one more in a seemingly unending parade of rainy days and nights in Seattle. The drops of acrid rain hammering the roof of Grimaldi’s Diner made a sound inside the establishment like ten thousand tiny marbles rolling about inside a metal barrel. A young man seated alone in a booth stared out the window. Clouds of steam from storm sewer drains hung close to the soaked pavement like fog, painted and repainted in vivid colors by the gas-lit signs of rows of businesses that lined the street. It was Fendrik Toz’s fourth week in Seattle, and it already felt like a year. He’d begun to seriously question his decision to give up what was, by an average dataslave’s standards, a solid gig working for a Simsense manufacturer in Chicago – just one of countless businesses operated by some megacorp conglomerate. Did it even matter anymore which one? Corruption and the megacorps had long been synonymous, so even a “legitimate” job working for one is to essentially be a criminal. The only difference between slaving for a giant corporation like Northeast Industries and being a murdering street thug is that your hands stay clean - at least in the eyes of the so-called authorities, who got their paychecks from the same damned company. For someone like Fen, who was born cursed with a conscience, there really was no difference at all. It had been about a year since Fen’s first illegitimate payday, a Matrix run to crack a data store belonging to his daytime employer. It was his first tangle with black IC, and it couldn’t have gone much worse. He managed to jack out in time, but was microseconds from becoming neuro-toast. The badge he earned that night was a burn on the datajack side of his head that left an unsightly scar as well as a recurring infection around the port. Too bad he hadn't earned enough nuyen yet to get the implant properly refitted. So far, Seattle hadn't exactly been the Shadowrunner’s land of opportunity his friend Clive sold him on back in Bug City. Considering Clive’s track record of being dependably incorrect, Fen had been kicking himself every day of these last four weeks that he let himself be talked into joining his so-called friend in his relocation to the west coast. The “Specials” board behind the counter, which advertised discounted plates that were anything but special, today touted “Rotten Pancakes” – a regional dish made of partially fermented soy milk and crumbs made into patties and deep-fried. Only trolls would eat them. Thankfully for the owners of Grimaldi’s, the joint got plenty of troll traffic. Under the board, Celena toiled away, wiping down the countertop with a damp rag - the only employee currently working the front of the house at the diner, and the only reason Fen ever made a second visit to the dump, or a third. She was a pretty girl, really pretty. Smart, too. She smiled over to the young man, realizing he’d been staring at her. “How’s that tea workin’ out for ya?” she asked across the room, indicating it would be a good time for Fen to ask for a refill if he was so inclined. “Best tea in Seattle!” he lied with a grin. He hadn’t mustered the guts to ask her out yet, partially because his hope was to treat her to something nice, and his credstick balance wasn’t substantial enough to swing anything better than Grimaldi’s at the moment. He’d also witnessed her turn down about half a dozen other guys in just the few weeks he’d been hanging around, all of them appearing to be better-funded than he. As it was, he was just thankful she hadn’t yet accused him of stalking her, and instead seemed to actually enjoy his company, so he wasn’t prepared to press his luck. “C’mere a second.” The gorgeous redhead beckoned Fen closer. Trying to preserve whatever “cool” capital he might still possess, he obliged, trying not to look in too big a hurry as he approached the counter. At closer proximity, she lowered her tone a bit, not that the few people seated about the place had any interest in their conversation, even the ones who were awake. “You’re a runner, right?” she asked, her light-brown eyes searching him for honesty. “Is that your sweet way of asking me if I’m really hard up for cash?” Fen replied with a chuckle. “Look, I know I’m not the best tipper in town, but I assumed you already had a pretty good guess as to why I keep coming back here, aside from the Specials.” He hoped his witty retort might crack the ice in Celena’s persona. She smiled at his comment, but offered no other response to it. Pointing at the cyberdeck sitting at the booth table, she continued. “Assuming I didn’t come down with this month’s rain, I have a pretty good idea how you’re making a living, and it so happens I know a fixer - a well-connected one. He’s looking for a good decker right now. That’s a Fuchi VirtuaX, if I’m not mistaken, and unless it belongs to an employer, it took some work to get the tags off that thing. That tells me you know your way around a cryptosystem.” Fen knew she was savvy, but he did not expect this type of conversation, and the look on his face showed it. “I…” was the only word he got out before Celena’s eyes led his attention to the individual who had just entered the diner – a dwarf, who shed his drenched overcoat to reveal a suit Fen couldn’t have afforded with a whole month’s salary from his slave gig. The dwarf nodded at Celena before taking a seat on the opposite side of the booth Fen had occupied. Celena gestured with her head toward the booth, indicating that was the guy she was talking about – and it certainly seemed he planned to have a conversation with Fen. Returning to his seat, the young shadowrunner was at least momentarily at a loss for words. As it turned out, that wouldn’t be a problem. “Hello Fen.” The dwarf spoke with a calm, controlled tone. Clearly, but quietly. Unnerved the stranger knew his name, Fen turned his head to look at Celena, but she must have gone into the kitchen as the counter was now unattended. Why would she be telling this guy anything about me? he wondered. “She didn’t give you up, chummer.” offered the impeccably-dressed metahuman. “Celena’s a good girl. She knows how to stay out of trouble.” Amused with himself, his lips spread revealing a front grill full of gold teeth. “I’m Mr. Fullbright. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Fen was again taken aback at the dwarf’s choice of words. Before he could ask Fullbright what he meant by ‘finally’, the stranger continued. “I have work for you, young man, and I dare say it’s an offer you won’t want to refuse.” That could mean a few different things, Thought fen. Either this run has some sweet paydata, or this guy thinks he’s got something on me. As though he were able to hear Fen’s inner dialogue, Fullbright said “Look at your credstick”. Fen fished the device out of a pocket inside his jacket. He raised an eyebrow as he read the display. Somehow he became richer to the tune of two-thousand new-ones in the few minutes since he’d purchased his tea. “A down-payment.” The fixer explained. “You’ll be able to get out of that drek-box of an apartment you’re living in with what you’ll make on this run. Look – there’s a window of opportunity at play here, and I haven’t got a lot of time to explain. Come with me.” Fullbright stood up and headed straight for the door, donning his overcoat as he strode. Fen rose to follow, thinking if this is already the strangest offer of employment I’ve ever received, I might as well see just how weird this can get. There was a limousine illegally parked directly in front of Grimaldi’s. The passenger door facing the sidewalk opened and Fullbright motioned for Fen to get inside. The dwarf entered after Fen was seated, the door closed, and the limo took off quickly, its wet tires spinning as it entered traffic, cruising up the on-ramp to the highway leading in the direction of the Redmond Barrens. Fen lost track of their location quickly as the windows in the vehicle were so darkly tinted. “Do you like art?” Mr. Fullbright was making small-talk at an unusual time. “Sure. I guess so.” Replied Fen, unable to conceal his apprehension. “Depends on what kind of art, I suppose.” Fullbright displayed his golden grin again. “Loosen up kid. I’m about to make you a bunch of money, it isn’t me you’ll need to be worrying about. I’m trying to brief you on the job. My employer is a big art fan. He calls himself an ‘art-savior’ actually. He collects things to keep them from being lost to the never-ending network of black markets. He has become aware of the existence of a very rare piece, and needs to rescue it from its current location.” “What is it – the piece?” inquired Fen. The fixer replied “Not that it matters for your part of the mission, but I believe it’s a painting – of a soup can or something ridiculous like that! Really old. Pre-awakening. The artist’s name was Warthog, or Warthall... Anyway, this is supposedly an original, and its currently sitting in a warehouse, and my employer wishes to retrieve it before the thing grows legs and takes off.” “And I’m supposed to steal the painting?” “Haha! No, of course not. We have a crew prepared to take the item, but that’s no ordinary warehouse. The security system is tough. We need you to deck into that system and disable alarms, and open locks.” Despite his generally good judgment, Fen was intrigued. “I presume a system like that has some hardcore IC.” “You’re damned right, kid – some of the nastiest programming we’ve come across. Ever heard of Chameleon?” That might as well be a question on an entry-level decker exam. Fen didn’t know a cyber-runner who wouldn’t recognize that name. Chameleon was a bona fide legend in the decking community, and a hero to many, Fen included. His Scorpion-X virus nearly crippled the global stock market in ’65, and would have, if some obnoxiously gigantic ransom hadn’t been paid to some crime lord or another. “If I said no, would you push me out the door without stopping the car?” The stocky fixer had an infectious laugh. “I like you, kid” was his only response to the question, which certainly didn’t warrant a serious answer. Fen’s tone lost its levity in that moment. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping here, sir – wouldn’t want you monkeying any further with my bank balance – but it seems to me this artwork isn’t really in any danger. Sounds like it’s well looked-after, actually.” Fullbright matched the sobriety in Fen’s demeanor. “Of course you’re right, kid. You know the score. Even the rich and powerful suffer bouts of guilt, I suppose. Competition is the name of the game, and we’ve got some. Our boss wants that damned picture, and he’s gonna get it, one way or another. You’re one of his ways. There’s more where you come from. Best be thankful for the boost and don’t ask too many questions, chummo. The advice is free, don’t pee on it. Ah! Here we are!” The car came to an abrupt halt signifying the end of the conversation. The door swung open again and Mr. Fullbright exited, followed by Fen. They were in a dark, depressing hole of a Barrens squatter village. Apartments that were really nice a century ago were hollowed-out pits of disease, drug use, prostitution, and insufferable sadness. The dwarf led Fen through a doorway at the back of one of the four-story former town homes facing the alley. The stench in the place was overwhelming. Fen gagged as they moved quickly down the hallway, noticing chipheads huddled in corners of rooms with no doors, writhing and shrieking in their artificial realities, wearing clothes they’d soiled for weeks on end. At the end of a hallway a keypad rested on the wall. Fullbright tapped out six digits and a wall panel opened into a small chamber. Upon entering, Fen recognized it was an elevator. The door closed again and the car carried the two of them down, if Fen’s irritated stomach was any reliable indicator of the direction at that point. The ride took too long, and it wasn’t because it was a slow elevator. That wasn’t a trip to the basement. Fen estimated they’d descended at least a dozen floors below ground. When the door re-opened, a more recently-built hallway was revealed. Fen trailed Fullbright, who moved quickly around a corner and into a small room with an automatic door. In the room was a desk, on which sat the most bodacious custom cyberdeck he’d ever laid eyes on, and in the desk chair sat a male elf with long jet-black hair and piercing gray eyes. “This is him, I presume?” the elf asked in monotone, his gaze seeming to calculate every imaginable detail in Fen’s makeup. “That’s him” the dwarf answered quickly, then turning to Fen. “Fen, meet Chameleon. Try not to freak.” Like I’m going to believe that! The world’s most legendary decker burrowing in some filth hole? No way! Fen waited for the punchline, but not a knee was slapped. He was overcome by dizziness for a moment as he considered it might all be real. Keep it together, Fen… “Not what I expected” the supposed master-decker offered with a hint of distain as he addressed Fullbright, “but I know you guys are never wrong with ID.” Turning toward Fen, his face softened. “It’s good to meet you, Fen.” Come on, say “finally”. This drek is entirely too weird! Fen was clutching his composure with all his might. “Considering I’ve just been introduced to someone who nobody, anywhere, ever meets, making it highly unlikely that I’m awake at the moment, let me say this; What’s shakin’, Chameleon?” The elf revealed a genuine smile. “You’ve got your father’s sense of humor.” The words paralyzed Fen. The tiny room began to spin, and in that moment he was pretty sure he might be checking out. The wall slammed into his shoulder, jarring him, then the floor rushed up and knocked him in the jaw so hard he could hear the clack of his teeth slamming together. Then everything went black. ~~~ Usually, you don’t know when you’re dreaming. No matter how many totally unreasonable things happen, you take them as reality. You question yourself when you wake up, wondering how you could have been fooled again. Sometimes, though, when you’re in a dream, you know where you are, and you can make things happen. That’s the way the Matrix feels. You imagine something, and it happens. You program reality, suspended in real-time. Fen had talked to his father many times in his life, but only in dreams. He had no real conversation to remember. He had no real voice to associate in his auditory memory. Somehow, though, he knew the voice. It was that voice that drove him, inspired him, and scolded him when he needed it. “It’s time, son” were the words he heard, and they played on repeat, reflecting off the vast sheer surfaces of a million questions he never got to ask. It’s not over… ~~~ It wasn’t over. Consciousness returned. Fen’s eyelids felt weighed down but he fought to open them. All he saw at first was a smear of light that hurt his head, then shapes started to form. He saw a wall, covered in red wallpaper with gold patterns. Where was he? He turned his head to one side and saw a pair of human legs. He followed them upward until he reached the top. His vision just coming into focus, he saw something familiar – a bundle of curly red hair. Celena. That’s it, I just woke up from a dream into another dream. I really shouldn’t have tried the rotten pancakes… “Fen?” The voice was immediately familiar, and Fen was absolutely certain he was no longer dreaming, though that would have been a much better explanation for what was happening than he could possibly fathom at the moment. He locked his eyes on Celena’s angelic face until he was entirely again in the moment. His eyes surveyed the room. Standing next to Celena was Chameleon, and a stranger. The stranger was the next to speak. “Look at you. What happened to your head?” Fen knew the voice, and the words sounded just like something he himself might have said - inappropriate for the situation, but kind, and unthreatening. He suddenly felt safe, and calm. He no longer required an introduction to the stranger, though they had never met. Fen’s voiced cracked as he spoke. “Dad?” His father’s smile was exactly as he remembered, though there was no particular memory of them ever being together. His voice was just as familiar. “Shhhh. You’re safe, kiddo. Give your brain a rest for a second and just listen, okay? I’m going to explain everything, but it’s going to take a little time. What I want you to know is that you’re meant to be here. Your life… my life, this moment – it’s what it’s all been for. We have an important job to do now, Son. I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and you’ve waited your whole life, and now it’s time. I’m here now, to tell you it’s all gonna be worth it.” Fen couldn’t imagine how a person could be at the same time so absolutely confused, and entirely comforted. Something brought him here, and now he knew what it was. He always knew – knew, deep down. He knew somehow, in some way, he would play a part in turning the tide of hopelessness that flooded the world. He had no idea what was about to happen, he only knew that for the first time in his life, and for some purpose he’d always felt in every breath he’d ever taken, he was where he needed to be, and it was good - and it was time. ~~~~~ THE END Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. |
#50
|
|||||
|
|||||
March 2014 Competition Entries Topic: local area patron saint/figure Challenge: a four-leaved plant, a stout adult beverage, and bonny lasses Tie! The Finder by GeneT and Lies by Tongue ]
The Finder by GeneT (1115 Words) Kincaid killed Gods for a living. Other peoples Gods to be exact as he didn’t really have any or believe in such superstition. It was a profitable business in his quadrant of the galaxy and Kincaid had killed a God, Demon, Spirte, Evil Spirit, Witch, or other such nonsense on at least one planet to three systems in his wedge of galaxial pie. Generally, he stayed local, not foraying out much more than the three or four systems from his home world. But on occasion, for an employer of significant means capable of commandeering sub-atomic transport, Kincaid would travel and kill those things deemed extra-ordinary for a price. And those endeavors were very profitable. A few more and he could retire, take care of certain family, and be normal again without the need to submerge his spirit in the light of his occupation. It was extremely rare that the things he killed were actually more than exceptional members of their respective species or well accomplished charlatans. He would admit, after a few drinks, that there were times he felt sorry for hunting down the former. If asked of the later, Kincaid would just smile, an easy somewhat greasy smile. Kincaid’s occupation caused him to travel widely to remote and known planets, to the slime and the golden. At present, he sat in a bar on Delvious V, a hovel of warped plasti-board and tarnished aluminum. It was ritual. In each local, he’d ease what he was about to do by seeking refuge in his continual search for more than ordinary brew. Beer was a passion. He’d sampled more thin or thick, tan to black, then most any alive in his corner of sky. He could tell, an would offer his opinion unsolicited, on any claim of taste, smoothness, bitterness, complexity, body, or any other aspect of what sat swirling in his cup. His nose was precise, educated by hundreds, if not thousands, of different brews. Most of the time is was just piss water and Kincaid would fight through the taste and finish. That much he owed to the glass if it had to suffer a nasty beer’s presence. It was in his moto, the manner in which he lived. Ya gotta drink a lot’a swill ‘For ya find something Worth puttin in yer mouth. Bad beer was worth the effort. There were jewels out there to find. Things worth drinkin. Unfortunately, Delvious V had no such draught and Kincaid retired to the rented room in what made for traveling quarters on the planet. He laid out his clothes and accessories neatly, his weapons in order of precedence, and reviewed his notes, Locator coordinates, and intel of the local surroundings. This last ritual complete, he fell dead asleep until morning. Kincaid never hunted at night. Never. There were ordinary things that lived in the System that could kill anything under the cover of darkness. These were best avoided even if the likelihood that they had travelled undetected to this backwater of an existence were slim to none. The morning was simple blue grey. Delvious V’s three moons hovered above the horizon as if unwilling to allow the planet’s waning dull sun prominence over the pitiful sky. The planet had no mass transit, or personal vehicles for that matter, so Kincaid hoofed it down stinking back alleys strewn with refuse. Delvious V was a toxic planet without natural inhabitants. The majority of the population was migrant miners, those of their species with no-where left to go and no other prospects in life. The planet killed most of them, its toxic nature eating away at the fundamental structure of their DNA. They died of inconceivable cancers and afflictions to such an extent that medical science used the planet as a testing ground for experimental therapies, most of which proved just as malign and deadly. But those living on Delvious V didn’t matter. They all had already consigned themselves to Death long ago and likely just wished to hasten its arrival by signing up under Consortium Letter to a work tour under the planet’s shriveled mottled skin. Kincaid had little need to consult his Locator. He’d memorized the landmarks of his mark’s living space and made it outside with no problems. He waited, another ritual, and watched for a time before moving in. A small misshapen human girl played outside. She threw a splintered piece of plasti-wall here and there and skipped around it singing the made up words of the illiterate masses born to this place. Few children survived conception on Delvious V. It was better that way. Easing from against a crumbling wall, Kincaid crossed the street of broken and shattered bricks. He paused before entering and turned, his ten eyes and the girl’s two regarding each other. She held up a bent twig of weed, three of the original four clovers already lost. A silent conversation, heard by neither Kincaid nor the Girl, played out in the distance between them. Run along. No. Stubborn little thing. Yes. I don’t wish to kill you. I’m not afraid. Should Be. This is the last petiole to pull. Stepping inside with a multitude of light quiet feet, Kincaid finds his mark huddled in a corner of the main room. The man is covered in sores, his teeth starkly visible as he smiles, held in his mouth by rotting receding gums the color of blood. The man tries to rise, but settles back down as Kincaid levels a hand fusion pistol at his head. For a moment, Kincaid questions his presence and the reason for his hire, but the fee was far to large to ignore or stimulate his conscience. "Think that’ll work mister?" "Sure’enough." "Seven then. Consortium man. You." "Seven?" "Right. You number seven come ta take Adrasteia." "********." (Insert Expletive of Disbelief) "Best be with’it then. Seven’s a good number ta die to." Kincaid tips a chitinous digit over the gun's sensor and the man smiles a fetid grin as his head is torn from his emaciated shoulders. In the resulting uneasy silence, Kincaid feels a shiver course along his neural tubes, feels an uncanny sense of something more. It’s not until he turns and finds the small misshapen girl behind him, her eyes large and round, full of brimming sorrow that he understands. Nothing harms her. Not his weapons or his screams. Stubborn little thing. Paddling his canoe out of the rapids, The Voyageurs are local and famous patrons. We recently had our Festival du Voyageur.Ollie steered into the calm waters of a large, deep, pool which formed a sort of bay or lagoon along the shore of the subterranean river. This particular river seemed to be the largest in this cavern and undoubtedly the main waterway. It bisected the cavern neatly, flowing in a relatively (as rivers go) straight path from East to West. At its widest, it was perhaps 200 strides across and slow moving. At its narrowest, approximately 50 strides and the current very strong. It was this faster section that the paddler had just navigated.
The cavern itself was humongous, the size of a small country it seemed. Drifting, the man in the canoe reflected on all these things as he floated introspectively towards shore. Ahead he eyed a red sand beach and was pleasantly surprised to find a lateral eddy of the current pushing him directly for it. Putting his paddle down, he mentally went over the details of this section of the river. When he reached shore he would record his mapping of the river system, an act which he diligently performed a couple times each day. The hard paddling through the fast water had taken its toll though and he was overheating. Propelled by the eddy and sliding towards shore silently, he shirked his long white wool coat and stuffed it and a red wool beret into his packsack. Reaching over the side he dragged a handful of cold water and splashed in his face. The effect was invigorating and scooping several more he drank deeply, scrubbed the sweat and grime from the rough red stubble of his ruddy face, stroked and twirled the ends of his bushy red moustache and took a final handful to slick back the waves of his sweaty red hair. That coat is too much for most of these caverns, he thought. But, he had to admit, a valuable rarity in the colder ones he’d encountered, some of which had snow and ice. He bit the cork out of a heavy leather waterskin and took a deep slug of the flat, warm, and nutty beer… and grimaced. It was much better cold. He thought. Steering the craft quietly behind a rocky spur, he slowed the canoe to gently kiss the rocky shore in perfect silence. Pausing only to tuck a large bowie knife securely into his wide red sash behind his back, he crawled up the rock face of the spur and peeked over the top. No one was around. He sat down to consider his next move. His travels through the caverns of this strange place taught him early on to be cautious. Such a strange place! Could I really be off among the stars, INSIDE some other world. Was I really brought here along with thousands of other people to fulfill some unknown purpose? Maybe I’ve gone mad! A thought occurred to him. Do crazy people know they’re crazy? A sudden vivid memory of the earth falling away beneath him made him shiver. He considered it another moment, then shrugged and slumped back against the rock. Whatever the truth, this place….. real enough he couldn’t tell the difference. He pulled out the journal and this spectacular little writing tool that Mark had given to him. The little man had called it a “pen”. He’d been writing with it now for almost 2 weeks and still it did not run dry. No ink well, no quill. The little stick which just said BIC on the side was more valuable to an explorer like him than anything else except maybe knife and flint. Well, the pen AND the journal. Such beautiful white paper in a waterproof sleeve, the thought of making such tools was unfathomable too him. Quickly he added a new section to the river map he had been making. He did his best to approximate the rivers gentle twists and turns and took care to sketch in margin notes regarding the safe lines through the rocks and rapids, finally marking the preferred route with a dotted line ending in a four leaf clover. His notes were elaborate and meticulous. The river was full of fish, there were even small trees and the peculiar glowing lichen which lit most of this underground world was in great abundance here. The unbelievably high ceiling of the entire cavern was covered in it. So abundant in fact, that it almost felt like daylight, or more like a very bright but overcast day. It was the strangest thing really. The man with two first names “Mark Scott”, from the 1980’s had explained it, being from the 1500’s most of it had seemed gibberish. He’d said “ …different types of lichens emitting different wavelengths of light and therefore creating a visible spectrum close to earth daylight, but a little too much blue.”… I still don’t understand it. Being some of his last words though, they’d stuck in his memory. Mark'd really seemed a tremendously bright fellow but lacking in much of the common sense that worldly travelers have. Only knew him for a few days. Just met in the last cavern, but it seemed long ago. Couldn’t have saved him. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. Sometimes, even though it takes a while to make it stick, you have to lie to yourself. To live with yourself. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Apr 17th, 2014 at 02:02 PM. |
#51
|
|||||
|
|||||
April 2014 Competition Entries Topic: Achievement Challenge: an herbal tonic, a ghost, and eyeballs Winner: Változás by GeneT No Second Chances By: Captain Devonin [2820 Words] "Hey, Cathy! I'm making up some lunch, want me to bring some up to you?" Her brother Ben calling to her from downstairs jolted Cathy--Catherine--out of her daze. The brunette shook her head, while she reached up to rub the back of her hand against her forehead. How long had she been standing there? The thought wasn't one she had an answer to, but she was sure it couldn't have been long. A few minutes, at best, she assumed. She must have zoned out for a little after she got up from bed, given that she still felt pretty tired. Though with how sick she'd been lately feeling tired wasn't anything new. "Uh-I guess it depends what you're making! Actually, I was just heading down... I think... Hey, is my book down there? That one I started reading about animals?" Thin walls, small house, neither sibling needed to raise their voice too much for the other to hear. In fact, Catherine could even hear Ben fussing around in the kitchen, searching through the drawers for utensils. Despite her telling him several times where everything was, he still took forever to find anything in there. She couldn't complain though really, since he had been staying over the last week or so helping her out. He seemed different this time too, not his usual jerk self. If he acted the same way he did the last time they spoke, she would have thrown him out for sure. She wouldn't ever admit it, but she was glad he didn't listen to her initial protests. After the first day or two, she found it pretty hard to get out of bed; the dizzyness especially made it hard to walk, and she'd already ran into a wall, and a door or two, stubbornly trying to get around on her own, having someone around let her focus on getting better. "Hey! You left your book in the kitchen!" Ben called, while Catherine walked closer to the door. She found herself pretty clear headed today, that herbal tonic or whatever Ben had been giving her must've helped. Looked like she couldn't tease him about being a health nut anymore. She paused near the door to a look at the calendar on the wall next to it, double-checking the date of her doctor's appointment, while Ben continued. "Huh... What kind of weird book is this? Come on, Cathy! You don't really believe this nonsense, do you? Spirit guides? Oh, wait, I've seen your bookshelf, nevermind! I'll bring it up in a second." 'I'm gonna smack him,' Catherine thought, with an affirmative nod of her head to confirm it. The moment she got down there, she would smack him. She started toward the door again, using one hand to rub the flakes from her eyes, while the other she let hang in front of her to stop herself from running face-first into it when she got closer. "I said I was coming down! Anyway, sure, I guess I'll have some of what you're making. What ARE you making any... way... Huh?" A realization hit her that made her trail off, and she lowered her hand from her eyes--shouldn't she have hit the door by now? "Wait... What?" Catherine found herself standing in her hallway, next to the railing overlooking her stairs. Just down at the bottom she could see Ben's shadow moving around on the floor in the kitchen's doorway. She spun around, turning until she could confirm the one thought on her mind at the moment: wasn't her door closed? It was, and still was for that matter, so how did she get into the hallway? She took a step toward it, and started to reach out, the look of confusion on her face being joined by a thought: 'Zoning out after getting up is one thing, but this?' Her hand didn't get far enough to touch the knob. The sight of something she caught in the corner of her eye made her freeze up completely. Catherine shut her eyes tight, hoping that she was just seeing things, but it was still there when she opened them back up a few seconds later. Slowly, she turned her head, a rising sense of dread overtaking any confusion on how she got into the hallway for the moment. If not for the fact that it moved, she would have dismissed it as some cruel prank her brother was pulling. "B-Ben?" Cathy squeaked out, a quiet call to her brother for help. In front of her eyes, just down the hallway from her nestled deep in the guest bedroom was a cat. A large cat. A freaking jungle cat! It was laid down on the floor, and in the dark of the room all Catherine saw at first were a pair of eyes. A pair of eerie, glowing yellow eyeballs with black pupils. The animal's fur was a solid, jet black, not unlike what most people would call a panther. It lifted itself up onto all fours, and Cathy slinked away while choking back a scream. She didn't want to startle it and have it come after her. "Cathy?" Ben's voice came from much closer this time. He was at the bottom of the stairs, and there was a hint of concern in his voice. He ended up startling her. "BEN! Call--Call the--call someone! Police, animal control, someone! CALL SOMEONE!" Catherine shouted at him. "There's a-AHHH!" A shriek escaped her as the panther suddenly took off toward her, and Cathy threw herself at the door to her room. Instead of ramming into it though, and struggling over the doorknob, she just went right through it. Stumbling into her room, she stopped dead in her tracks, and in that moment her eyes couldn't have gotten any wider. What she saw as she struggled to maintain her balance moving into the room sent her mind reeling, and momentarly overwhelmed all rational thought. Her lip quivered, trying to form a word, but nothing came. On her bed was a young 20-something with shoulder-length brown hair, ending in some soft curls. The woman's skin was pale, and she returned Catherine's gaze without blinking, letting her clearly see the woman's own green eyes, which were a match to Cathy's. In fact, everything was a match; it was Catherine, she was staring at herself on the bed. An exact match right down to the loose-fitting sweatpants, and extra large hoodie which shared a coffee stain on the left side. A thump from outside of her room brought Catherine's mind back into focus, and she turned to face the door, while slowly backing away. 'Thump, thump, thump... ' "What's going on? What's happening!?" Cathy asked, though just who she expected to answer was anyone's guess. The thumping noise stopped when it reached the door, and Catherine stopped when the heels of her bare feet stepped in something cold and wet. Yelping, she jumped forward, and glanced down to see her broken teacup on the floor. The cold puddle she stepped in was the herbal tonic that had been inside it, she must have been reaching for it when she... died? No! She can't be dead, this is all some messed up dream! At least, she tried to tell herself that, but so far even she was having a little trouble buying it. Everything right now felt much too real. "Cathy... ?" The door slowly creaked open as Ben pushed it, and he took a few steps into the room. A few years younger than her, also with green eyes, the most pominent thing about him was his bald head, which nearly clipped the top of the door as he entered. The animal she had seen in the hallway moments before was seemingly nowhere to be found, had she imagined it? "Ben, what... what's g-going on?" Catherine asked, trying to hide the maelstrom of emotions inside her. He didn't even look at her. "Cathy... " He said again, frowning. He quickened his pace, moving over to her bedside, while Catherine stepped out of his way. The realization that he couldn't see, nor hear her, dawning. It left her feeling helpless, powerless, and she tried not to let the tears welling up in her eyes spill down over her cheeks. More then that, she fought back the urge to scream, some anger and frustration bubbling up. He couldn't hear her anyway. She watched in silence as Ben knelt down, took her hand, and checked her wrist. A minute later he placed a hand near her mouth, then straightened back up, merely looking down at his sister. "Cathy... You had me worried for a second there," Ben said, and Catherine looked at him strangely. "If you had gone to the doctor, I'm sure they would've figured out what I was slipping into your drink. That double-dose I gave you seems to have done the trick." 'What?' "What!?" Catherine's thought came a split-second before she spoke the word. A few tears rolled down her cheeks, not forced out due to pain, but rather frustration, anger. Those emotions were overwhelming all others. "Sorry sis, desperate times," Ben said with a callous attitude as though answering her question, "Knew you wouldn't give me any money, but I sort of need it, you know? Got some debts to pay. And with how much you like being a lone wolf or... " Ben's eyes drifted up to the wall above her bed, and so did Catherine's. Over the headboard on the wall above her bed rested a stylized poster: a zoomed-in view of a black wildcat--a jaguar. At a glance one might only see a pair of big yellow eyeballs, it wasn't until you looked closer that you could make out the animal itself. "A tigress, or whatever. By the time anyone finds you I'll be long gone. Irony, right? About the drink, I mean. Heh." Catherine didn't find it funny. She found it utterly infuriating. She let him into her home, she TRUSTED him, and this was what he decided to do!? Apparently, he hadn't changed one bit! She wanted to yell and scream at him, she wanted to throttle him, she wanted to--she paused, mid-thought on just what she wanted to do. A question jumped to the forefront of her mind: why doesn't she? "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU! YOU-YOU JACKASS! WHAT THE HELL!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!? WHY!? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!?" Before she knew it, Cathy was right next to Ben. Her feet barely touched the floor as she moved, practically gliding right up to him in the blink of an eye. Her hands already balled into fists, she didn't need any further incentive. She took a swing at him. However just like door, she just passed right through her brother. It threw her off balance and she went down onto the floor. Ben wasn't even aware she tried, and he moved over to the dresser. He opened drawers left and right, rifling through them, shoving aside anything that wasn't valuable. He didn't want to make too much of a mess. Catherine stared at his back, her tears free-flowing now, as she started to give in to her despair. There was nothing she could do. "Why... Why, Ben? Why? Why would you... ? What did I... ? I can't... I can't believe..." "There it is, mom's ring, I knew you had it," Ben remarked as he took the box out of the back of the drawer he was in. He briefly glanced at the picture frame showing an old man hugging an old woman on the dresser, then towards the ceiling before returning to his search with a smirk. "Now to see what else you've got stashed away in here. I'm going to need more than just this stupid ring. Got all the time in the world though, don't I, sis?" "You could have just told me, asked me for it, even... even stolen it, so why... why did you?" Catherine glanced back at her body, and staring into her own lifeless eyes, her anger flared again. Awful thoughts and images flooded her mind, feeling almost like they were coming from somewhere else, and despite herself, Cathy couldn't brush them aside. She didn't want to brush them aside, actually. They added fuel to her fire, and she snarled, while getting back to her feet. "You... you WANTED me dead, didn't you!? You couldn't be happy just stealing it, could you!? After that last fight, you just had to show you were better! You... you MURDERED ME, BEN! MURDERED! And you're... going to... get away... No! No, you can't. You won't. I WON'T let you get away with it. I won't. I WON'T!" "What the... ?" Ben stepped back from the dresser, startled. The lamp, and other knicknacks upon the surface were shaking, trembling, with the same rage that Cathy was feeling. The picture of the old couple fell over, slid off and cracked on the floor. The objects on her nightstand shook too, the door wobbled back and forth, and even the pieces of the teacup on the floor rattled. Everything loose in the room was acting like there was an earthquake, but the building itself remained still. "I. WON'T. LET. YOU." Her last word sent a piece of the teacup flying across the room. It punctured the back of Ben's throat. Blood splattered across the wall when it came out the other side. He stumbled into the dresser, while Cathy jumped back herself, both siblings in shock. He clawed at his throat, gurgling, while she gasped, and brought up a hand to cover her lips. The thud of his body hitting the floor made the room fall into silence again, and a second puddle quickly began to form. This one crimson to the other's lighter brown. "What just... ?" Catherine asked, but she knew the answer. She slowly lowered her hand from her mouth, eyes wide, but the edges of her lips twitched. Then twitched again. Gradually, the they curled upward into a malevolent smile. Her eyes soon followed suit, mirroring the emotion. A part of her told her she should be horrified by this, but from the same place that her anger came from, came a sense of satisfaction. Of Joy. 'It serves him right. He deserved that. He killed me. He doesn't deserve to live. Nobody who kills family does.' Cathy took a step back, shaking her head. 'No, that's... that's not right... ' Once more out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a pair of feline eyes. The brunette turned toward the door, finding the same black cat from earlier sitting there, looking at her. If she didn't know better, she would have said it looked sad. Sad and disappointed. "He deserved it!" Cathy called to it, no longer afraid, and trying to justify what she did. She was dead so what the could it do to her now? Who cares if she startled it this time. "Stop looking at me like that!" The panther lowered its head and shook it sadly. Several seconds of silence passed, and when it raised its head, Catherine saw what she took to be pity in its yellow eyes. Pity. Once more, she was pushed over the edge. "I SAID DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT! JUST GO AWAY! GO. AWAY. I don't need you! What are you even here for!? You're worthless! Just get lost! GO! Didn't you see what I can do!? Do you want to be next!?" Catherine couldn't remember feeling so angry before, and she'd gotten angry plenty. However, she couldn't help herself here either. It felt like something was feeding her rage, and quite frankly, it felt good. She liked it. A growl escaped her when the animal didn't leave, and she took a step toward it threateningly. In response it stepped back, and turned away as though to leave. It paused there however, giving Catherine one last glance. One last chance. "I SAID GO! I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!" There was an almost supernatural, haunting edge to her voice, and several objects in the room rattling helped punctuate her words. The panther shook its head again, and walked off, leaving Cathy alone in her room. Alone, except for two dead bodies. Hers, and her brothers. Seething, Catherine walked over to the vanity on the other side of the room. She couldn't see herself in the mirror, but part of her knew something about her changed. It might only be on the inside now, but in time no doubt she would come to look as twisted as she found herself feeling. Cathy glanced over her shoulder at the doorway, some small fading part of her hoping the panther had returned. It hadn't. There was nothing there. Did... did she make a mistake? 5HaD0W by Tongue [854 Words] Conversation with a ghost on a park bench. A youth with his pants hanging off his ass walks by. Cap on backwards, wife beater and gold chains. The eerie apparition jumps up immediately. When he was emotional or excited you could see his form better. He became... sharper. It was nothing glamorous, he was in death as he had been just before death. A skinny old man, buggy eyed with only a few teeth, wearing overalls and a grubby t-shirt. His antics are hilarious. I laughed. "Why do you do that?" "What?" He replied. Both ghostly hands right under the youths nose. "The finger thing, flipping people off. When they can't see you. Just to make me laugh?" "Yah. But also, you can see me. Right?" He always talked like that, in his weak old man voice. Almost always a question. "No one else can." I pointed out. "How do you know?" "Has anyone else ever talked to you?" "No." He answered glumly." But what if?" He paused and the youth passed right through him. It seemed to irritate him anew. "Still. Do you think maybe, just in case? " He spun back in front of the kid who had paused to hitch up his pants. Floating right over in front of the youth and screamed in his face while pretending to throw low kicks to his groin. "You f%$ker! Take it bitch." When he had finally grown tired of not actually harassing anyone he sat down on the bench beside me. "Should we get down to it?" I asked. "Fine. You got the tea?" "Yah. Just as you specified. " "You got it right, even the eyeball?" "Yah. Yah." I used the stir-stick to lift and steer a large seal's eyeball from the bottom of the Herbal concoction. It bobbed to the surface and slipped off the stir-stick to sink back into the depths. "Good. Where'd you find the seal's eyeball anyway?" "The University. They had it frozen in one of those basement labs. I had to pay some grad student fifty bucks. You sure it will work I asked?" He just looked at me. It was hard to tell his expression now though. He was less excited. Fuzzier. "Thanks. "I mumbled. He just nodded. And then. He was gone. I opened my laptop. The console window was waiting and ready. Like a pane of smoked glass. The subroutine command word "Expunge" was written there and the cursor blinked teasingly just after it. Turning to look back over my shoulder I eyed the non-descript apartment building overlooking the park. Never been breached. "Not by a regular hacker." He answers his own thoughts quietly... and he drinks the tea, swallowing the eyeball whole in the final big gulp. Slowly his stomach warms and his skin starts to feel loose. Like an over ripe tomato. He thinks. When everything is sufficiently sloppy, he stands up. He too is a ghost now, out of his body. The statue like pose of his body is just sitting there finger hovering over the enter key. A grin spreads across his face but he doesn't have much time. He floats across the street to the apartment building. It didn't look like the worlds most secure data vault, but looks could be deceiving. Deep below the city streets, under this very building, this is where the great pacific fiber optic trunk surfaced in the city proper. Melting through the locked front door however, the subterfuge did not continue. Armed guards and two bunkered machine guns flanked the elevator. None of the soldiers notice the ghost as he floats to the elevator doors. The old man is there. In his grubby overalls. He points up. "Thirteenth floor. Can't miss it." He mutters. I nod and pass through the doors, floating up the shaft and then through the thirteenth floor door. The IT Director's office is easy to find. He is there, just where the crazy old ghost said he would be, sitting at his computer. The ghostly figure moves to stand behind the sharp dressed director who is reading a report and drinking some sort of designer coffee. It is only a minute before he logs in again and his password, long as it is, is memorized with practiced ease. The_quick_brown_fox_jump5 over_the_la2y_sl33ping d0g? Minutes later, back in the park, he has settled back into his body. Skin tightening, the grin is transferred back to the man, now whole once more. The poised finger only hesitates for a second before pressing enter. Such a strange little symbol. The little hooked arrow that will open the government's most sensitive server banks. PASSWORD> The man grins. From beside him on the bench the old hic ghost pauses, retracting his extended fingers from the passing people and lowering his voice. "So this plan of yours gonna shake up the world?" "Definitely." I acknowledge. He stands and starts to drift away. Floating backwards away from me, eyeing another teen, this one with a spiral swirl shaved in his head. "Good. I can't take any more of these kids with their damn pants practically falling off. It's embarrassing. We need a do over. That's right D-Bag keep walking." Változás by GeneT (969 Words)[/b] The soldiers had cut out their eyes, which didn’t make any sense, they weren’t of pure blood, they had no rights of parentage, and they were the reason for decline, the trash into which the aliens placed their seed, the weakness of humanity. There was no reason to cut their eyes out. It wasn’t as if doing so deprived the rising of their souls, their ascension into glory. Impures didn’t get glory. The boy walked past them, crisp uniforms, bright colors, tall men and women with angled features and black hair. He wore dirty white underwear the color of mud. The rest of his people shuffled beside him, broken, already ghosts of living flesh, worthless husks of unregulated genetics. When the soldiers got tired of the smell of those that died along the way, they made someone in the walking lines drag the bodies by the ankles. The odor of them disturbed the officers sitting under palanquins drinking fermented juice and teas made from herbs of the high mountains. No Impure ran unless forced by the soldiers, which they liked to do now and then when bored; casting bets on the number of shots it would take to drop the runner jittering to the ground. They’d grab one of the Impures and haul them up to the top of the stone barricades lining the road and make them run. Once pitched down from the top and into the surrounding fields, the chosen usually ran. It was a better way to die. Quicker then the steel at the end of the line or being shot in the stomach if they refused to run. At the end of the road, near the huge pit, the mounds of the dead sat brooding, waiting to be pushed over the side by giant bulldozers. The soldiers didn’t use blast or cartridge weapons to dispatch the boy’s people. That would be an unnecessary waist of energy and ammunition given the numbers of Impures. Besides, such things would be needed if the aliens returned. Of course they wouldn’t, but the general population hadn’t been informed of the victory yet, that the space of four sectors was clear, that the immediate threat to their planet nullified. It would make disposing of the Impures more politically difficult. Best to keep them in fear, provide and espouse a reason for the continued danger, and let nature take its course. It was easy. At the end of the line, the bored soldiers wouldn’t always outright kill them. Instead, they’d beat them down onto their bellies and stab them with steel through the spine. They got good at it, the soldiers, knowing exactly where to paralyze instead of kill. It became a knack. To high and they’d suffocate before being placed first on the ground and then the dead piled on top of them. To low, and they’d squirm upsetting the stacking. Just right and they’d take a fair time dying. Money could be made at guessing the interval. Cheating was prohibited. The boy didn’t cry as he approached the end. There was little water left in him. Some hundred meters from relief, the boy was snatched up by the soldiers. They’d tired of shooting older men. They wanted a runner. Something small. Something harder to hit. They argued setting the limits of the game. The shooter agreed. Four hundred meters before the first shot. More than one and her take was less. More than three and she got nuthin. He was bone skinny and easily pulled up onto the stone before tossed over the lip to the soft grass seven meters below. He landed hard on his side out away from the stone just past the shadow it cast from a setting sun. Elisa and the boy stared at each other, seconds passed, moments in which her mind blanked at her unit’s poor luck at getting caught by such a random act as a boy dragged from the line and thrown from the wall to run. They had almost made it, her men and women armed to take the assault vehicles and the single hovercraft near the pit. Now they huddled undone by a lost boy in the cattle lines, one who had no spirit or will left in him to live. Elisa turned to give the order to attack when a movement snapped her head back to the boy. He ran, little feet flowing across the ground, eyes never looking back as he left the wall and them. They watched, following his progress, Elisa and the others under the lee of the wall, hidden from the soldiers at its top, their attention focused on their mark. At four hundred meters, the ‘pop’ of the soldier’s cartridge weapon made Elisa jump, her heart pounding. The boy tumbled across the high grass and then started to crawl. The second shot begged them to look away, but they did not. Elisa and her unit left him once the soldiers had stopped laughing and climbed back down to the other side. Down the shadows of the wall they scurried until they reached the end of the line and attacked. Elisa lost five of sixteen but managed to take their objective. Her unit was reinforced by others hidden along a narrow ravine far out into the fields. The soldiers collapsed and died along the wall under the combined fire of lost assault vehicles, small weapons, and a multitude of Impure hands. It was the first victory of the Forradalom, a változás, or moment of change, the achievement that would propel them forward. In the twilight of the next morning, Elisa and those surviving of her unit buried the boy where he had fallen. Each put a token of their own into his grave acknowledging their debt to him. They didn’t cry. There was little water left in them. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Jun 1st, 2014 at 12:11 PM. |
#52
|
|||||
|
|||||
May 2014 Competition Entries Topic: Returns on an investment Challenge: wildflowers, epic failure, and an icicle Winner: A Handsome Return by Miri A Handsome Return by Miri Thompson (2,594 Words) I choked and sputtered on the icy water that some blasted eejit just poured over my face. “What in hell—” “Sit up.” The order was abrupt. I forced my eyes open. Sweet Jantos, my head ached. And the chill—it felt like someone was trying to ram an icicle into my brain. How much had I drunk last night? Not enough, obviously. I pushed myself up a little, coming face to face with a stranger. He was crouching at my side with an empty bucket beside him. Even through my blurred sight, I could tell that this man was from one of the indigenous tribes that dwelled beyond Tuke’s Wall. I gulped. I had seen his like before, but never up close. Sometimes the fur traders of his people were allowed in the city, but I had never rubbed elbows with them. Well, I had only been on this side of the wall—this savage, uncivilized side—for a few days. I was like to meet plenty of the tribe-folk now. He wasn’t a bad looking fellow. Not as handsome as myself, mind, but that wasn’t his fault. Still, now that my vision had steadied, I could see that the straight black hair of his people suited him. His flat nose had been broken once or twice, though: this man had seen his share of fisticuffs. And one of his slanted eyes sported a blood spot that stood out starkly against the white of it—but not as if he were drunk or hung over. No, this looked more like a permanent feature. I shook my head, wondering what he made of my tawny hair and pale blue eyes. Somehow I didn’t think he was impressed. I forced myself to hold out my hand. “I’m Dustin.” The stranger studied me for a moment. I widened my eyes at him and smiled—that always seemed to earn me trust and regard, from men and women alike. People were eejits that way. At length the stranger took my hand and shook it. “Cheen-kwe.” “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Now perhaps you can explain where I am, exactly—apart from on this hard and now damp wooden floor—and how I got here.” “You don’t remember what happened in the Silver Barrel last night?” I squinted, conjuring up memories of my time in that run-down tavern. “A bit. Bloody good whiskey, as I recall.” “You had more than your share of it.” He spoke perfect Creyan. Not even an accent. “I suppose I did. But there was that troublesome fellow—” “The sell-sword you kept goading. Yes.” Right. I vaguely remembered a tall, brutish man—from my own people, alas—with a frighteningly large axe. “What happened to him?” “I bribed him not to butcher you and salt your remains.” “Oh.” I swallowed. “Ah, thank you. What do—what do I owe you?” Cheen-kwe looked amused as he stood up. “Your loyalty, industry—and sobriety.” “I don’t understand.” I cringed as I sat up all the way. My head was throbbing now. “Close your eyes,” Cheen-kwe ordered. I stared at him. Who did this savage think he was? Someone who had intervened on my behalf, apparently. Might as well go along with him: I shut my eyes. “Can you picture that sell-sword now?” “Yes.” I furrowed my brow. “Tall, blond, unkempt and built like a battering ram.” “That’s . . . an adequate description.” I opened my eyes again. “Why am I picturing him?” “Because we’re going to rob him.” -oOo- Cheen-kwe refused to divulge anything more for the remainder of the day. Or for the next two days, for that matter. Nor did he let me out of his sight—or near any variety of alcohol. That was a problem. I couldn’t remember going so long without alcohol anytime in the past four months. “I’m sick of tea.” I kicked at a large piece of wood in the fireplace. It resettled itself where it would catch more of the flame. Cheen-kwe glanced up from his desk, where he was poring over a journal I’d yet to steal a good look at. He kept it on his person at all times. “The milk from this morning hasn’t spoiled yet. It’s cool enough out.” Yes, it was cool enough. This early spring weather was damp and chilly and a general nuisance. “I hate milk, Cheen-kwe. So don’t waste your coin on it for my sake. Especially goat’s milk.” “Then drink water.” “I don’t trust the water from this village’s well. With all the drunken sell-swords relieving themselves Jantos only knows where . . .” “Then you’ll have to live with a dry throat. Now make yourself useful. Do something with that salted pork. I’m starving.” I folded my arms over my chest. “You realize that I am not, in fact, your slave.” He closed the journal, peered up at me, and leaned back in his chair. “Do you think some official from the other side of Tuke’s Wall will come here to free you?” He had a point. We were beyond the reach of civilization. “No, but—” “I paid good coin to keep your hide intact.” “I appreciate that, and I’m more than willing to pay you back—” “You will pay me back, yes.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “I intend to make a handsome return on this investment.” “You will, if you’ll let me go perform in the Silver Barrel. My songs always earn good coin—” “I’m not letting you anywhere near whiskey. I need you sober.” “For some robbery you won’t even divulge the details of.” I rolled my eyes. “What’s to stop me from walking out your door?” “The fact that you don’t really have a death wish.” I looked him over. We were both on the lean, wiry side, but I’d wager he’d had more experience with his hatchet than I had with my dagger. And even if we kept just to fisticuffs, I didn’t like my chances. “So you would murder me, Cheen-kwe, just for leaving?” “I wouldn’t have to. You would walk straight to the tavern, drink too much whiskey and pick another unwise fight.” My jaw dropped. For a long moment we just stared at each other. Then, with an annoyed but impotent grunt, I picked up the blackened kettle and prepared to brew myself some tea. -oOo- I was sober one week to the day. To celebrate, I decided to sit on the floor, in front of the fireplace, and pick at the dulcimer Cheen-kwe had purchased from some trader. It was a simple, quiet instrument that I held flat on my lap. It was nothing like the magnificent harp I’d briefly called my own, but its tinny sound was oddly pleasing. I was halfway through a melody of my own composition when Cheen-kwe plunked down beside me, cross-legged. I set the dulcimer aside as he handed me a parchment with some sort of charcoal sketch on it. I frowned at the drawing. It was one of those elaborate beaded belts his people craft. Supposedly the patterns conveyed ancestral stories and myths. “That,” he said, “is what we’re stealing back from Anley.” “Anley is the blond battering ram?” “Yes.” “How did he get hold of something like this?” “He killed my cousin.” I gaped at him. “I’m so sorry—” But Cheen-kwe brushed my sympathy aside. “My cousin was fool enough to challenge him to a duel. It was a fair fight. But Anley didn’t have the right to that belt—it wasn’t my cousin’s in the first place. It belongs to our tribe.” “Ah, can’t you buy it back from him?” “He won’t sell it.” “Have you ever thought of dueling him for it yourself?” I gave him a challenging look. He grinned. “You think you’ll walk free if he defeats me? He’s more likely to claim you as a prize.” I raised my eyebrows at his choice of words and the curious inflection he gave them. “A prize? Am I his sort, then?” Cheen-kwe shrugged. “He doesn’t seem to have an eye for women.” “Ah. Perhaps I’d fare better with him. He might spoil me.” “I don’t think he’s the sort to spoil anyone. He might sell you further out west, though.” “Pity. Well, I don’t want you to challenge him anyway. I don’t really want you hurt.” He looked thoughtful. “I think I can take him. I don’t have his strength, but I’m much faster on my feet.” “Then why haven’t you fought him?” “Because he only duels to the death—and his death would be inconvenient.” “So would yours.” I was feeling generous toward this supposed master of mine, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was this new and intriguing experience of a clear, sober mind and a constant roof over my head. Left to myself, I’d be pickling my liver with whiskey and sleeping out in a field of wild flowers. Instead, I was making myself at home in this tiny, one level hut of his. There wasn’t much space to speak of and the lone chimney smoked too much. But I had my own cot, food in my stomach, and a pile of books to read—he shared everything but that one journal. And sometimes, when Cheen-kwe was in a sociable mood, decent company. He broke into my thoughts by pointing at my thumbs . . . and the T’s branded on them. “Are you a better thief sober than you are drunk?” I stared down at the brands—the pain of those had been bad enough, but being drummed outside the wall had been infinitely worse. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried to work sober.” “Well, here’s your chance to find out.” “And if I’m caught?” I gulped. I had already experienced one epic failure in this line of work, thank you very much. But Cheen-kwe just shrugged. “Whether he catches you or not, Anley will know to place the blame on me. But he and I will settle accounts later, once the belt is back in the hands of my elders.” Settle accounts? Somehow his words didn’t comfort me. -oOo- I stayed awake that night, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness while I waited for Cheen-kwe to fall asleep. I was nervous. I’ll admit that. He was only just across the room, and he was a light sleeper. But I could be as quiet as a—well, I hoped as quiet as a much better thief than myself, now that there was no whiskey impairing my judgment. He didn’t wake up as I put on my clothes, or when I opened the door. I glanced at the dulcimer on my way out—but no, this was not a night for singing or playing. I wasn’t running away. I’d have grabbed the dulcimer if I were. No, I would only be gone for the night, and I intended to remain loyal, industrious and sober. -oOo- The Silver Barrel was even dingier than I remembered. It had served as a barn in some earlier incarnation, and the owner hadn’t put much effort into the conversion. No matter. I wasn’t concerned with the elegance of my surroundings. A few traders—the sort who were welcome on either side of the wall—sat in a corner, talking shop. A pair of local farmers were playing chess by the fireplace. And a couple of sell-swords stood at the bar. Anley was one of them, and he appeared to be alone. So far, so good. An idea had wormed its way into my brain back when Cheen-kwe first showed me that charcoal drawing. He had offered the blond battering ram good coin for the belt, no doubt. But coin was only one type of currency. Perhaps I could offer something more enticing. I walked up to Anley, favoring him with a sheepish look. “Ah, hello.” He glanced down at me—damn, he was a big fellow. I was average height, but I only made it to his shoulder. “What do you want?” His voice was gruff and not particularly inviting. “I, ah, think I owe you an apology.” He studied me for a moment. “Drink?” I shook my head. “No. That’s what got me into trouble last time.” I smiled, widening my eyes at the same time. “Let’s just have a seat, shall we? Just to talk.” He stared at me for another long moment, but then nodded his head. -oOo- The sun was rising as I strolled back into our hut, nearly slamming into Cheen-kwe on my way in. He did not seem pleased. I smiled at him regardless as I brushed past him. “Looking for me?” He closed the door and then turned around. “Have you been at the tavern?” “Yes, but I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol. I was having an intriguing chat with Anley—oh, he told me to give this to you.” I held out the beaded belt. Cheen-kwe’s eyes were hard as he accepted it—but there was a hint of concern there too. “What did you give him in exchange?” “Not what I can forgive you for imagining. My scintillating conversation was enough for him.” He blinked. “Are you telling the truth?” Well, I couldn’t blame him for doubting me. “Yes. We talked; nothing more. Everyone in the tavern can verify that—just as they can verify that I drank only tea.” Judging by his expression, he still needed convincing. I sighed. “If you must know, Anley buys into this ludicrous notion that you own me. He’s spent too much time on this side of the wall, I wager.” Cheen-kwe snorted. “I suspect he’d enjoy more of my company—and I might enjoy more of his. He’s not as brainless as I thought.” I paused, furrowing my brow. “But I don’t think he’s ready to make you an offer for me. If he does, refuse it. At least for now.” Cheen-kwe raised his eyebrows. “Taking your chances with me?” “Yes.” I helped myself to the seat at his desk. “Why?” “I like being sober. I think you’re my best chance of remaining so.” I paused for dramatic effect. “But I want to know your plans.” His face was admirably blank. “What plans would those be?” “I think, Cheen-kwe, that retrieving that belt was only the first step in some master scheme of yours.” I might have been letting my imagination run away with me, but that didn’t stop me from elaborating. “A scheme that has to do with that journal you keep poring over. And a scheme that may even require Anley’s cooperation at some point, which is why his death would be inconvenient.” He laughed. “Even if that were the case, do you think I’d reveal the whole scheme to you?” “Not now. But you will soon enough.” “Very well, Dustin. I’ll bite.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why?” “Because you want a handsome return on your investment, remember? The more you confide in me, the more useful I’ll become—and the more situations I'll be able to resolve for you without resorting to thievery and the like.” I paused to smile and widen my eyes at him. “So what do you say?” He rolled his eyes, but he did smile back. A little. “We’ll see.” That, as far as I was concerned, was a yes. I winked at him as I leaned forward and folded my hands on his desk. “Excellent. Let’s see that journal.” -The End- Hierophant by GeneT - 1221 Words I laid the cards out after the cut using the Sword instead of a more complicated spread. I did it with my eyes closed, the pinkie finger of my right hand keeping to the edge of the Heart so I didn't loose my place until the Beginning, Support, and Chance were at rest like constellations in the sky caught in a instant of their revolution around the heavenly body. Then I continued placing the Problem, the Desire, and Insight in a line. Finished, I settled the deck quietly to the right, somewhere out of line to the laid cards, tilted in their twittering. These rested like Gods watching a few brethren range out among mere mortals for sport, stacked up upon each other, each a glimmer of false immortality, purpose, or lie. When I opened my eyes, I forgot about these corner cards and let the Sword settle into me. I could take it all in without moving my head, the spread filling my vision from the corner of one eye to the corner of the other, a swash of blood upon the stone mingling with the stunted pale white flowers of the cliff. My breath was short, my misgiving born by the initial impression fluttering into my throat, ice clutching the air in me, the drawing of my focus upon the Heart, Nine Edges, closing my swallow as I viewed it surrounded by the Moon and Glowing Chalices Six to Eight, leading to a line of two, Hanged and the Bright Star. Blue in the center upon which three gold lay among three black, contradicting each other, laughing in their creation of muffled voices like the whispers of children sharing a secret along a curved wall that none other can make sense of; each Card changing the one before, turning my mind round the compass, emotion or reason, dreaming or balance, fire or thought. I pulled them from the flat rock disgusted and stuffed them together in the pocket of my shirt. Wrapping the rest of the deck in soft tanned skin the color of honey, fingerprints where they would have been if still alive pointing to the tie, I replaced them into the oiled pouch of my belt made from some animal less intelligent. The Cards enjoyed the touch of a hand and rebelled if packaged incorrectly in the remnants of unthinking beasts. But I should have burned them for all the mischief they wrought. It didn’t matter. I am Enkiska. First Born among men. And I would hunt my sister until she gave me what should be mine. No word could halt my step, no sword could cut my path, and no will would oppose my desire. I would be the last of us and make what I wished of the world whether the Cards took my side or hers. She had run as I chased and was now cornered in the Chankira Step Well outside Lam-advista. I eased over the well’s stone shoulders that came even with the ground and made my way down the winding steps. The steps doubled back, constantly meandering into the stone sides of the well, into the dark columns among the benches and alcoves. The litter of fall kept me company in the open upper levels as I descended, leaves skittering across the dull mosaic floor like mice caught unexpecting while foraging along the edges of a Lordling’s table in the dark hours of day. I could smell the water. It was low and deep in the well. I had not allowed the sky to cry in some months. Following my sister was easier upon dry land. She still walked heavy as if looking upon her footsteps was enviable and appropriate. I found my sister at the bottom. She knew I had come and I took my time arriving. Some things were worth delaying, tasting slowly or saving a small portion, like a bit of honey and the crumbs of bread stuck to one’s lips. At the bottom of the Step Well, the hole from which the water rose was oddly not square, but circular. The edges of the stone were smooth where the hole met the floor, slick and rounded, as dangerous as the curve of a woman’s hips. She stood opposite, bare feet upon the stone, toes curled over the edge, eyes looking into the pool of low water made black by the depth in which the well drank from the land. “You can not have it.” “Can’t and will are two different things Sister.” She slid closer into the edge, half her feet into the water, the lift of her heels preventing her from slipping in. I slowed. Delicacy was in order. My Sister was prone to rashness and melancholy. This well was too deep for chance. I could not recover her if she refused me. “Move away Sister. What must be must be.” “How would you know?” I let a smile turn my lips, a small one, like that given by the first glimmer of a rising sun or born from a hint of a joke before its ending. Of course it was a manipulation only, but she raised her eyes to mine when I let it out. She was weak for sentiment. “I folded the Cards into space. Read the Sword. Nine Edges with the Star and the Hanged. It must be thus. You must give me what you hold. Enlightenment has come into my House. The Governance of Life is my reward.” My Sister’s chin trembled and I knew I had won. I had found the meaning of the Cards. Truth was in my words. Her power should be freely mine to wield. “And the Moon? How did that figure?” “Moon?” “Yes. The Lady in the Night. The Light amid Darkness. The One who shifts to see from the eyes of others? Did you forget her?” I could not find my tongue. It was dry and heavy as she slipped into the water and plummeted into that depth-less shaft. I screamed and shook the stones, shattered the air, and made fire of my breath. I threw the Cards into the water. They slipped out of the skin that covered them as I watched and spread upon the surface of the water before sinking. I was floating among the whispers of their ink. A Hanged Man resolute in my belief while dangling at the end of the rope tied around my feet, upside down, head to ground, with a Moon small over the cross of the wood that held me. She had known all along, my Sister. The Cards were not for me, but for her. She had seen with my eyes, lived with my heart, known my mind, shifted her emotions to match and discover. By the Cards she knew my Being and gave her body to the Land instead. Life would never by mine to control. The Goddess made sure of it. As the cards sank with her to the black, I laughed. There was more than one way to own such power. Man could steal it from her and give it to me if I invested them with my own desire. The Goddess' sacrifice would be meaningless failure. I would own the Living. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Jul 1st, 2014 at 02:06 PM. |
#53
|
|||||
|
|||||
June 2014 Competition Entries Topic: An Epiphany Challenge: singing, black sand, and a turtle Winner: Unfinished Business by ItsaVerb Taking 20 on a Wisdom Check by statesman88 [686 Words] Carlisle had retired from adventuring years before. As the party's Cleric, he thought himself wise. He had seen through the lies of demons, perceived the motives of kings, and pondered the mysteries of the world. He had learned to read his friends so well that he could heal them, bless them, or protect them, at exactly the right moment. He had called down great magics from the goddess. But, as many men have discovered, "wise" and "understanding the woman you love" are not at all the same thing. They had fought together for many years, and her prowess as a Fighter was undeniable. Certainly, he respected her. He thought she respected him. They cared about each others' well-being. They had even talked about having children together. All their plans, all their love... it meant so much to both of them. Carlisle sighed and looked down at his wedding band, spinning it around his ring finger thoughtfully. So, why can't I make her happy? Her only happiness lately comes from her work, not from me. He shook his head. No, "can't" is fools' talk. Why don't I make her happy? He walked along the black sand idly, thinking of all the times he had shown his love, and wondering how she could possibly feel unloved. He sighed again. She'd spent most of that date seeming upset, or sad. Just thinking about it made him feel rejected all over again. He breathed deeply, letting the emotions run their course, and tried to think about a more helpful question. What does make her happy? Carlisle smiled and rubbed his check, feeling a warmth in his chest, as if his heart was singing a song that it had forgotten. She had been happy then. What changed? If only he were a little wiser-- He blinked. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner? Holding his divine symbol in one hand, Carlisle made a gesture and said a few words of gratitude and prayer, and a great translucent owl descended from the heavens and landed on his shoulders. As it disappeared, Carlisle felt his mind growing clearer, his intuition stronger. He went through the memories again, and he perceived an obvious pattern. Conversation. When he had good, interesting conversations with Jena, she felt loved. When he did not, she felt neglected. Of course, it was tempting to put all the blame on her--why didn't she get more quality conversations going?--but he was wiser than that. He could only change himself: and surely he could find something to talk about. Three hours later, Carlisle stood in front of Jena's tent with a cube he had bought from a peddler. On one side was an inscription; on the other was an engraving of a turtle. The other four sides were blank. She stepped outside, and he handed the cube to her. "It's a clue," he said nervously. "It's supposed to lead to the secret vault of an old shaman. I thought maybe we could solve it together." Jena hugged him firmly and grinned from ear to ear. The End Soup for One by Neqq [1060 words] Quinn Galonmor sat alone at a small table in the back corner of the quiet inn. The tired old inn’s décor, which was on the point of crossing over in to dilapidation, reflected the physical and mental condition of their most regular customer. The edges of his mind had become somewhat cloudy of late, but in the centre of his being he held on to his most precious memories. Quinn was once a proud and strong man, he had sailed the great oceans and had seen lands most people thought existed only in legends. He had been deadly with a sword and climbed like a monkey up the rigging of king’s ships, 38 years of being at sea. That ended when he thought himself an old man and decided to stay on shore with his long suffering wife and their seven children. That was 25 years ago, his wife had died five years ago and his children all had families of their own. So he lived alone in his small cottage by the sea just outside of town. His body baked brown by the sun and tanned like leather by the salt spray had withered like a winter apple. The flowing mane of his youth had completely disappeared, to reveal his egg shaped head for the world to see. The trimmed beard of his prime had grown into a wiry grey beast that clung to his face and hung down to his waist. A serving girl, a pretty young thing with long brown hair and a sweet face soured by a constant frown, came to take his order, “Let me guess old man, soup, bread and a mug of ale.” “Yes, and a smile or a kind word would be nice,” he replied in a voice thinned by age. “Soup it is,” she turned and walked off towards the kitchen. Quinn sat alone and remembered better times, when he had the sea breeze in his face and the warm embrace of his wife waiting for him. Suddenly, the strum of a lute came from near the fireplace of the inn. Quinn looked up to see a bard dressed in a rich green velvet tunic with a matching beret and brown woollen stockings. Maybe it was senility or perhaps it wasn’t, but the old man could not remember a bard performing here in the last 20 years. The bard began to sing. Six months I have been at sea O’ my darling have you missed me Tonight finally I will be home And pledge no more will I roam It was an old tune, Quinn had never heard it sung better, the bard had the voice of angel. He sat enraptured for the next four verses and clapped loudly when the song finished. The performer nodded and began to play a beautiful and melancholic piece of music. A wonderful aroma filled Quinn’s nose, he looked down to see an earthen-ware bowl filled with a steaming hot soup. Next to it was a thick slice of bread and a mug full of ale. I was so wrapped up listening to the song I didn’t notice the girl bring the soup. It is not the watery vegetable broth they normally serve. He took his wooden spoon and tasted the soup. Bless the gods, its turtle soup. I haven’t had turtle soup since my wife died. To be honest even hers wasn’t as good as this. The soup was a perfect blend of sweet turtle meat and a melody of ingredients. The saltness of garum, the freshness of tomato, the subtle warmth of pepper, and lemon came together to make Quinn’s taste buds sing out in pleasure. Before he knew it the bowl was empty and he was warm to his core. He took the bread which was a wonderful heavy sourdough and mopped up the meagre remains of the soup that clung to the side of the bowl. He paused to savour the flavour of the soup. That is the greatest meal I have ever had in my life. Quinn turned his attention to the mug of ale and found its quality surprisingly matched the soup. It was a clear golden liquid worthy of the gods themselves. The balance between the hops and the malt was sublime it tasted like a mid-summer’s day and revitalised the old man’s soul. Sitting back perfectly satisfied, Quinn closed his eyes and basked in the feeling. He noted the music had stopped. “All finished there?” the voice came from behind him. It was an odd male voice, Quinn could swear he didn’t hear but rather felt it. He opened his eyes on the table next to the empty bowl and mug was a large hourglass. The old man looked at the bottom bulb of the device and noted it was full of black sand, the top bulb was empty. “I guess I am,” Quinn replied. Smiling he shook his head and said, “That was the best meal I have ever eaten, but it wasn’t the best meal of my life was it?” “You know you are correct, as if you would get soup like that in a dump like this. Now come along, you know no man can keep me waiting.” Quinn stood and turned, he saw a large hooded figure holding a sickle in a skeletal hand. “I thought you used a scythe?” the old man asked. From deep in the darkness of the hood the strange voice answered, “I find this to be more precise, I really don’t like to make mistakes. Now follow me. Where has that bard got to, come on I gave one last performance now it is time to go.” The bard walked from the fireplace and asked, “Go where?” Quinn answered, “Towards the light, we are going home,” he indicated a bright light emanating where the back wall of the inn should be. The strange trio walked into the light and were gone. … The dour serving girl found Quinn sitting upright in his seat. She could tell he was dead straight away, even though his eyes were wide open. She looked at the strange old man she had served almost every day for over a year and found herself having to smile. Despite the girl’s young age she had seen dead people before, but not so at peace and never with a smile on their face. Unfinished Business by IstaVerb [1,345 words] The black sand in the hourglass stopped, but it hadn't run out. There was plenty more left in the bulbous top chamber of the apparatus, but it ceased to fall, every grain hanging motionless in its place. Everything stopped. The curtain on the open window billowed as if catching a fresh spring breeze, but it didn't move. There was no sensation of air blowing across my skin. No scent of lilac from the bush outside the window. No sound of birds chirping. No buzz of lawnmowers crisscrossing neighborhood yards. None of it. I don’t know how long it's been since the sand stopped. It feels like it might be years. There's nothing to measure against. I feel no fatigue or hunger. The sun doesn't set. Christopher and Beth, my children, are each seated on chairs near my bed. My sister Pam is walking toward the door, holding a tissue to her nose. They've all been here with me this whole time, however long it's been, like statues suspended in a moment. I can't move, either. To be fair, I couldn't move before everything froze, not for a couple of years. Nothing except my eyes, a little, I think. I could see the hourglass before. I could see the faces of people looking down at me, if I was awake, and I could hear them. I heard them all talking one quiet night down the hall in the kitchen. They were making their decision to turn off the machines, remove the tubes that fed me, and let me die. They didn't know I could hear and see things sometimes. I had no way to tell them. They all believed there was no function left in my brain, but something remained, and nobody knew but me. Now I can see everything. I'm able to take in the entire panorama of sights from my place in the bed, but the perspective doesn't change. Furthermore, I can speak. I don't know whether any voice comes from my mouth, because I can't feel any vibration in my throat or movement in my lips, but I can hear the sound of my voice, sounding just as I remember it, echoing against the narrow inner walls of this ground floor bedroom in my family's home, my home, the house I bought with money I earned from my first real job, the house we raised our kids in, the house they all stopped visiting after Theresa died. My wife Theresa was the glue. She held everything together. She made sure nobody in the family lost track of anyone else. She was the one who gently informed me when I needed to apologize to someone. I always had a hard time with those. Apologies. I can feel the time pass, because I know how much I've talked. I've screamed for help, calling the names of the motionless figures so close to me I could touch them if only I could move my arms. I've asked every question out loud a thousand times, but there’s no one to answer but me. I talk to myself hour after hour. That's what I'm doing now, I suppose. What's happening to us? How long has it been? Did I do something to cause this? Was it something I said? Something I didn't say? What on Earth, or anywhere else, could explain it? My thoughts are driven toward the notion of unfinished business. I remember ghost stories. Like most folks, I didn’t believe them, but I enjoyed the entertainment. Many of the stories didn’t describe the ghosts as malevolent horrors, but ordinary people just stuck between life and death, not even realizing it, dumb to it, just sort of wandering around, wanting something to happen. Is that what I am? A ghost? Some of the stories said these poor souls were trapped because something was holding them back in the mortal world, some wrong to be righted, some task needing to be done. Well, I’ll be damned if I’m the sort of man who ever left any business unfinished. I worked my ass off to make sure every deal got done, and then some. I sacrificed my time with my family to provide the best I could. I wasn’t going to let my kids know what it was like to be poor. My parents were poor, because they were lazy. I’ll bet Beth never forgave me for not letting her attend that music school. She truly had… has the best singing voice I’ve ever heard. I don’t deny that. But there’s so many great singers, it’s not like she was going to be famous or something, and what kind of a job would she get with a degree in singing? God, I miss that sound. She sang to me a lot just after the accident, right there in ICU, even. They’d practically pronounced me dead right there, but I didn’t go, and neither did she. She sang the song her mother loved, and I loved to watch her mother when she watched her daughter sing it. Maybe if I’d believed in her a little more, been more supportive… Christopher and I hadn’t spoken for two years before the accident, almost to the day. I wont forget the date because it was Theresa’s funeral. I’d alienated him so badly by that point I hadn’t laid eyes on him again, as far as he knew. It started years before that. My initial reaction to Chris’ coming out was less than stellar. Theresa didn’t talk to me for weeks. Not one single word. I honestly started to believe she would never speak to me again, but she got us through it just like she got us through everything. Christopher gave me that ugly hourglass as a Father’s Day gift when he was eleven, and I made sure to keep it in a place of prominence around my office for years. I tried to throw it away once, and tasted Terry’s loving rath as she reminded me what it meant to the boy that he’d bought it himself. I really went downhill when Ter died, didn’t I? She was the disaffectionate husband’s dream come true. She had infinite patience for every missed opportunity I had to be her romantic man. I was lucky she loved me so much, and especially lucky that she knew how much I loved her, despite everything. “Forgive yourself.” “Theresa?” Her voice didn’t ring off the walls like my reply, but it was in my head, clear as the unchanging day outside the window. “Theresa!” I screamed. The voice didn’t return. Then, finally, I understood. It would have to be her to tell me, wouldn’t it? “I love you, Beth. I’ve been laying here blaming you for hating me, and you forgave me long ago. You knew I only meant the best for you. Your mother would be so proud of you.” “Christopher, I’m sorry. I never told you, and still I know you forgave me too, and I sure don’t blame you for not wanting to suffer my negativity. You’re a good man. I love you.” The figures in the room and all the world remain motionless. Though it seems impossible, I can feel a physical sensation, something vaguely familiar, a tear on my cheek. “I forgive you, Donald.” The sand flowed again at the same instant the rest of the world resumed. Pam left the room, and Christopher and Beth laughed through tears. The spring breeze carried the sweet scent of lilac through the window along with the sounds of life going on all around. They were talking about the time Beth’s pet miniature turtle died, and I took Christopher to the pet store with me in a frenzy to buy another one before she knew, presuming she couldn’t tell the difference between her sweet Mister Tom the Turtle and some imposter. I never knew until this moment, she was never fooled. They both kissed my forehead and left the room, and finally… finally, I fell asleep. Path in the Sand By: Captain Devonin [2715 Words] An ocean of green was laid out before her eyes, twisting, and turning, as people danced across the ballroom floor. A small, distant part of the Queen wished she could join them, but the rest of her was glad to be atop her throne at the head of the room. People are dangerous, her advisers told her, and most of the time she would agree, but there's only so long one can remain isolated. They obviously warned her against a party as well, insisting it would give the unhappy minority a chance on her life--she had made mistakes early in her reign. However, today marked her 25th year, fifth on the throne, and she would not merely sit and let it pass her by. Not when her kingdom has prospered since the death of her tyrannical husband Donovan. Not when she felt like a celebration. Plus, it was a celebration for Lucy as much as herself--Princess Toulouse as some called her. And Queen Thea could hardly deny the princess a party. The Queen's dark brown eyes once more swept through the waves of green, the official colour of the ball--her favourite--and she spotted Princess Toulouse being carried amongst them, enjoying the sights, the sounds, smells, and especially the food. Imported delicacies from around the world gathered just for her. What Thea thought was a smile on Lucy's face only broadened her own. Green carpets stretched from the edge of the stairs leading up to the throne all the way to the door. Banners with the symbol of her highness' family hung from the walls, the crest a stylized turtle. Long banquet tables with emerald cloth covering them stretched down the length of the room, full of food, and drink. In the center was the dance floor, guided by music from the small stage where a small band of dark-skinned musicians played. Light streamed in from large windows between banners on the wall, and from candles burning in turtle-shaped candle holsters of various sizes and shapes all across the table. "Your highness," a well-dressed, and handsome man in a green tunic said as he approached the throne, "A most splendid party. Tell me, will you and your lovely crimson curls be joining us lesser folk? I admit, I would like to see how well the Queen dances, perhaps, as more than a distant observer." In an instant, Thea's mood was dampened. She had turned aside all others wishing to dance with her, why men still tried she did not know. A desire to throw a party did not automatically mean a desire to dance as well. Her Captain, Morrigan, would stop her even if she tried too--a condition she had to agree to for the party to even happen. However, an idea came to her, and she couldn't stop a mischievous look from forming on her pale white face. If these men were to bother her, then why not have some fun with it? Politely, she responded. "I'm afraid my... crimson locks have no desire to dance with you. They have certain refined tastes, you see, and you are unfortunately too tall. I'm inclined to agree, I forgot to wear the proper shoes for dancing with tall men." The Queen lifted her feet from the carpet under her, revealing the flat-bottoms of her emerald footwear; it matched her long, glistening dress. The man stared at her for a moment, perplexed, and not knowing what else to say he merely nodded and excused himself. The moment he was out of earshot Thea broke into a fit of giggles, which she made a meager attempt to hide with her hand As she regained her composure, Thea heard her name shouted across the hall. The words did not just draw her attention though, but also the attention of many of those inside--the music paused, everyone turned to look. The voice was that of the young dark-skinned woman, lead of the band who'd been hired to entertain for the evening. The lady offered a bow, the shear fabric that made up her attire swaying gently with the movement, along with her long black hair. When she rose, her own green eyes locked with Thea's from across the room. It made a shiver run through the Queen's spine, and brought with it a sense of unease, and familiarity, though Thea couldn't quite place why. The dark-skinned woman continued without missing a beat. "I apologize for the rather inelegant way of getting your attention, my Queen. However, now that my band and I have had time to warm up, I wished to present you with a song I wrote myself in your honour. With your permission... ?" All eyes turned from the performer to the Queen. Even with the unease she felt over the woman's gaze, Thea could see no reason to say no--only reasons against, such as what would the crowd say if she denied such a request? Nodding her head, Thea said. "You may. Please, I wish to hear it." The performer smiled, and turned to her band to give some last minute instructions. Turning back to the Queen, she bowed again, then began to sing--with a voice both beautiful, and full of emotion. Open your eyes and recognize, Those bitter lies, are you surprised? I'm not too wise, but I surmise, You can hear our screams and cries. Just like the woman's gaze, the first line she spoke came with a certain familiarity to it. The second line only confirmed it, she'd heard the song before, but where? When? The gentle, fluttering melody carried with it a certain haunting quality which only furthered Thea's growing anxiety--'Why?' She thought, 'Why is this song bothering me so?' At the end of the first verse though, a memory stirred, and the Lady of Green sat upright, rigid in her chair, while her eyes slowly widened... * * * A box of golden sand with shadowy shapes dancing across the grains sat between the two women. It was perfect, smooth, and level, with not one place raised higher than another thanks to the contraption the one woman used only a moment ago. To the left, casting the shadows, was a large brazier that had a row of points around the edge with a large red flame in the center, and to the right of the box sat a small cage full of baby turtles. The woman who was across from the newly-appointed Queen motioned towards the cage. "Please your highness, pick one." It was just the two of them inside the tent--Queen Thea, and the woman. Thea wasn't quite sure what possessed her to come here, to this part of town, and have her fortune told. Perhaps with the death of her husband she merely felt lost, and was seeking some answers. Her eyes lingered for a time on the dark-skinned woman across from her, taking in the woman's fine silks, with strange patterns she hadn't seen elsewhere before. The fact that the woman was twice her age, yet still had a youthful quality to her surprised the new Queen. It showed in the woman's emerald eyes, and dark hair, and the way her face had no more wrinkles than the Queen's own. Thea nodded, "Which one?" "Whichever you feel a kinship with," the woman answered soothingly. Thea nodded again, and moved to the cage. She peered in at all the turtles, looking them over, not seeing one she felt at all close to. However, after a few minutes, one caught her eye: one that was mostly brown, opposed to the greens of the others, with some orange around the mouth and yellow spots on the legs. It was just looking up at her, staring, while the others mostly ignored her. Thea stared back unable to help herself, and she might have continued to do so had the woman not spoken. "It seems you have found one. Place it upon the sand, anywhere, and it will make a path... your path... in the sand." Her highness did as she was asked, and the turtle did nothing. Thea glanced to the woman, then the turtle, and opened her mouth to say something when the woman clapped her hands together--the noise though was louder than a mere clap. The seer had crushed something between her palms that made a loud crack and pop, then a trail of smoke rose up. The turtle took off in an instant, running on its small legs as quick as it could. Thea frowned. "You scared it!" The woman didn't answer. Her eyes remained on the turtle following the path it made in the sand. It started by zigzagging, then ran in a circle, before it moved to the edge of the box and tried to climb out on the side the Queen sat. Feeling sorry for it, the redhead leaned forward and scooped it up, but that only made the woman shake her head. "I'm sorry." "What for?" Thea questioned. The seer looked right at her. "You will be a good Queen, but... in the end, by your own hand, you will perish before you reach my age. Your misplaced fear the cause. Not the people." "What!?" The Queen rose to her feet, skeptical, maybe afraid. She cradled the turtle in her arms. "You--You couldn't have gotten that from a turtle on some sand! That's impossible--it's stupid! You're stupid." "I'm sorry, but I cannot change what will be," the teller said sadly, "Look on the turtle's shell." Although giving the supposed fortune teller a look of 'you're crazy,' Thea looked at the shell anyway. Initially she saw nothing, but on a hunch she turned the turtle over. Words were written on the underside of the turtle's shell in ink, ink that could be washed off, but nonetheless, it made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. "The words are the ones you will hear before you are to die. Beware the black sand, your highness, see here.. ?" "You're sick," Thea stated, though she couldn't help but to look. Fingers pointed to a dark spot in the sand, darker than the rest, it really looked like the sand had turned black. However, by this point, she had heard enough. She shook her head. 'Why did I even come here in the first place!? This is crazy!' "Guards! Guards!" Thea cried, and the men who had been waiting outside entered in through the flaps. Thea pointed at the fortune teller. "F-Free those creatures! And... and... burn this place to the ground!" The Queen wasn't quite sure why she said that, but she did, and the guards had already begun following out her orders. Part of her wanted to take it back, but she didn't know if it would be seen as weakness or not--would it be a good idea to make such a mistake already? Plus, the woman had just said she would die! It was what her husband would do, what she's seen him do, though was that really the way? Still lost, still uncertain, Thea turned her back on the fortune teller and left the tent, leaving the guards to their duty. The turtle wriggled in her grasp as the rest of her guards lead her back to the castle. Thea glanced down at it and afforded herself a smile, it just looked so, so--it warmed her heart. Maybe emulating her husband wasn't the best approach? "Y-You can come live with me. But I need name for you... Umm... How about... Toulouse?" * * * 'No, no, no! She was just--she was crazy!' Thea thought as she stood, the memory returning to her so vividly it was though it had happened yesterday. The words written on that turtle had been the first verse to the woman's song--it had to be coincidence! But what if it wasn't? No, she wouldn't let it happen, her advisers were right! This had been a bad idea! "That's--That's enough! No more. The party is over. Bring Toulouse back to my chambers! Everyone go home!" All eyes turned to her, some confused, some worried, and a few looking at her like she was crazy. Confused or not though, she was the Queen, and the guards carry out the Queen's orders. Immediately, they began to shout and call, herding people toward the exit, while the servant who carried Toulouse about on her pillow followed Thea as she hurried out of the throne room using a nearby door. Down one hall, passed another, up some stairs, Thea ran. She thought it was crazy, she realised she was being silly, but a sense of dread urged her to go to safety, and to take shelter. There was nowhere safer than her room. 'I'll wake up in the morning and realise just how silly I was being... ' Thea thought, certain of that fact. At the door to her room she turned to her servant and scooped Lucy up off her pillow before she stepped inside, closed the door, and breathed a sigh of relief at the satisfying click of her lock. Between that, and the two guards posted outside, she was sure she was safe. "This is stupid, Lucy," Thea said, carrying her turtle toward the large, spacious tank she had made, "I'm sorry I ruined our party. We'll have a better one next year, I promise. Did you like the food I got for you? Haha, bet it was better than the food that crazy old woman gave you." The turtle looked up at her highness after she was put down into the tank, just staring at her, just like it had when they met. Thea smiled down at the "princess." "Tomorrow we'll take a ship to the far shore, and... and... what... ?" A dizzy spell made her stumble slightly, and she placed a hand on the edge of the tank to support herself. She shook her head, then rubbed her face, leaving a smear of black behind. 'Maybe I'm just exhausted, it's been a long day. Hmm? What's that?' A trail of black was left by Lucy as she went toward the small tray where some bananas were, the little turtle's favourite food. Curiously, Thea reached down and picked Toulouse back up, then turned her over and looked at her underside. It was covered in black, a sticky, wet black... sand-like substance!? It was then Thea noticed it was on her hands too, it covered her palms, smeared across them. Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she dropped Lucy back into her tank before stumbling backwards. The Queen stared at her hands, a million thoughts running through her mind. One stood out above all others though: the woman telling her to beware the black sand. She hadn't known it at the time, and didn't think much of it later, but the black sand was a street name for a rather rare kind of--'P-Poison!?' "G-G-Guards! GUARDS H-... He... help... elp m-... " Her voice started strong, but the strength to shout quickly left her, her voice quickly left her. She weakly croaked, trying again to call for help as a third wave hit her hard, making her lose her balance, and leaving her tumbling to the floor. She propped herself up slightly, and tried to wipe the substance off her hands on the carpet, but to no avail. Deep down, she knew it was too late. Once touched, one had only a short window to receive treatment. A very short window. As the Queen's vision blurred, and she slumped onto her side, she heard her door open. She felt hands on her, shaking her, and a voice faintly calling her name. 'Was... was I good Queen, Toulouse? Like you said I'd be?' * * * "So, what now?" One of the musicians asked the singer who lead their group as they sat in the street, just beyond the castle's walls. The dark-skinned woman shrugged,"Well, we've still got to eat, and we have to work to do that. Let's just go find somewhere else to play." He nodded, and the group started gathering their things which had been haphazardly strewn about the street when they were kicked out. The bardess looked toward the castle while one of her hands idly toyed with the half-burned amulet around her neck. A knowing smile on her lips, she uttered. "... was never wrong... " Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Jul 17th, 2014 at 02:30 PM. |
#54
|
|||||
|
|||||
July 2014 Competition Entries Topic: Heat Wave Challenge: a shiver, chains, and gremlins Winner: Flick by Tongue OMG GMGs by Neqq (2787 words) Gareth ‘Trapper’ Terfel was a pest removalist extraordinaire. His fame was such that bards sang about his deeds across the Five Kingdoms. It was he who ended the plague of rats in Senitio. It was he who cleared the sewers of Genortia of kobolds and it was he who removed the infestation of undead litigious lawyers from the Grand Court House of Djymal. Trapper was a short man or a tall dwarf, no one was completely sure. He had a rugged but friendly face framed by neat short wavy grey hair and a manicured salt and pepper beard. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then Gareth’s soul must be sparkling, full of life and brimming with intelligence. Gareth lay under a tree dressed only in a brown shirt and tan shorts made of light linen. The tree was an ancient oak it was situated by a small brook, in normal circumstance quite an ideal spot to spend a summer’s afternoon. Unfortunately, this had not been an ordinary summer. The Plains of Olgrin had been sweltering since late spring. The constant heat, day and night had sapped the vitality of the land its inhabitants. Observing his surroundings Trapper could see the results of the oppressive heat. The dragonflies weren’t zipping through the air as usual and indeed they seem to find it a great effort to remain airborne. The birds sat silently in the trees too drained to sing. The grass was burnt brown and even the brook could not be bothered to babble or bubble or even gurgle, instead the flow of its tepid water was so lethargic as to be almost imperceptible. Gareth stared through the branches at the golden sun. How much longer can this go on? He made himself comfortable and found the energy to fall asleep. When he woke he wasn’t in Olgrin anymore. Gareth found himself cupped in a giant pair of golden skinned hands. A shiver run down his spine and then turned around and went back up his spine. “Good you’re awake,” a deep voice boomed. “If you are feeling anything unusual it is a product of divine power.” Trapper looked up and saw a giant golden face staring down at him with two fiery red eyes. The face held the smooth beauty of a male between boyhood and maturity. Framing the face was an angular hair-do consisting of large red spikes. “Oh my god!” was all the pest remover could say. “Yes, my child.” It had been a long time since anyone had called Trapper a child.“Solazaar? The Sun God?” “Yes I am Solazaar the Sun God, the giver of light and life, the all-knowing and all-seeing.” Gareth found himself in awe of the divine being and shifted to his knee and bowed so his forehead touched the palms of the mighty Sun God. He then stood and spoke, “Solazaar, Lord of Light, why have you brought me here?” “I have a problem, I think you can help me with.” “Me? How can I help the mighty all seeing, all knowing Sun God?” “You are Gareth ‘Trapper’ Terfel?” “Yes, my … godness.” Is that right? It sounds right. The giant face of the god moved closer to Gareth as if Solazaar was assessing him. The god spoke unto Trapper again, “You are the pest remover the bards sing of?” “Yes, my godness.” I didn’t know gods ate garlic. Much to Trapper’s relief the god straightened up. “Good, I have an infestation of gremlins you can remove for me.” Finally Gareth was on familiar ground, well not literally, but at least figuratively. Trapper had an encyclopaedic knowledge of pest. “Gremlins, tough little buggers, can be very difficult to get rid of. Where are they’re?” “There over here,” Solazaar boomed as he walked across the room to a large machine. “They are in there,” the Sun God nodded towards a large machine of some sort. Gareth stared down at a vast array of knobs, levers, dials and thingamajigs. The machine was enormous at least 100 feet in length and 50 feet wide and high. “What is it?” Trapper enquired. “That is the DATSUN 120Y or to give its full title the Divine Automatic Timed Sun. I normally call just call it ‘Sunny.’ “You mean it controls the sun?” asked Gareth in a tone that soared with surprise. The Sun God looking slight embarrassed and offended answered, “Yes and no. It provides some automaticity to certain processes to free up some time for my side projects. You know I am also the god of poetry and landscape painting. There is a bit of problem at the moment Sunny has gone somewhat haywire and I think gremlins are to blame.” “How do you know they’re in there?” “Well Sunny’s setting have gone wonky and it has been causing the recent heatwave and when I tried to switch back to manual mode, I couldn’t. So I brought the gnomes in to take a look. They worked for a couple of hours and then the head gnome, I think his name was Chomsky tells me they can’t work on the machine because it has become home to a number of gremlins. He then told me that he would not swayed by my hegemonic propaganda and I could not manufacture his consent to work until the gremlins were cleared.” “That gnome Chomsky sounds like a bit of a lefty. Well, I need to take a look for myself.” “Here is the access panel,” Solazaar said as he placed Gareth down next to an opened hatch in the middle of Sunny’s control panel. Gareth looked through the hatch and saw a labyrinth of axles, gears and a huge variety of whatnots, all pulsating with immense magical energy. There were a network of gnome-sized catwalks and ladders. The pest controller looked at the god and said, “I will need a sword, some climbing gear and a light source.” Almost instantaneously the Sun God produced the request items. The ropes, harness and grappling hooks were all of the finest quality, the sword was razor sharp and the light source was attached to the front of a helm to allow him to use it hands free. Solazaar gave Gareth a beaming smile and said, “It is good to be a god.” Trapper replied, “Yes it must be.” He prepared himself and the equipment and disappeared into the hatch. Several hours later, Gareth re-emerged from the hatch soaked in sweat and covered in grime, scratches and bite marks. He was greeted by the sight of Solazaar painting a truly monumental landscape painting of a valley bathed in sunlight. The Sun God was also reciting poetry, “There was a man called Enis.” “Excuse me your godness, I hate to interrupt your painting and poetry recital, can I just say I know that one it is a classic, but we have a bit of situation.” The Sun God turned around palette and brush in hand and asked with more than a hint of frustration, “What is the situation?” The famed pest remover replied earnestly, “It worse than I thought you have an infestation of GMGs.” “GMGs?” “Yes, GMGs ,” restated Trapper. He continued in the tone of an expert talking about his favourite topic and who doesn’t care if his audience needs to know or even comprehend the information he is delivering, “Green Magic Gremlins or to give them scientific name, Verdius Magi Imp-Pandamonious. Horrible little buggers, apparently they’re the offspring of satyrs and goblins. You know those satyrs once they had a skin full of wine, they’ll mate with anything. The real problem is they can feed on magic and I guess your Sunny is like a banquet for them.” “Oh, I see,” the Sun God answered in the voice of one who has been half beaten to death by facts. “Can you get rid of them?” With a hint of a smile on his face Trapper delivered the infamous trades-person line, “I can, but it is not going to be cheap.” “How much?” “Well since you’re one of my favourite gods, I can give you mates’ rates. All up including my labour and the call out fee I round it down to 500 000 gold pieces plus materials.” “FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND GOLD PIECES!” the Sun God looked ready to go super-nova. “Plus materials,” Trapper added undeterred. Solazaar with extreme self-control uttered calmly,“500 000 gold pieces plus materials, how can you justify that price.” “Well firstly you need to realise this is a highly specialised job. You could hire a fighter or sorcerer they get rid of the gremlins, but as they destroy the little varmits they will release the magic energy they have consumed. BOOM! Say goodbye to Sunny. How much is the cost of hiring a gnome construction crew for 120 years? So I can’t just go in there and eradicate the gremlins, I need to herd them out and trap them. You can see that is not an easy job,” Trapper held out his arms for inspections. ”Can you see those teeth and claw marks and that is just from one of the little buggers. There must be at least a score of them in there.” The Sun God held his right hand to his chin while hugging himself with his left armed and swayed gently from side to side. “You picked me for the job, because I am the only pest controller that the bards sing about, now trust me and let’s get on with the job before Sunny singes the world beyond repair. Hire me and I will catch them for you or my name’s not Gareth ‘Trapper’ Terfel.” The Mighty Solazaar grimaced as he thought about his options. Finally after what seemed an eternity he threw his hands in the air and said, “Ahhh … alright it is a high price, but you are the best. What materials are you going to need?” Without a moment’s hesitation Gareth replied, “For bait for 20 MGMs I will need two pounds of diamonds and two pounds of rubies.“ “Diamonds and Rubies for bait, you’re having me on?” The Sun God waited for confirmation of the alleged joke. “No I am always deadly serious about my work, diamonds and rubies are MGMs’ favourite food, there is nothing else that will get them to leave a honey-hole of magic like Sunny.” “Seriously, diamonds and rubies?” Solazaar asked expecting the dead pan look of Trapper to crack into a smile. The stocky pest remover crossed his arms and asked defiantly, “Are you questioning my professional knowledge? Look, I don’t need this aggravation, find someone else to do the job.” Solazaar was not used to be challenged and conceded immediately. “Okay, I get the diamonds and rubies, anything else?” “Yes, I need a box.” “I can get you a box.” “A mithral box, 12 foot by 6 foot and 4 foot high. The walls need to be 4 inches thick. One end needs to a have a small one way door and put some small breathing holes in the top.” “Mithral?” the Sun God thought about challenging the material and specification of the box. He then thought better of it, “Mithral, yes it has to be mithral you don’t the MGMs escaping.” “Two more things I need, two heavy mithral chains about 40 foot long and half a dozen padlocks.” “Let me guess the padlocks need to be mithral as well,” said Solazaar, subconsciously waving a white flag. “Yeah, can’t be too careful with MGMs,” Trapper said with authority. “I’ll get the equipment when can you do the job?” the Sun God enquired. “I am booked pretty solid this week how about next Tuesday.” “Um ...you can’t do it any earlier?” Solazaar said hopefully. “Well if shifted a few jobs about I can squeeze you in Friday morning,” Trapper begrudgingly conceded. “Okay, thank you I will see you Friday, I will pick you up just after dawn.” “Yeah, no worries I see you then.” Friday – Around Lunchtime The specially constructed mithral box was open and was placed over the access hatch in the middle of the control panel. For the last five hour Solazaar had heard several small creatures enter the box and the sound of ravenous dining. From the depths of the DATSUN 120Y the Sun God could hear the cry,”That’s the last of them remove the box.” The Sun God did has he was told and out the hatch crawled Gareth ‘Trapper’ Terfel. His clothes were soaked in sweat and torn in several place as was the flesh below the tears. Under the Solazaar-gifted light helm Trapper’s smile almost beamed as brightly as the sun itself. ”Well the little critters put a real good fight, but we got them all.” “You have done very well Trapper.” “You should have a bit of a peek at the MGMs, even you may never see another one up close.” The Sun God removed the box from Sunny’s control panel and held up near his face. He carefully pushed open the door with a single finger and peered in. There in the back corner stuffing the last of the diamonds and rubies in to their mouths were twenty, two foot tall, lime green creatures. Their smooth small stocky bodies looked oily and gave off a purple magical glow. Two small horns protruded from each the gremlin’s head along with a pair of small pointy triangular ears, their eyes glowed red and their mouths were full of small sharp teeth. The god put the box down and looked at Trapper, “Fascinating.” The pest remover gave the god a friendly smile and then ordered, “We need to get those chains on the box.” Under Trapper’s guidance Solazaar wrapped the chains around the box and the pest remover joined together with the padlocks. With the MGMs secure, the Sun God looked at Gareth and said, “There that will keep them secure until you’re home. What will you do with them?” “Once the magic dissipate … I won’t go into details,” said Trapper looking at the ground. “Oh ...Thank you, Mr Terfel for your assistance. I will deposit your payment with a ten percent gratuity at your local temple for safe-keeping. I hope you realise the bards must never sing of this exploit.” “Don’t worry Solazaar, no one will ever know of this.” “Well I won’t keep you any longer. Goodbye, Trapper.” “Goodbye Solazaar, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.” After a moment of being the centre of a golden cloud of energy Trapper found himself in the shade of the ancient oak by the brook. He looked around and next to him was the mithral box. The ragged looking pest removalist reached into his pocket and produced a key. Working methodically he removed the padlocks and the chains one by one fell to the ground. Gareth went to the door and pushed it open. “Come on out, the coast is clear,” said the pest remover. In a lime green stampede the MGMs ran past Trapper and straight in to brook where they splashed and played. “How did we do boss?” a gruff small voice said. Looking down Trapper could see a single gremlin with antler like horns standing beside him watching the other gremlin’s aquatic escapades. “You did very well Dante. The old fool fell for it hook, line and sinker. All knowing, all seeing, my ass. The gods can’t see everything all the time, we are like ants to them.” “So how much did we make?” said Dante in a business-like manner. “Taking into account all those bards we paid to sing our songs, the wizard we paid to teleport you guys and the payment to our gnome spotter we still have more than enough to retire in luxury,” answered Trapper with a huge grin. “Now get the rest of the guys out of the water, we need to get them some fruit and some prune juice.” “Right you are boss time to bake the world’s most expensive brownies,” said Dante with a straight face. “Actually, give them twenty more minutes, I feel like there will be a cold change in the next few days,” said Trapper with a knowing look on his face. On the Planet Furmalderine-83:
Twelve hundred alien abductees occupy a small thin peninsula on a huge ocean world. They are from all walks of life. Past and present. It is not long before factions form, like-minded people find each other and warlords attract followers as they vie for control of the most fertile and desirable territories. You cannot suppress human nature. The three travelers huddled around a small fire. The temperature was unbearably hot, a heat wave by Ollie’s reckoning of the general temperature thus far. Heat or no heat though, they needed the fire to cook supper. Roasting over a spit was a large fish and in the coals was a large leaf bundle filled with tubers and wild berries. A fourth man, also with the group stood tall and defiant, in a bright red cowboy hat. He stayed apart, standing about 50 yards away and had his back turned to the trio around the fire. He was looking towards a rise on the trail another 100 yards or so beyond him and seemed agitated. Ollie had been born in 1534, he was an explorer and he knew nothing of these men whom he had just met moments earlier. He’d stashed his homemade dugout canoe and tracked them down after spotting the smoke from their fire in the hot dry air of the late afternoon. Out of food, he was hungry and had risked revealing himself to the group after watching them a half hour or so from a screen of small twisted trees. “I’m Davis, and this is Meach. 1984 and 1961. He indicated himself and then Meach. That’s Flick over there.” The cowboy turned his head at the sound of his name and scowled at Ollie. "1999 is my guess, He was a computer guy once…but right now it’s hard to tell." Neither Ollie nor Meach had any idea what the man in the stonewash blue jeans meant. “Is ee angry et me?” Ollie inquired. Taking off his wool hat and running a hand through his thick red hair. “Flick? Naw. He’s just sore you snuck up on us.”, Davis replied. “We ran into bunch of crusaders yesterday, big armored suckers. Things didn’t go well.” Ollie recalled the crusaders he had seen, they had fired arrows at him in his canoe earlier and he nodded in understanding as Davis added. “Flick was on point, and at the time, a Gremlin.” Davis saw the puzzled look Ollie gave him and added. “You’ll see.” He made a little claw like scratching imitation and bared his teeth. Ollie began to wonder if this Davis fellow was all there. Turning back to regard the cowboy, suddenly Ollie spotted the red plumed crest of a crusaders helmet as it topped the rise. A shiver of panic shot up his spine. He leapt to his feet and started to yell a warning to the cowboy but the words froze in his mouth. The Cowboy had EXPLODED into action and sprinted over the rise right at the knights. Davis grabbed Ollie’s arm in warning, “Relax Frenchie. Don’t go off half cocked or you’ll get yourself killed.” With surprising strength Ollie pried his hand off and crashed into the brush for cover, angling his way towards the Cowboy as he did so. Up ahead he heard the ring of steel and after a pause, three booming reports. He neared the open ground on the other side of the rise he slowed to a silent stalk hugging the bush line. Moments later, when he came into clear view of the action he stopped in his tracks. There, surrounded by the three dead knights the tall gunman looked out over a ragged sandy bluff. His right hand hung limp at his side and in it was a very large revolver. It was not until moments later that Davis and Meach sauntered over the hill. Meach had a rifle drawn and scanned the scene cautiously. Spotting Ollie he nodded and slowly moved to take up a defensive position further along. Davis, still chewing, had a piece of cooked fish in one hand and a fork in the other. He seemed uninterested in the knights, giving them only a cursory kick to make sure they were dead. He too noticed Ollie and motioned with for the man to come over. Ollie shook his head and instead left the tree line and slowly approached the Cowboy. The tall rangy man untied his holster and dropped both it and the revolver on the ground behind him before he squatted at the edge of a bluff squinting into the distance. “Reckon they’ll send a posse after us Marshall?” he said to know one in particular. “Not likely” he answered himself, ”But best check with the scout see what he figures.” Reaching up he pushed off the cowboy hat revealing 2 feathers in a short black braid of hair. He spit in the dirt a couple times and stirred it with one finger before painting a mud streak under each eye. “I look for tracks”, he grunted with a strange accent and standing he drew a small sharp skinning knife from his belt. He turned to look Ollie in the eye. Putting a long thin finger on his chest he said. “Me two feathers” Ollie nodded and placing a finger on his own chest he said “Uhhh..Olivier”. Flick frowned shaking his head, “NO. You... Red Head.” Ollie, indifferent, nodded and Flick stepped forward, gaving him a great hug and saying, ”Welcome. Red Head”, before moving off to scout the surrounding area. By this time, Meach satisfied there were no other crusaders in the area had returned. He picked up the revolver and opened it. "Empty, and no shells left in the holster belt either" . Shrugging, he strapped it about his waist. Ollie turned to face both him and Davis. With a confused look he pointed his chin at Flick who was now removing the amour from one of the crusaders. “Him? Thinks he’s in a movie.” Meach answered. “It’s why we call em Flick.” Davis added pointing his fishy fork at the man who was now pulling large stick with a spiked ball and chain attached from under one body. The screech of the metal spikes rubbing past the breastplate was unnerving and gave Ollie the chills. “What’s a movie?” “It’s like a play, or a skit” Davis replied, then frowning he added. “You know, we’re gonna have to watch our own backs for the next little while.” This time both Meach and Ollie spoke at once. “Why?” Stuffing the last of the piece of fish in his mouth Davis answered, spraying tidbits as he spoke. “I met Two feathers when I first stumbled on Flick. Two feathers is a good scout but he’s a peaceful injun. He won’t harm another human. Not ever.” Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Sep 1st, 2014 at 01:27 PM. |
#55
|
|||||
|
|||||
August 2014 Competition Entries Topic: The One That Got Away Challenge: sticky fingers, a historical event, and a whistle Winner: And the Hook Was Of An Unpleasant Shape, by Rolzup And the Hook Was Of An Unpleasant Shape, by Rolzup [1214 words] Sit, please. Let us talk, as civilized folk sometimes do. It’s been far too since I last had an intelligent conversation. You have many questions; I can see that clearly. And who can blame you? You ask of me, “How does one catch a god?”, and I can tell you only this: It is not easy. It requires time and patience, wisdom and learning, gold and and a willingness to spend it freely. These were all things that I had, once. Once. It was first necessary to find the prison of Great Shud’dai, He Who Flattens the Waves. The search was not easy; nor was it pleasant. So many hours, spent with so many dusty tomes...I began to think that that I’d never escape the smell of rotting paper. Histories, and maps, and journals, and scholarly papers, and no two agreed. So few even made any sense. It was a little book, in the end. Kaelark’s Travels Upon The Road of Silver. Have you heard of it? No? I can’t say that I’m surprised. I hadn’t either. A minor treatise upon the occult nature of dreams. Largely gibberish, if I’m being honest. But Karelark mentioned certain Names that he had no business knowing, and described a landmark long since lost to the ages, and in the end? It was enough. Three thousand years since the Obsidian Tower was cast down. Three thousand years since Great Shud’dai was defeated and bound by the Conclave of Beyn. Three thousand years, and now? Only a handful of scholars even knew that the city of Tekkei Malat had even existed, that it once ruled the waves because of the power of a bound god. A handful of scholars and, of course, myself. I stole the book, and didn’t even need to slit any throats to do so. I can be subtle, when I need to be. I traced Karelark’s journey, using long-forgotten maps, and it pointed me here. To Baennerman’s Bay. It was obvious, in retrospect. The bay’s shape, so perfectly circular? The many ships that have vanished within its waters? I was a fool not to have seen it before. I began with the Spell of Ir. I had little confidence in its success, and this lack of confidence was amply rewarded when Great Shud’dai broke it without effort. Next I tried the Bindings of Yiggith-Shan, and when that failed? The Threefold Whistle of Hakkot. Again, useless. It was then that I invoked The Circling Maw. You know of the Maw, I see. And its cost, do you know that, as well? Oh, I paid it, and paid it gladly. But it, too, failed to hold Great Shud’dai. Next, I ventured the Word Inescapable, and that held Him, for a time. Mere moments, but long enough to draw Him from the sea and for me to behold Him in all his terrible glory. How can I describe Him? I cannot. There simply are not words, not that any human tongue can shape. But there was something of man about Him, and something of shark, and something of crab. His eyes, all of them, were so utterly black that I found myself trapped by them, unable to look away. And then, with no more than a shrug, He shattered the power of the Word and I fell senseless, weeping tears of blood. I had to take stock, then. To reconsider. I had thought myself equal to the mages of the conclave, you see. Not once did I ever consider that anything else might be true. But clearly, I had been wrong. They had worked well, and deeply, and wrought a binding that I simply could not break. But I did not give up, not then. I assayed a number of different spells, powerful and dangerous magics that I had never imagined myself mad enough to dare. They failed, each and all. I bargained away years of my life, pieces of my soul, the few remaining memories of my childhood. All in exchange for greater power. And entirely in vain. I am ashamed to admit that for a time I fell into despair. There was drink, and...other intoxicants. I did foolish things, and terrible things, and lost nearly a year of my life to a peculiar species of madness. But I returned here, to these shores, in the end. I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps I wanted to drown myself, or simply to scream curses at Great Shud’dai for a time. It didn’t matter. I had nowhere else to go. And it was there that I saw something that changed my life. Such a simple thing, and I? I felt like such a fool, even as I exalted in the revelation that had come upon me. It was a man. A small, dirty, shabby sort of man. Nobody of any significance at all. But! He was fishing. You see, don’t you? You see the significance of this! It struck me like a thunderbolt, left me gasping and dazed. Why try to untangle the knot tied by the Conclave when, with the simplest of sympathetic magics, I could simply cut it? They would never have imagined such a crude method of attack, not when their own magics were the most sophisticated of the age! I needed a mechanism, of course. You see it there, upon the shoreline. Magnificent, is it not? The Dwarves, they do marvellous work. It uses steam, and a cunning arrangement of gears, to draw in its catch. And it can throw the line well over a mile out to sea! A mile! Can you imagine it? I did employ some magic to supplement its efficacy. The rod is of volcanically forged adamant, reinforced with certain spells to make it quite literally unbreakable. The line? A chain of alternating silver and orichalchum links, each carved with runes and sigils of my own design. The hook? I cannot speak of its nature, or of its provenance, not if I wish to keep my tongue or my soul. But, I assure you, it will snare Great Shud’dai, and He will not easily free himself. No, most certainly not. And the bait? Well. That...that brings us to you, I’m afraid. No. There’s no escaping. I’ve grown very skilled at binding magics, and you are not the Great Shud’dai, are you? But you do carry some of His blood, dilute though it may be after so many generations. Of course you didn’t know. How could you? It took a great deal of divination for me to learn this, and then to find you. But it’s remarkable what the guts of a shark can tell one, if one knows how to read them. But tell me this: the sea calls to you, does it not? It always has, since you were but a child. You could hear the pounding of the surf in the beat of your own heart. Yes, I know. I know. Do you see? There is no need for tears! Now, at last, you can answer that call. No, please, please feel free to struggle. Vigorously, even, if you would be so kind. That is, I am given to understand, one of the advantages of using live bait. Neoamispond by Neqq [908 Words] The summer breeze wafted across the piazza in front of the church of Saint Antonio of Padova. The white bastion of faith was the backdrop to the weekly market. Throngs of locals haggled with the farmers over the bounty of summer. Enzo Zola walked through the market with the girl of his dreams, Rosa on his arms. They made a beautiful couple both flowering into their adolescence. Enzo was tall, but lightly built, he was dressed in long woollen shorts and a coarse linen shirt. On top of his mop of jet black hair he wore a flat woollen cap with peak pulled down over his dark brown eyes. Rosa’s long brown hair tied in a plait hung half way down her back. Her face had a soft delicate beauty to it with prominent cheek bones and mesmerising green eyes. Enzo walked through the market enjoying the smells and colours, everything seemed more vibrant when he was Rosa. In the warmth of the summer sun they strolled to the far end of the piazza away from the crowds. They had known each other since they were children, but it had only be a few short weeks ago that Enzo had declared his love for Rosa and amazingly she had accepted it. He knew already this was the woman he would married. Today was the day he would tell her. “Rosa I have to tell you something.” She looked expectantly at him, her green eyes sparkling. As she opened her mouth to speak Enzo heard a rush of footsteps behind him and then he felt a savage blow delivered to the back of his head. A shot of pain sent his senses reeling, his knees buckled and he staggered forward barely staying on his feet. Enzo turned to face his assailant, his vision was filled by a fist speeding towards his face. He felt a sickening crunch as his nose spread across his face. Again he staggered and this time could not stay upright and collapsed on to the cobbles. There on the ground Enzo’s head spun and he struggled to remain concious. He reached up to feel his nose and regretted it immediately as a sharp pain overwhelmed his senses. It took a few moments for reality to come back into focus, he tasted blood as it ran across his lips and felt its vile stickiness on his fingers. Looking up Enzo could see his assailant Beni, the psychotic son of the local blacksmith. He was a year old than Enzo, a big square headed brute of the boy. Beni was unpredictable and sadistic, how Enzo’s life was so much easier when Beni had been sent to a Catholic boarding school. That period of peace had ended when Beni was expelled for stabbing another boy. Beni stood above Enzo laughing, an accomplice on either side of him praising his manliness. “Hey, Enzo stay away from Rosa she is too good for the likes of you,” Beni said as he made to plough his boot into Enzo’s ribs. A sharp whistle sounded across the piazza. The local constable had spotted the attack and was running to Enzo’s aid. Beni looked down at Enzo and said, “You got lucky this time.” The thug delivered a kick that rattled Enzo’s ribcage and drove the breath out of his lungs, then ran off with his sidekicks. Enzo lay on the cobblestones fighting to draw in a breath. Through eyes awash with tears he looked up and saw Rosa. She was visibly shaking, she looked down at him with those magnificent green eyes. The young man could see love and care in those eyes but, now it was tainted with something else, pity. Enzo refused to see Rosa while he recovered from his injuries. He had been shamed in front of her, he could not let her see him bruised and bloodied. When he had recovered fully he still could not bring himself to see her for fear of rejection. Enzo would never feel like a man when he was with Rosa again, some injuries never heal. Trying to find a new life, he left his home in Predappio and moved to Milan. That was almost 50 years ago. Now across the piazza Enzo could see Beni, that square-headed sadistic bastard. It was him, that bald old man was Beni. 50 years of feeling shame, 50 years of loneliness, 50 years of waiting for this very moment. They say revenge is best serve cold, Enzo felt it was best served with tomatoes. Reaching in to the large bag of sauce tomatoes he was carrying he chose the ripest. Pushing his way through the crowd he approached his tormentor. He got within range and let fly. The tomato hit Beni’s square on the nose, the pulp ran down the old man’s face over his forehead and dripped off his bald head to the ground. Beni’s body swayed on the rope tied around its feet that secured it upside-down to a girder that once support a roof of a service station. Spitting on the ground Enzo shouted, ‘’May you rot in hell, Benito.” Enzo pushed his way back through the crowd tears streaming down his face leaving Benito’s body to swing in the breeze with others strung up next to it. As he left the piazza the crowd surged and claimed the body of the dictator and the rest is, as they say, history.
Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Sep 15th, 2014 at 02:37 PM. |
#56
|
|||||
|
|||||
September 2014 Competition Entries Topic: Siege Challenge: a statue, potatoes, and a natural disaster Winner: Circle by Rolzup Circle by Rolzup [1,682 Words] The Magus turned another page. “Well wrought,” the demon said, snatching its limb back from the perimeter of the circle. At the moment, it wore the shape of an enormous locust, with the head of a child. Blood trickled, white and luminous, from the wounds gouged in its forehead by the barbed crown it wore. “It is,” the Magus agreed placidly. You do not thank a demon when it praises you; even such a small debt can have terrible consequences. “I shall break it, though. In time.” Continuing to read, the Magus shook his head. “By the time you breach this circle, I shall be long dead.” “Then I shall eat your eyes,” it declared, “And see all that you have ever seen. I shall eat your tongue, and know every Name that you have ever spoken. And I shall eat your heart, and your soul will burn within me, and your pain will be unending.” The sigils set into the floor writhed and sparked, but the circle held. “Perhaps you shall do these things,” the Magus said. “But not today, I think.” It began to skitter around the edge of the circle, peering all the while at the man within. “Were you warned of my coming, Magus? I did not expect to find you waiting within a summoning circle, I must confess.” “I am not entirely without resources, demon. You cast a long and terrible shadow upon the aether; that was warning enough.” “I am at times unsubtle,” the demon conceded. “Pride is among my favorite sins.” “Clearly.” It sniffed. “What would you have done, had you more warning, Magus? Would you have tried to banish me, or to bind me? Would you have called up one of my brethren to oppose me? None of these things would have succeeded, none of them would have saved you. You were wise, to hide so.” “Wise, perhaps, or merely cautious. Who can say? I know only this: I continue to live, to breathe, to read, and converse with your awful self. It seems that my choice was the correct one.” “These things are all subject to change, Magus. Immanent change, in point of fact.” “And who I am to gainsay you? Merely a man, trapped in a circle of his own making.” “Am I to underestimate you now, Magus?” The demon spat, and something crawled mewling from the sputum. “Too little, I fear, and too late. I have come to know you all too well over these many hours.” “And I, you.” “Play your games, Magus, if they amuse you. It matters not; I am compelled to patience, no matter the cost.” “Such tedium, demon! However will you endure it?” “It shall pass. Nothing is eternal, saving only myself and my kin.” Now the demon appeared to be a rough-hewn statue of an ape, with wings of brass and tin, an ill-fitting and tarnished crown upon its head. It extended a paw, fingers twisted into a spell of opening, and pulled it back with a sullen whine. The Magus looked up from his book, brow furrowed. “By the time you breach this circle, I will be naught but bones.” “Then I shall make from your thighbone a flute of cunning design, and play agony upon it. The tatters of your spirit will dance, and will scream, and your pain will be unending.” There was a hum in the air, as if a bowstring had been plucked. The sigils burned bright and hot for a moment. The circle held. “You are trapped, Magus. I cannot enter, but you cannot leave.” “This is indeed true.” “You will starve, Magus. You will die of thirst, gasping for water.” “As you say, I am a Magus. I have fasted before, and have endured it.” The demon laughed. It held a goblet in one stony paw, filled with water clear and cold. In the other it held an apple, which became a loaf of bread, which became a raw potato, which became the carcass of a rat, crawling with maggots. “Are you not thirsty, Magus? Are you not hungry?” “You have forgotten, I think, whatever you once knew of mortal appetites.” With a shrug, it took a bite of the rat. “Not all enticements are meant for you, Magus.” It cocked its head, and looked long at him. “That is the book, is it not? The book that I have been tasked with obtaining?” “The Book of Blood and of Bone? It is, yes. Fascinating reading, I have found.” “Is it? I would think it tedious, a list of the names of the Fallen, particularly to mortal eyes.” “True names,” the Magus corrected it, “And you know well what use the wise have for such names. Or have you come here of your own free will?” Mutely, the demon shook its head. “Tell me, then, the name of the one who summoned you. I will free you, if I can.” “I would tell you if I could, Magus. I have no love for that one, nor for the geas laid upon me. But of course, I cannot. That one is many things, but alas! A fool is not among them.” “No, it is not, and more’s the pity.” The Magus returned his gaze to the book. “Your name is in here, demon. Somewhere.” “Doubtless. But you could read for a thousand years, and a thousand years more, and still not find it. We are many, the Fallen, and beyond mortal counting.” “Even so, demon. Even so. Clearly you have some rank among your fellows; you are a Marquise, at the least, if not a Duke. How many legions do you command, demon?” “A sufficiency, Magus, and that is all you need know. One is proud, but not stupid. But know this: there is a duke of hell for every grain of sand upon every beach, and more.” “You exaggerate,” he said mildly. “Perhaps a little.” “And what will it avail you, if you succeed? Already I have been commanded, and not even my Name can induce me to disobey. ‘Obtain the book, and kill the Magus,’ I was told, and so I must do.” “A conundrum, true,” acknowledged the Magus. “But I have solved such before.” It had become a goat, standing upright and leaning on a cane carved of human bone, head encircled by a halo of fat and buzzing flies. It extended the cane towards the circle, and moaned as the tip began to smoke and char. “By the time you breach this circle,” the Magus said, “I will be naught but dust.” “Then I will take that dust, and with the blood of a virgin I shall mix it to make an ink, and with that ink I will inscribe the Thirteen Signs Unforgivable. Your soul will writhe within them, and your pain will be unending.” The air sang, high and sharp, and for the briefest of moments the sigils were simply gone before they flared coldly back into existence. The cane snapped, and fell burning to the floor. The circle held. “Well done…” the Magus began. “It was,” the demon agreed. “But not well enough, it seems.” “No. Not yet.” The Magus grew silent for a moment. “Few indeed know the Thirteen Unforgivable,” he said at last. “I believe that I may have underestimated you, demon. No mere Duke, you.” The demon grimaced. “And much good may this knowing do you, Magus.” “Much indeed,” he mused, opening the book to a later section. “Much indeed.” He began to read once more, as the demon began to pace the circle again, this time widdershins. Minutes passed before, without looking up, the Magus cleared his throat. “And what would you do, oh Prince of Hell, if I were to simply give the book to you?” “I would take it, gladly, and then begin the long and pleasant work of killing you. You are not well loved, Magus.” “Not by Doctor Wilheim, clearly.” The demon made no reply. “Your silence speaks volumes.” “Does it? Have you but one enemy then, Magus? If this is true, you are unique among your kind.” “Do you speak of mortals, or of magi?” It shrugged. “Both, I suppose. The latter presupposes the former, does it not?” “I have a great many enemies, demon,” the Magus sighed, “More than I can easily count. But there are few indeed with the power, and the knowledge, to command such as yourself. He must want this book very badly indeed, to risk such a summoning.” “I cannot say,” the demon cheerfully replied. “But be comforted by this, Magus: that one too will someday die, as all mortals must, and at that time I will have my revenge for this current indignity.” “That is a cold comfort, at best.” “But a comfort nevertheless, Magus.” Despite himself, he laughed. “Indeed so, demon. My heart is, perhaps, incrementally lightened by this news.” The answering laugh was surprisingly musical. The demon had taken the form of a woman, slim and nude, terrible and beautiful, riding a black cat of prodigious size. The crown was of age-yellowed ivory, set with emeralds. It smiled, revealing teeth that were too numerous and too sharp for a human mouth. The cat reared up, placing paws against the empty air, and yowled as they began to spark. “By the time you breach this circle,” the Magus said, “I will be naught but a memory.” “I will remember you, Magus, and cage you within my mind, and bind you with thoughts that are as red-hot chains, barbed and envenomed, and your pain will be unending.” The earth shook, and the cat shrieked as the perimeter circle blazed into full and merciless visibility for a single instant. The demon struck the ground with a cry of pain as its mount boiled away into nothingness. Wiping away tears of blood, it pulled itself to its feet. Taking a step back, it considered the circle again. “Well wrought,” it admitted. “Well wrought.” “Yes.” The Magus turned another page. One of the more interesting articles I happened upon by chance, was that of the ‘tater’ Barricade as it came to be known. The set piece for this tragedy was a small farming community, Elmwood, nestled on the southern shores of the Moonsea.
Picking up the aged and faded paper sheet, I’m informed that the protagonist of this whimsical account, was one Atrii Fezzik, a rather aged and stout human fellow, the then Mayor of Elmwood. Set during a time of relative prosperity, when great wooden ships brought goods from lands afar, our tragedy begins… With a sun that gazed unmercifully on his back, Mayor Atrii Fezzik all but scurried towards the temple of the Half-moon. His hair slick with sweat is combed across his balding pate, his cheeks red and puffy from an exertion that is not known to his aching limbs. Two busy eyebrows, black with just a slight hint of encroaching grey, perch somewhat precariously over two black and beady eyes. Coming round a final bend in the road, Fezzik is gratified to see the statue of Selûne that marks the entrance to the Temple. With his breath wrenched from his lungs in ragged gasps he bows his head, one hand and arm reaching out to support his substantial mass against the cool stone of the statue. He watches as droplets of sweat fall from his face to stir small puff’s of dust and dirt as they land on the sandy road. A few minutes is all he allows himself, as he looks up into the face of one of the many priests who dedicate their lives to their patroness. Noticing that this priest is looking at him with a mix of annoyance and amusement, Fezzik takes stock of himself, realising with horror that his out stretched hand is firmly resting on one of Selûne’s uncovered breasts. If it had been possible, he would have turned a toasty shade of red, a colour already settled in his flesh from his earlier exercise. Snatching his hand away, and with a mortified expression, “If you please father,” Fezzik says, “It’s imperative that I warn you all.” The priests listen intently, and then with an aplomb mastered through the confidence of the divine, they dismiss the Mayor who now goes scurrying Southwards, towards a secluded Grove. Once again pushing himself to limits he was not aware he had, he arrives in an avalanche of noise, so much so, that the druid is already out and waiting for his arrival. Again, he believes he has little success in translating the magnitude of the issue, and leaves the grove frustrated. And so he thinks, the safety of the town falls once more squarely on his shoulders. With no help from the two other powers in the village, Fezzik is left to rally the townsfolk who dutifully turn out on mass. From what I can make out, the text fading in parts now near the bottom, the cause for concern was wildfire, spreading from the east, and the alarm having been raised by a rider who had arrived exhausted in the saddle. The accounts state that there was no time to prepare, and so the townsfolk used what they had at hand to form a giant barricade blockade against the impending flames. What they had to hand, were recently delivered potatoes waiting to ship on to their final destination. Apparently, for hours, the townsfolk, villagers and farmers toiled, delivering sack after sack of these large yellow tubers from the docks. Within half a day, a veritable wall of potatoes lined the side of the village that the fire was expected from. This mountain, stood easily 6 foot high, and 6 foot deep and the villagers finished with a cheer just as smoke begun wisp through the air. Mayor Atrii Fezzik, proudly stood at the foot of the barricade, and gave as rousing a speech as one would expect, forcing himself to endure as the flames from the forest fire got closer and closer and the temperature began to rise. Again, the villagers cheered, believing that the potatoes formed a hindrance to the flames, long to burn as they are. An ingenious use of the root vegetable as ever there was, the Mayor had forgotten to take one thing into account. As any cook or chef will attest to, the humble potato is but a vessel for water and moisture, hence the rather clever idea to utilise them to stave of the fire. However, and again, as any cook or chef will tell you, water, heated up will form steam. The first explosion is the one that will end this tale. With the air temperature becoming unbearably hot, Mayor Atrii Fezzik began to walk toward the crowd, when these townsfolk and farmers heard what was later described as ‘a pop’. A potato had exploded under the pent up pressure, a chunk being fired at an explosive velocity towards our unfortunate bureaucrat. This hunk of steaming vegetable connected with the back of the Mayor’s head, knocking him forward. With his balance upset, and his momentum forcibly thrown forwards, Fezzik fell forward to the floor, striking his head on a rock, and killing him instantly. Eyewitness state that the crowds gathered then scattered for cover as more potatoes began to loose stability, sending fragments in all directions. Ironically, the priests, and the druid had taken his warning seriously, and arrived too late to save the Mayor, but in time to assist with the emergency at hand and between them, they were able to save the village of Elmwood. The unmistakable crack of shattering stone boomed across the courtyard.
“It’s coming down!” roared Arch Enchanter Malthas. As one stone snapped, so another did until the entire parapet split and half it plummeted to the streets below. A cacophony of screams ensued as soldiers struggled to safety. It was not enough. The ground shook as though giants of unimaginable size struck at it with great clubs, watching a battle to the death. Below, a stone struck the impressive statue of legendary Diviner, Growan, hero of Greensted, dismembering its robe-clad arm cradling a spellbook. Just for a moment Malthas could swear that he saw the statue scowl. He braced himself against a wall. Whether it was the dust or more, he could not say, but a deep chill shook his spine, even as the ground rumbled beneath. “Quando orbis ardens, mors delenda est!” As the greatest portion of debris crushed those beneath, a solid blue glow, as if luminescent water encircled the hazard and brought it to a sudden halt. Dust clouded the streets until none could see further than their hands out stretched. Malthas stared in disbelief before the dust eclipsed. Who? he thought. Grunting, he stroked his forehead with two fingers. Now was not the time. As the quake subsided, the clanging of steel resumed. Snaps of musket-fire bit the air. Now was not the time, he echoed. The ground was steady now, though his legs still rattled, he felt his way along the wall. He could feel his heart pounding; Arch Mage or not, fear did not discriminate. Would I have prepared a wind spell to- his inner complaint was interrupted. A soldier, unseen until it was too late, fell back hard against him, sending them both to the dust-covered flagstone. Malthas cursed as he felt his foot twist under the weight of the other. With haste, motivated by pain, he struggled to free it. The soldier grumbled something, inaudible against the loud clattering of battle. “Mov-” Malthas began when realized just who had struck up against him. The soldier, clad in a blue breastplate. Malthas’ eye widened. He looked down and then saw the deep blue cloak. Blue, the colour of the Transmuter’s elite soldiers - of the enemies elite soldiers. The soldier came to his sense and turned to face Malthas. His face was bloody but hard. Deep lines were carved into his face by decades of war. Malthas could feel the malice ooze from his eyes as though it were solid matter dribbling onto his person. With the flash of the blade, the soldier stabbed forward. “Flagrantia!” The enemy screamed. A horrible scream. A fireball collided with his face, melting it by the second as it burned. His sword went wide and dropped from his hand. Rolled on the flagstone, desperate to extinguished the violet flames eating at his blue cloak. His hair, gone. Malthas sat their, hunched against the wall with five fingers out stretched. His body heaved as he breathed heavily. He hardly noticed sickening taste of dust in his mouth. He let his head loll forward. A strong breeze swept down. His red robes fluttered with each passing gust. The inflamed soldier lay still now, twitching sporadically. The wind began to clear the dust. “Dog mage,” the words were spat out as though they tasted foul. Malthas slowly rose his head. His insides hollowed. His pounding heart seemed to stop entirely. He knew who stood before him. As his eyes rose they took in the imagine of the blue-robed woman standing before him. She pulled back her hood, revealing her raven black hair and lightly tanned skin. Her brown eyes saw nothing else. In her left hand was a long deep brown staff, engraved with glowing blue runes. At the top was an azurite, a rare blue crystal, and just beneath it a symbol. Two stones, one larger than the other, both held by a being Malthas knew to be a golem. The symbol of the School of Transmutation. At each side were soldier donned in the same breastplate and blue cloak as the dead man. Each with a musket pointed squarely at the Malthas, the Arch Enchanter. Beyond them, ranks of blue cloaks marched by, into the city through the destroyed wall where the parapet once stood. They dragged, pulled, and kicked the bodies of the dead aside. He saw them rib the green robes of an Abjurer off a woman’s body and… Malthas looked away. He was too tired to fight anymore. That was his last spell he threw at the dead blue cloak, his last defence. Another body caught his eye, a black robed evoker, and another: an orange robed conjurer… a light blue illusionist… wizards from all schools lay dead around him, except… “Here’s your last meal, dog. Its more than your life’s worth,” snarled a blue cloak as he tossed a raw potato at Malthas. The Red-robed enchanter looked at it. A moldy black potatoe with sprouts growing from it. A tear beaded from his eye, cleaning the dust from his cheeks as it descended. He stared up at the blue-robe, her face unmoving. He asked only one word, “Why?” She smiled. It was a dark smile. “Why not?” she answered before raising her staff and pointing it at him. The two locked eyes. To Malthas it felt like an eternity. he cherished each breath he drew until he noticed the blue sky. He smirked. Even the sky mocks us. A rod of iron spontaneously manifested from the Transmuter’s staff and fly at the Enchanter. It struck home right into his heart. Malthas gasped. He blinked his eyes as pain scourged his being. quickly though, he began to fade. He leaned his head back against the wall, looking up and the rooftop of a building just across the way. A bolt of lightning from an arc-thrower struck and set it ablaze. Another lost, he thought as his colour joined the macabre rainbow of dead wizards. A'Disa and the Giant by GeneT (1104 Words) A’Disa bolted from the tavern’s front door and looked up over roofs thatched with roughly hewn wooden tiles overlapped in a manner to produce serpentine lines along the union of each successive layer. The roofs were steeply pitched as snow fell heavy here for six months of the year and even now, a month into a new season, the remnants of icy snow glittered in the failing light of the day. An Isidlakathi, a breed of mountain giant that disapeered long ago, ponderously approached, the falling of its feet an earthquake that shook shutters and caused the tower bell to toll as it was swung back and forth by the heaving of the ground. People scattered like insects exposed by overturning a rock. A foot of the giant rendered an ancient marble statue of Umbusi Eqandisiwe to rubble as villagers ran without thought, wildly searching for something else to hide under. A’Disa’s hand unconsciously dipped into the oiled leather pouch tied to her belt, two of her fingers somehow threading through the tight loop that held it closed. Inhliziyo, the Conscience of Souls, the Eye of Mal’Kettin, the Gem of Despair, was hot against her skin, cloying, wet in its smoothness. ”Ngiphe idwala oye ezebiwe kithi,” the Inkosi said. The man had silently materialized behind her. He had not been in the tavern’s main room before the Isidlakathi had appeared. She would have seen him. He was whom she had come to meet in this small hillside village. ”And what about the Isidlakathi?” ”Akulutho?” ”Nothing,” A’Disa said tearing herself from the lumbering giant and turning to the Inkosi. Under the cowl of his grey hood, the Inkosi’s eyes were a brilliant green as the eyes of all of those in his sect. A’Disa had long lost the aversion of looking directly at an Inkosi. The open hole in his face and the rotten yellow teeth that leered exposed after his nose and upper lip were cut away during the Okuyisiko, the ritual of his faith, no longer inspired fear in her. She had seen too much of life and travelled too widely amongst the living to be rendered weak by superstition, to be held under that kind of power. ”Izikweletu wenu ezingakhokhiwe,” the Inkosi responded, the sound of its voice slithering as spit rolled over its bottom lip and eased down its chin. ”My debt to you and your brethren was paid long ago.” A’Disa simply watched as the Inkosi pulled power to his bent mottled hands and made to cover her with it. There was no reason for her to run. She was already dead and would not give up what she had taken for them. This body was never hers. Like everything else in her long life, she had stolen it when the Inkosi had pressed her bottled spirit into it and supplanted the rightful owner. As the Inkosi’s words boiled over her skin, her fingers rolled tightly over the last Living stone secreted in the oiled pouch along her belt. She smiled when nothing happened and his green eyes widened. ”I was Akulutho until this moment,” she said while shoving an obsidian dagger into his throat to the edge of its silver hilt. A’Disa didn’t watch the Inkosi fall dying to the ground, instead she did what Na’Ilah would have done, the girl whose body she was wrongly given. Na’Ilah had been born in a place like this, among people of the high mountains. A’Disa had learned fourteen words for snow from her, what the small white flower with a blue center was called, and how women sang as they danced around the Okubili Umuthi when in search of a pairing. Pulling Inhliziyo from the pouch, she ran at Isidlakathi and bounded up his great body, her Yasezintabeni made boots making her feet as nimble and stable as the mountain goat from whose hide they were made. Aside the giant’s great head, tucked in along the curve of his ear, A’Disa spoke to the Isidlakathi using the old tongue that Na’Ilah had known and he agreed to her plan even though she had stolen Inhliziyo. Convincing him just required the truth. A’Disa and the Isidlakathi trekked down the low hills and out onto the Gqamile Plain. Along the Labatheka river, they smashed every Inkosi Tower they came upon until arriving at Inxuluma, the glittering capital city. ”Wait friend, A’Disa said to the Isidlakathi. ”Izambane,” the giant murmured, the sound thunder rumbling in the sky. A’Disa laughed while repeating his name, “Izambane.” The mountain giant sat heavily upon the last low hill overlooking Inxuluma and did as A’Disa wished. He told her the story of his name waiting for the sun to rise; how he would burrow deep under the earth and cover himself with it, how he slept sound with the smell of the land surrounding him and arose new when his sleeping was done, how his brother and sisters teased him and his mother named him with softness for what was under his bones, how he had slept until only he remained of his people and only he could guard against Inhliziyo's use. ”Izambane,” the giant said. ”Potato-boy,” A’Disa whispered back. Asking the Isidlakathi to remain outside the city, A’Disa ran down his great flesh as she had run up. Convincing him just required the truth. A’Disa owed Na’Ilah a debt. This life this body, this spirit are yours. Do not squander what I have given or you will forever wander and never know breathing. She did not need Izambane to break the Inkosi's seige on the people's thoughts, too much life would be lost. And she doubted she needed Inhliziyo, the Living stone. But taking the warming air of a new day into her chest, she brought it along anyway even if what remained inside her of Na’Ilah was all that was necessarily. Izambane would wait for her under the soil of the hill, sleeping for the two years it took A’Disa to secure Inxuluma's revival and step away from its rule. He was required to return Inhliziyo and A’Disa had made a promise to him. At the foot of the hill where she had left him, A’Disa called his name until the ground shook and Izambane woke. She rode him back to the mountains, tucked in along the curl of his ear, to live in places Na’Ilah had shown her to love. A place she would eventually dance during Okubili Umuthi and find something for which breathing was meant.
Paladins and Potatoes by Neqq (1537 Words) The young acolyte entered the Great Temple of Perstrom, the god of light and justice. He walked through the main hall his every step echoing in the cavernous heart of the temple. He was bathed in the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass windows that soared fifty feet to meet the world famous stained glass ceiling. This was a space that removed any doubts about the divine power of Perstrom. At the end of the central aisle on a 5 feet high marble column stood the most sacred artefact of the Perstromites. It was a small statue of Perstrom’s last avatar Fidelius. It stood 12 inches high and was made from pure adamantine. It was the classic representation of the avatar, a powerful male figure dressed in full plate with his winged helmet holding a mighty greatsword. The figure had four arms, the lower arms held a mace and a sword, symbols of justice and power. In his upper arms he held a lamp and book representing the light brought to the world by Perstrom and the sacred book of the light by which all should lead their life. The statue was the source of power for his order and their most prized possession The acolyte knelt before the statue and began to pray. From the bowels of the earth a deep rumbling shook the temple. The acolyte prayed out loud, “Perstrom protect me, your humble servant.” The marble column toppled and the statue of Fidelius slid across the ground. The acolyte looked on in horror as the floor next to the statue was ripped apart and a huge crack opened up. From above the sound of cracking glass, splitting timber and stonework being torn apart filled the sacred space with horror. The acolyte looked up to see the glass ceiling fall towards him in a shower of shards. The walls of the temple began to sway and then fall inwards and outwards. The young Perstromite instinctively tried to protect himself while he cowered on the floor. A thousand splinters of glass bit deep into his body despite his thick woollen robe. Then a large piece of masonry fell on his legs crushing them and pinning him to the floor. The acolyte found himself in the midst of great dust cloud, but the rumbling had stopped. He screamed out in pain, “Ahhhhh… Someone help me! For the love of Perstrom, help me!” No one came and in his suffering he cried, “Why have you forsaken me?” The dust began to clear and he could see the statue of Fidelius and he prayed, “Help me in my hour of need, help me.” He saw a small black dragon-like head poke out of the crack and then with its small clawed hands it grabbed the statue and disappeared into the crack. The acolyte, who laid in a growing pool of blood began to scream “KOBOLD! KOBOLD! KOBOLD!” *** The Paladin decked out in golden plate stood on the small hill looking down of the assembled forces. His face was tanned and handsome in a rugged way. He had a strong square jaw and intriguing green eyes and his shoulder length brown hair was playfully moved by the autumn breeze. One thousand men and still we couldn’t get in this Kobold stronghold, pathetic. Three bloody months, I wasted here. Well tonight, that ends. He put on his winged helm and took the great sword out of the sheath on his back. It is time. He walked down the hill, looking across the small valley he could see the infernal black gate and the towers on either side. That barbican that guard the kobold’s warren was warded with some strange dark magic that the order’s finest mages had been unable to bypass or unravel. The gate sat at the top of steep slope and physical attacks on the wall had ineffective and costly in terms of life. Who knew these little scaly buggers would put up such a tough fight. They are sewer vermin, one step above rats. Well this time they have gone too far, we should wipe them out. The Paladin walked into the command tent to find five other of his brothers resplendent in their golden armour. Standing in a circle with an elderly mage at the centre. The mage had a face like a well-worn leather backpack and wispy grey beard that hung down to his waist. He had been venerable before Ethes was born. The ancient mage said, “Glad to see you could join us Ethes.” The mage looked around the circle and ask the paladins, “Are you ready?” As one the paladins replied, “Yes.” The mage rose his staff in to the air and swirled it around, while he said, ”To the place that I did scry, send these men make their essence fly.” With that here was a loud bang and then a moment of intense light. The teleportation had been weeks in the planning, it had taken Herrot, the old wizard a fortnight of careful probing of the magical defences to find a small breach that allowed him to scry the interior. It was through this breach the essence of the paladin now flew. As Ethes’ vision returned to him, he saw the spell had worked and he was in a small dark room within the kobold’s lair. The paladin could only see because, because his blessed winged helm gave him the gift of be able to see even in pitch black darkness. Ethes signal to his brother to follow him and silently they moved from the room and along the corridor towards where the wizard had scried the statue of Fidelus. Ethes led the paladins, single file down a long narrow corridor. After 200 feet, the Paladin could see that the corridor opened up into a room and there in a nook on the far wall he could see the statue. Bless you Perstrom. Ethes, signal his five brothers to move slowly and cautiously. They crept along the corridor. When they were 20 feet away from the room, WHUMP! A set of steel bars fell from the ceiling in front of Ethes. Quickly they turned to face the other way, WHUMP! A second set of bars blocked their only escape. Crap! From the room with the statue a voice could be heard, “Gentleman, you seemed to have lost your way.” A kobold in a magnificent red robe stepped into view. Ethes ran at the bars unleashing a savage blow with his mighty greatsword. The sword rang against the bars. The paladin dropped it and shook his hands in pain. “You expected that to work didn’t you paladin,” the kobold spat out in contempt. Ethes shouted at the vile creature, “Do you think you can hold the Six Supreme Paladins of Perstrom with mere bars.” “Yes, for I know something you don’t know.” The kobold reached to the statue and picked it up with both hands. “This statue connects you to the power of your god. Please observe closely.” The kobold slowly moved his hands apart whilst still gripping the statue, to reveal the idol had cleaved in two. “Oops, how did that happen? The kobold’s black scaly face broke into a toothy self-satisfied grin. Ethes and his brothers looked on, stunned. The regally dressed kobold continued, “Gentleman, long has order hunted my people down. Slaughtered our men, women and even our young. You holy than thou, paladins. Now you are just men and men die easily. Murder holes opened above the paladins, they braced for death, but instead they had buckets of potato slices dropped on them. The six began to laugh and Ethes said, “You are going to kill us with potatoes?” CLUNK! The floor suddenly fell away, it opened at the mid-point of the enclosed space and swung away until it hit the walls of twenty foot pit. The paladins fell like stones and a metal mesh floor at the bottom of the pit caught them with bone shattering effect. The screams of pain of brother filled his ears. Esthes could feel heat coming through the meesh. He lay helpless in amongst a pile of potatoes. From somewhere within the walls there was another clunk and then the metal grate began to be lowered in a jerky staccato. Esthes defiantly stood and looked up. Above the kobold in the red robe flew on a pair of leathery wings, “Welcome to the age of the kobold, humans.” The mesh jolted down another step and hot oil swirled around the paladin’s ankle and his scream mixed with the screams of his brother. Collectively the cries of pain of the paladins could not drown out the laughter of the kobold. As the paladins and potatoes were finally immersed in boiling oil, the kobold flew back to the room with the statue. There a young kobold in simple brown robe waited. “Erak, tell the royal guards we dine on fried paladins and potatoes in 15 minutes. When we have finished dining take the bones and armour and wheel out the great catapult and aim it at the militia. This siege is over, the stupid humans just don’t know it yet.”
The three trolls climbed out of the swamp and ascended the macabre hillside. The entire span, from the stagnant waters of their home to the dark bristling hilltop was dead. The trees were covered in thick powdery ash, the leaves long gone. Weeping Willows looked like huge snow covered umbrellas, Oaks like black scared fingers reaching up from the grave. From a short distance away a young man, no more than a teen, watched them. Swamp Trolls. To the Gods that made them the Swamp Trolls were beautiful. Glistening dark predators, super athletes capable of jaw dropping speed and strength. To humans though the huge and hulking silhouettes were utterly terrifying. Nightmare beasts of the inky dark. The boy's heart pounded in his chest. He had to wait them out. He could do it. He MUST! One by on the trolls lifted their great sharp noses to the wind. Scenting, they called it. One by one they smelled the boy and their heads swiveled in his direction. Watching the forest, waiting for him to move, to give himself away. The game stretched on for several minutes until the boy panicked and broke cover. Running down the hillside in screaming fervor the trolls watched him impassively. They were brothers these trolls. The oldest Gnkock rumbled corsely to his younger kin. "He will warn the village." The youngest and wisest of the three, looked back down the hillside to the safety of the swamp, to the mists where their wives and their brood hid. He put a hand on his great brother's shoulder, a troll twice his strength, as he spoke up. Gnkock bristled at the touch. Such a display was normally answered with challenge. The youngest and the wisest Gnilk left his hand in place though, braving the contact a moment longer before removing it to speak. "We must risk it. The siege must end or we all shall perish. The humans too." As gravely and rough as Gnkock's guttural voice had been earlier, Gnilks was measured and deliberate. Though to be clear troll is not a pleasant sounding language, even to trolls. A nasal blast of frustration from the troll in the middle echoed through the woods. The harsh sound jetting a billowing plume of the fine ash before them. Gnarb was a troll of few words. The three descended the hillside like wraiths. Massive, powerful, and silent as the fog. In the distance they could see the volcano as it belched untold tons of ash into the sky. The wind was carrying it across the sky, to the North this time. It was not the norm. Below them the village was mostly dark. It looked as though the entire settlement was covered in snow. Soft curves and pillowy in the moon light. The trolls knew better though. It was the same deep blanket of ash which had covered the entire land west of the volcano, the same which had saturated the murky waters of the swamp. It killed everything. Even the bugs were gone. That boy's made the gate by now. thought Gnilk. As if in response lamps were lit and the fires on the walls were stoked, soon the braziers at the gate were burning bright. When they finally arrived outside the stone wall of the great town they broke from the twisted dead tree line and made for the fountain in the cobblestone square before the gates. The statue on the fountain puzzled Gnilk. A man on goats legs, playing music. What was this creature who entertained these humans? It did not puzzle Gnarb. He said nothing as usual, it was clear to him that the strange creature was the humans favorite food. Even made of rock the smiling things goat like hams looked delicious. Slipping around it they all three moved beneath the gate and sat. In easy bow range, in plain site and in the middle of the road. It was not long before a head peaked over the wall and spotted them. The trolls sat and regarded the sentry and the sentry regarded them until the man ducked from site and a hurried conversation drifted over the quiet air to the giant ears and excellent hearing of the trolls. " They're just sitting there? Yes Captain. Why? Dunno. How many? Three. Three! Yes. What should we do? Dunno. You're a $hit pile of help aren't you. Call Fin then. The druid? Yes. Why? He speaks troll. Speaks troll! Yes. Well... OK then." Gnkock and Gnarb listened uneasily and understood nothing. Gnilk though, listened for the one word he knew, and when he heard that word he growled in satisfaction. Fin. Presently one set of footsteps was racing away and a pair of eyes proceeded by a tiny metal helmet peeked over the stone wall. The eyes bounced across the trio in time with the bobbing helmet above them. "one...two...three. Yup still three." A short time later the gate cracked and the silhouette of a fur robed man slipped through. As soon as he cleared the threshold the sentries locked the gate firmly and quietly behind him. The druid looked around for a moment and then approached the trolls dragging a large bulging potato sack. As he approached the three behemoths, the trolls regarded him with hard, viscous eyes. Gnkock thrummed his gill plates in an involuntary and (to those who recognized it) dangerous warning. About 6ft away the man dropped into a cross legged seat before them, he had the same sort of eyes. Hard and cruel eyes. Fin the Druid regarded the trolls with disdain. His troll was rusty, it lacked the guttural thrum that the large bodied trolls could produce, but it was passable enough. "What do you want?" He demanded. "Truce." Answered young Gnilk. "We can hold out troll." It was a lie. "No. No food." "Same boat as you then. Everything in the swamp is dead too I'd wager." "We've got much food." Gnilk corrected him. "Trolls storing food? Don't make me laugh." Gnilk smiled and Gnarb blew out a hissing, evil, breath. Masking his doubt Fin raised an eyebrow in obvious comtempt, not catching the point until the massive Gnkock reached forward and poked him in the chest. "YOOUU food." he grinned wickedly. The druid sat back and seemed hesitant to play his next card. The feeling only lasted a moment though and he pressed through it. Mustn't show weakness. He grabbed the bottom of the sack he had brought and dumped it. A troll's head and a few moldy potatoes rolled out towards the three beasts and the air seemed very cold all of a sudden. "We'll take our chances." the druid sneered. Gnarb reached forward and picked up the head. His claws sank through the eyes with disturbing ease and he took a ragged bite of the flapping neck flesh, swallowing it whole. "Much, much food." He growled. Suddenly Gnilk reached forward and snatched the druids wrist in a vice like grip. The fur clad man tried to cast a spell but Gnilk was smart, he had prepped his brothers well. Gnkock's great taloned hands clapped around the man's face and squeezed. The pressure on his head was tremendous and it built steadily until he flirted on the edge of consciousness. Gnkock applied just enough force to keep Fin under control, holding him fast until he tired. When he sensed the druid's body relax he turned the man's head forcibly to face Gnilk. "You move East. We move East. Across the plains, past the Volcano." Gnock released the druid so he could answer. The druid, defeated, looked fearfully to the Trolls. They were working together! Gods help us all! "We can't!" The druid pleaded. "The plains are ruled by the Savages, the Vortumski. The Centaur Cannibals. They can see in the dark! They'll run us down in the night. We'll never make it." Gnilk grinned evilly. "We can take care of the horse people." Gnarb licked his lips noisily and Gnkock laughed, wicked and harsh. The druid paled visibly at the thought of spending nights on the open ash covered plain surrounded by cannibals and trolls. Still one question begged. "Why do you need us?" He added worriedly. "We need cover in the day. We will have to dig burrows. We will be vulnerable." The idea that his people might escape the relentless siege of the Volcanic ash and sulfurous smoke was suddenly a real possibility. He pried the giant black talons off the back of his neck gingerly. In the end, he really didn't have a choice. "OK. When?" "Tomorrow." The druid stood, nodded, and backed away from the now also standing trio. He backed all the way to the gate. The gate opened and he backed all the way through it. As it closed the trolls made their way back to the dead and watching trees. They gathered the young and old. The sick and dying... they left. More trolls than had ever been together at one time assembled, they scrambled out of caves, they rose out of the swamp of ashen mud. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Their usual viciousness towards one another was held in check by the three brothers. The trio acting as a uniting force. A force which would save the Swamp Trolls very existence. They were moving to a new home. A place none of them knew. The place that would secure their kingdom for millennia. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Oct 16th, 2014 at 02:37 PM. |
#57
|
|||||
|
|||||
October 2014 Competition Entries Topic: Attempting the Impossible Challenge: a dove, an unkind truth, and something broken Winner: Her Own Hero by Captain Devonin Outback Love by Neqq (616 words) Greta Del Vecchio was too old for him, but he had to try. Fate had thrown them together, he couldn’t believe it when he moved into town a few years and found her living next door. Steve was 15 at the time, his dad and he had moved to Coober Pedy to make a new start. Living in Adelaide was too hard after his mum passed away. A new start was fine by Steve, but bloody Coober Pedy to become an opal miner, what was his old man thinking? Coober Pedy was in the middle of the desert it was a dusty, hot, hell hole. It was always bloody hot, it was so hot most people lived underground. That’s right they dug a hole and lived in like some troglodyte or hobbit. So imagine Steve’s shock when he arrived in Coober Pedy to find Greta. She was four years older than Steve, but he was smitten. In fact, he was more than smitten he was obsessed. Greta was slim, attractive and Italian, she and her parents had come out after the war. She had a tanned complexion and dark long hair that hung down to her waist. Steve loved her European sophistication, while the other young ladies of the town drank shandies (beer and lemonade), she drank white wine. It was like God, himself had seen fit to place Sophia Loren’s younger sister in the middle of the outback South Australia. Steve wasn’t the coolest of kids, the trends of the early sixties had passed him by. He was a tall lanky kid with big ears, brill creamed short dark hair and explosion of pimples for a face. He was shy and awkward, even more so around the earthbound angel that was Greta. Now was his last chance, his dad and he had struck it rich, they had found a remarkable fist size opal. It was their ticket out of Coober Pedy, they were moving to Sydney to enjoy the good life. A large proportion of town had come to the pub to farewell them, free beer always attract a good crowd. A Ferlin Husky song came on the jukebox and it was now or never for Steve. He walked up to Greta who was sitting with a gaggle of young ladies. Steve walked over and somehow managed to hold out his shaking hand and mutter the words, “Would you like to dance Greta?” She looked up and smiled, she reached out and took his hand and said, “Yes, it would be my pleasure Steve.” She said yes and she had actually said yes. Steve led her to the dance floor and put his hand behind her back and began to dance slowly with her. Her feet seemed to slide across the polished floorboard, or was she floating. Steve was vaguely aware of others in the room, his father was talking to Greta’s parents and they were smiling and laughing. Then he became lost in the beauty of Greta’s face. It was the perfect time to tell her how he felt, the lyrics of the song urged him on. On the wings of a snow-white dove He sends His pure sweet love A sign from above (sign from above) On the wings of a dove (wings of a dove) Steve had to confess his love, he had to do it. He opened his mouth and then Greta spoke, “I am so happy Steve, I am glad you are not angry with me.” Steve somewhat perplexed replied, “I could never be angry with you, Greta.” Greta smiled, that special smile that Steve dreamed of every night and said, “So you are alright with me marrying your father?”
Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Nov 16th, 2014 at 01:54 PM. |
#58
|
|||||
|
|||||
November 2014 Competition Entries Topic: The Great Flood Challenge: blinding light, a stone knife, and unrequited love Winner: Last Captain by GeneT The Last Winter, By Rebel-Soldier [1026 Words] The light was hard on his eyes. Two days in the crags of Groth with nothing more than torches and campfires was a pale comparison to Baldar's brilliance. He rose his gloved hand to the light as he stepped out of the cave; the other gripped a large sack, filled to capacity, dragging on the uneven ground. Howling winds swept by, filling his nostrils with the biting cold of winter frost, his hand shielding the light balled into a fist. His wolf fur boots took their first step in the fresh snow, leaving deep imprints perfectly molded to their shape. It was the kind of snow they used to make into balls and throw. Building great white forts within throwing distance, stock piling ammunition and then tossing for hours until someone's hands or face froze stiff. Warm as the feelings were, his bones still shuttered and no smiles came to surface. Lowering his hand again, he trudged through the ankle-high snow leaving the crags at his back. Reaching the tree-line, he looked over his shoulder at the distant cave. His gaze was as distant as the rocks, looking at things not only existent in the material world. A rush of air sighed from him over his ice-caked beard. He released the bulging sack. Pulling back his wolf-fur coat, he retrieved a stone knife from his belt. That distant stare looked it up and down, recollecting her face: those emerald eyes behind hazelnut brows, hair and tanned skin. Kneeling down, he pawed the snow away, revealing lush green grass below. Using the knife, he cut at the ground and scraped it aside. He drove the knife into the exposed earth. With a twist of his arm, his heavy pack, coloured as witch's hair, dropped into the snow. Unbinding the straps, he pulled out the first object on the top, a silvery bracelet, platinum, formed as a spiraling dragon biting its own tail with solid sapphires inset as its windows of the soul. They seemed to peer back at him as he stared. Raising his left glove to his mouth, he bit the index finger and pulled it free. The skin atop the hand was white and black from where the liquid of the dragon's glacial breathe brushed against it. It is said that this frostbite never heals; he didn't want it to. Taking the bracelet in his bare hand, he kissed it once and then drove it hard into the unearth. The platinum dragon scowled at him with those sapphire eyes. It loosed its tail from its maw and faced him with sharp fangs born. Light gleamed from its minute scales as it came to life, snarling. His face hardened. A sleek tongue hissed just as it leapt from the unearthed hole. With practiced reflexes, he snatched the creature mid-flight in his bare hand. The creature responded by twisting itself around his hand, crushing it with supernatural force. "Not this time!" he barked. Reaching back, with one hand, adrenaline pounding through his blood, he upturned the sack, spilling the corpse of a frozen woman with brown hair and green eyes, and a small wooden keg. The dragonling squirmed as it attempted to slither to his wrist, but for the strength of his hand grappling it in place. Sweeping the keg into his free hand, he hurled it towards the mouth of the cave, an impossible feat for it to reach. It collided with a rock and exploded violently, sending waves of booming echoes through the mountains around. Wiggling free of his grip, the platinum beast slid to his wrist and bite its tail, locking itself into place. Involuntarily, memories surged forth of the woman with hazelnut hair, green eyes, smiling as she drank back a tankard of amber ale on the day of her twenty fourth winter past. They sat by that fire in the old inn for hours telling stories and joking. It was then he gave her the bracelet, a bargain from a passing merchant, too good to be true. A tear froze on his cheek. She put on the jewellery and, as the summer must give in to winter, a darkness stole her away. Her caring eyes became cold as the tundras and like that, she was gone. For years he followed her, watching her rob old men for what coin they had and killing those who refused. All he did was watch. But not this last time. In the distance, a low rumble descended from the ancient ones. He pulled the stone knife from the earth and slammed it into his own arm. He screamed as pain overwhelmed him, pleading him to stop. The dragon snarled. He kept hacking, through her glares that cut deeper than the knife ever could, until it fell away. He fell backwards into red snow that collapsed under his weight struggling to breathe. The rumbled grew louder. Leaping free of the severed arm, the dragon unrelented. It shot into the air and spiraled towards his last fore-arm. He slashed it aside desperately with the knife, it paused. The earth shook violently. The man lay back, unable to hold himself up anymore. His head lolled back without the energy to move. He didn't need to move. He gazed at the flood of white attacking the mountainside, uprooting trees and boulders alike. It soared over the ground faster than any dragon could dare hope to with the force of nature on its wings, she who takes all. He coughed as he summoned the strength to raise his head one more time. The dragon stopped itself and began to turn when something slithered around it. "Not this time, you bastard," he muttered, each word more virulent then the last, as his grip locked. He looked at the woman and sighed. He sighed through the many winter and summer days when they played together while young; through her coming of age party back in the heartlands before the great freeze; through her marriage to his best friend. The dragon looked over its shoulder, panicking, desperate to escape but the bloody hands would not relent. "Goodbye, sister." The avalanche loomed dark overhead. "Goodbye." Flood by Neqq (1248 Words) A singer stands on stage a spotlight is trained on him as he walks across the stage. He is bare chested and his tanned brown skin glistens with the exertion of his showmanship. The way he wears his tight fitting leather pants and his strutting swagger speak of absolute confidence. He grabs a microphone off its stand. Staring into the blinding light, he pushes his sweat soaked shoulder length black hair from his face and shouts, “You been a great audience! This is our last song for the night, it’s called Flood!” The stage plunges into darkness, below it is a heaving sweaty mass of humanity. Two hours of primal rock and now was the end of the show, the climactic conclusion to the evening. The drums and bass pound out a frenetic beat from the darkness, this is the constant pulse that breathes life into the song. A pair of guitars comes in over the top of the rhythm, soaring in a wah-wah battle cry. The full array of lights come on together, exiling the darkness and exposing the singer standing high at the pinnacle of a series of ramps behind the drummer. The stage below is a hive of activity, but the singer is the focal point. In a voice that crystalizes the angst of youth edged with a mature bitterness the singer booms out the opening lyrics over the sonic turbulence of the band. Love is cruel Love is unkind A one way street Heading towards you No turning back No way through *** Not too far away a priest ascends to the top of a stone step pyramid. He wears an elaborate headdress. An upright semi-circle of foot long yellow feathers backed by even larger semi-circle of green reeds. He wears a toga of jaguar skin tied over his right shoulder and his exposed skin is painted gold. In his right hand he holds a large stone knife. The night’s darkness is pushed back by a dozen flickering torches and a large blazing brazier. Laid on her back across a stone block is a young female dressed in a simple white shift. Two young acolytes hold her in position, tonight the rain god will be appeased and the drought will end. *** The singer adopts a wide stance and pumps his left fist into the air. My heart turns to stone Dreams shattered and broken Left me here on my own Trapped in my mind *** The priest steps forward and raises the stone knife above his head. He looks down to the crowd at the foot of the pyramid and shouts out, “For he who gives us the rain and brings forth life!” He takes another step towards the intended sacrificial victim. He lowers the stone blade and cuts open her shift exposing her chest, she is heavily drugged and doesn’t react. The priest once more raise his blade, then he notices the victim’s face. Izel, after all these years can it be you. Izel was the priest’s first love, but she had never loved him. She had run off with a warrior and left him heart-broken. Izel, I loved you, I still love you, but I am priest please understand. The knife comes down with a sickening thud cracking Izel’s ribs. The priest works with the precision of a barbaric surgeon. With a quick series of incisions he exposes and removes the heart. Blood flows down the top step of the pyramid. The priest holds up the heart and the warm blood courses down his arm. The priest looks at the heart and smiles. After all these years I finally have your heart. The rain begins to fall. I have pleased the gods. He looks at the blazing brazier, I must feed the gods, but … this heart is mine. The priest holds the heart at eye level and stares at. His assistants both look at him waiting for him to burn the heart and complete the sacrifice. The priest continues to hold the heart. A flash of lighting illuminates the night sky. The priest continues to hold the heart. The rain grows heavier and then a great jagged trident of lightening spears down from the sky to the top of the pyramid, instantly killing the two assistants. The priest continues to hold the heart. The rain becomes an unnatural deluge that seems to focus on the temple. O gods forgive me, this heart is yours. *** The lead guitarist takes centre stage and spirals upwards into a Vaiesque solo of swirling magnificence. The singer waits patiently, unmoving waiting for his time. He is well practised in waiting. The next verse is delivered softly and earnestly over a minimal muted melody. Love is cruel Love is unkind I held your heart in my hand It never truly was mine *** The priest steps to the brazier and throws the heart into the flame. The rain becomes more intense and the flame is extinguished. The heart sits in the brazier unwanted by the gods. The priest says, “Gods forgive me, if I have offended you.” The rain continues to fall like a river being emptied from the heavens on to the pyramid. It begins to cascade down the steps. Below the crowd is washed away by the divine flood. On top of the pyramid the priest falls to his knees begging forgiveness, his bedraggled headdress drooping over his face. *** Now it is time for the chorus. The singer is joined by the entire crowd, their voices as one reaching into the darkness of the night. A flood of a million tears Just wishin’ you were here A flood of a million tears Washed them all away Now I stand alone Forever with my shame *** The priest takes the stone knife and raises high in the air and shouts out in the tempest, “Drink of my blood, o great ones!” He plunges the knife into his heart and waits for death. The knife bites deep and the pain is intense. *** The singer tilts his head back and belts out the end of the song. The sacrifice of love To those below And those above A flood of tears Wishin you were here Now I stand alone Forever with my shame Forever, forever, Fooooorrreeeeevvvvvveeeeer with my shame. The singer fall to his knees and picks up a stone knife off the stage. He plunges the knife in to his chest and hopes for death. The knife bites deep and the pain is intense. The crowd erupts into applause and the lights go down. The singer lies in the darkness and waits for death. A roadie comes out on to the stage, “Great show. Man, after two years of touring, I still don’t know how you do that knife trick.” *** Not far away, but a thousand years ago the priest lies waiting for death. In the driving rain, it doesn’t come. In the light of the dawn he stands, his chest is unmarked. Below the people and his life have been washed away. On the top of the pyramid, the body of the only woman he has ever loved is still on the sacrificial block. He ripped out her heart and for what? He held on to it, but it wasn’t his, it was never his, it never would be his. The priest sits and cries. *** The singer sits and cries. *** He knows immortality is the cruellest curse of all. Deluge by koboldsDIE [2510 words] A short Story “There was a time, not so long ago when life was simple. The crops grew, men harvested them, and the cycle moved forward. That was long before Pych was born. This is not a simple child’s story,” the wizened old man known as Graff told the children huddled by the fire. “This is the story of how we came to be.” Chondree rolled her eyes, “How many times are you going to tell the same story? You told me that story when I was their age.” “And I’m telling it now, because they should know why we live here, under this mountain. Not out in the fields as our forebears did. they should also know what it is to work a field, not they will. Living here among the rocks and gems.” His tone was gruff, but his eyes had a sparkle to them that Chondree knew all too well, since she was his granddaughter. He was right, and she knew it, they had to hear the stories, because those were all that were left of those times. One of the children asked, as if to spur on the story, “Who is Pych? Why are you the only one to tell stories?” Graff chuckled, not because he was the only one that told the tales; but, because he was the only one obligated to tell the stories in this settlement. The Pychton Mines, the only mines operating in this side of the land. Founded some decades before by The very same man, he thought, but he redirected the child. “Bring me the stone knife, mounted on the wall and I will indulge you.” Meanwhile on the other side of the mining complex, Pych’s sole descendant, Gonovan was working the forge. Gonovan was taller than most of the folk in Pychton, standing just over five feet tall, with the broad shoulders of a miner. The forge was hot, miserably so, but if he wasn’t in the mines, he had to be in the smith’s forge. a lamp in the wall glowed a muddy yellow color, but he paid it no mind. Any other day, he would have rushed up to the community room, but not today. Today was a day of remembrance and reflection, today was the Centennial celebration of the founding of Pychton, and that meant quenching the forge. Gonovan turned to those smiths and miners that had gathered for the somber occasion, as most had elected to spend the day with their families or friends. His voice was smooth, and words carefully chosen. “Friends, today we honor those who came before, and in their honor we quiet the smithy, and cool the forge. I know that most of you, myself included would rather keep working; but if we don’t take some time for ourselves, we might never get the chance to find our better selves.” He then pulls the hood low over the hot coals, and gives the seldom used shut off valve a swift kick. With the basics of the ceremony attended to, Gonovan tries to maintain the somber mood. “As this marks the end of another year, I would like to thank you, my friends, for all the work that you do. All day, everyday, in keeping Pychton the longest running mine in the area. Tomorrow some of you will go off in search of new lands, and in a few more days we will welcome those from other lands seeking a new beginning.” The assembled group of miners and smiths erupted into a cheer, including Chondree’s best friend-the miner Gavindole. He would have rather been up in the community room with Chondree. When he closed his eyes he could see every detail of her face, bright green eyes, small nose, sweet red lips, that just might be fun to kiss, something he often did when working a five day rotation in the mines; but he wouldn’t be doing those in Pychton anymore. This was to be his last night here. He was on the list of miners that were going exploring. Every fifth founding day a group of stout miners, smiths, and other hearty folk were sent off to seek out new lands. Much like Pych did one hundred years ago, after the great flood. * * * * * * * * * * * * The next morning, Graff stood next to Gonovan before a group of twenty hearty brave folk. Graff, being the elder was the first to speak.“Friends, soon you shall brave the surface world for the first time. I know that you have heard tales of those strange lands above, mostly at my knee. But, we know that you will be more than capable of making a new life in the lands beyond. However we ask that you try not to look for our chimneys when we relight the forge. The light above is stronger than what you are used to, and our forge burns clean. You will not see smoke. Be safe in your travels, and think of the life you will be leading, and not that which you leave behind.” Gonovan opted not to speak for the platform, since he liked to think that he was one of the people, and not just their chief. “Last night, you were my friends. Today you become my family. I hope that you all are able to find good land with which to make a living.” While short, and cloying sweet, Gonovan’s words held hope in the minds of these hearty folk. Not a soul in all of Pychton knew what was beyond the heavy door through which Gavindole and his compatriots would soon pass. It was true that there would be some folk coming in to the mines, but most folk traveled through the underground. But like animals being lead to a slaughter, they all walked past the heavy iron bound door. Most not voicing any concerns or doubts as to why they were going overland. By the time the last one across the threshold looked up to see the blue sky and blindingly bright light that effortlessly floated above, the heavy door had swung shut with a deafening sound. Great, Gavindole thought, I’m trapped on the surface with a bunch of guys. There isn’t a pretty face among us either. If only Chondree could have come, without so much ceremony. We could have had a grand time exploring the lands, and each other. Most of the miners decided to just sit, and wait for the dark to come, for it had to come. From the stories they had heard growing up, there was a bright time and a dark time. For some, like Gavindole and Chondree it was simply a dark time, regardless of the time of day. Gonovan used the ritual of exploration as a way to keep his options open, or rather reduce the chances of romantic competition for as clan chief it has always been his right to entertain any woman he so choose. It had been that way since Pych founded the mine just after the flood, but that was something that was not shared outside of the chief's personal circle. No one had ever questioned it. Tradition was something these stout folk of the mountain held to, as dearly as the men held their wives at night. With Gavindole effectively banished, Gonovan began to aggressively court Chondree. Clearly, Graff wouldn’t object, in fact he actually encouraged it. Not because he didn’t want his granddaughter to wed a miner, but because he wanted her to have the best life possible. Sadly Chondree was just as headstrong as Gonovan. “I don’t care how often you send me jewelery, or fancy clothes. I won’t go off with you Gonovan! Not just because you sent a dear friend of mine off on a half baked vein run, but because you are older than my brother. Pits!, you’re almost old enough to be my Father.” Chondree rebutted to Gonovan’s most recent request for company, in the community room. “Ok, I’ll grant I’m a bit grey and grizzled. But I’m also the Chief of this mine, and I have only had eyes for you since you finally became a woman.” “Blood of Pych or not, I don’t think you are anywhere near as good for me as Gavindole might have been. At least he was honest.” She stepped closer to the symbolic stone, her green eyes bright with intent. “If you send me any more gifts, I’ll have this worthless rock sent to the forge! Answer me this; why do you only select the menfolk to go off on these adventures? Why do you not send away some of us women? And why do those we welcome as tired explorers come by way of the underground?” Gonovan could hardly stand against the onslaught of Chondree’s fury. His mind went to the forge, but there were no answers to be had in the remembered heat. But he couldn’t give her a straight answer. “What, you want to go out, to the world above and be with Gavindole? Nonsense! If he has half the brains you think he does, he will have started moving as soon as the great light dropped below the disk of the world. You and I will marry tomorrow. This was arranged long before you even knew Gravindrole, or whatever his name was. You are the only female descendant of the first woman to settle here. Our future was written in stone before we drew our first breathes.” Gonovan tried to stay calm, but he was getting angry. “Graff, would you explain this to her.” He implored the aged wise man. “What is Gonovan going on about, papa?” “Easy children, sit down and I will see if I can sort this out” The old man responded, with a puzzled look on his face. While it was true that he knew what Gonovan wanted of his granddaughter, he also didn’t know she had her heart set on another. He indicated a place near the fire pit. “Go, start a fire, and sit!” He told them, with much the same tone as a parent would use on a recalcitrant child. Then he paddled over to a stack of books and scrolls. It took the aged one a few minutes to find the books required to help these two headstrong folk come to some sort of agreement. “Alright, now, because there are times when a lady should come before a man, even if he has rank. Chondree tell me what is troubling you.” So she does, including the part where she admits to having feeling for one of the menfolk sent off to find new land. The old man nods, and steeples his fingers, “So what say you, Gonovan. And remember, that I am one of the elders, and if I decide to call this to council, we as a group out rank you.” “How could I forget my place against the council of Elders?” The Chief replies before going into his side of things. Graff sits for several long minutes after hearing both sides of the issue. Then he opens the book, the very same book he read to the children not but five days earlier. “Perhaps you have both forgotten how we came to be the folk of the mountain? I will remind you.” Chondree rolled her eyes, and Gonovan groaned, but Graff continued. “Pych was barely alive, clinging to a raft or drifting wood, when he found the beach. For three days and three nights he laid in the same place. On the fourth morning he was awoken by a smell, a perfume that he never had encountered, nor would he smell that fragrance again. He struggled to get his feet under his body, but he didn’t have the strength.” Graff pauses to explain, “Pych had been adrift for almost twelve days. More than a week without food, or water. It is said that there were some who had angered the gods in the weeks before the storms, but that is not for us to know.” The fire popped and a log settled before Graff could get back to the story, a few children now huddled as they never got to hear this part. “From the wall of the cliff came a figure, clad in simple robes. The smell the roused Pych from the realms near death was incense. The robed figure hunched over the very travel weary Pych and said, ‘Rest. I will bring you food, and drink. We have been waiting.’ Pych thought it was a dream, and reached to where his stone knife hung around his neck, the blade still sharp enough to prick his finger. I guess I’m not dreaming. I did make it to dry land. Comforted, as he was, the farmer that was Pych fell into sleep, the sand of the beach a more comfortable cradle than any ever made for a babe. When Pych woke next the robed figure was there, with food, a simple meal of fish. ‘Eat this, and be well. Strength will return. Then we can talk.’ So Pych ate, and felt better. Almost good enough to risk another attempt at standing. But his balance was lacking and the farmer fell forward. The robed body was able to catch him, preventing death; but not before the stone knife found its way into the wall. When the knife and the wall connected the was a blinding flash of light, followed by a long grinding noise. Pych’s knife was the key to this inner mountain sanctuary.” Graff stopped to let the words sink in. Gonovan sat there, mouth gapping, looking very much the fool. Chondree had an equally odd look about her. The children sat in wide-eyed contentment, if only because they had never heard this part of the story. While the audience drank in the details, Graff walked to the kitchen half of the community room and found himself a flask of mead, the talking taking a toll on his voice. Refreshed, the wise one went back to his seat, and continued the tale. “Pych really didn’t found this mine. It has always been here, as it always will be. If our brave explorers wanted to come back, they could, because they all have similar stone knives. There is a magic to this mountain, by sending our brave ones overland, the magic will bring them back to us, if they are in dire need of help; as Pych was. But he was only able to open the mountain, because he came from the mountain. Now why don’t ye little ones hustle off to your beds. I have need to discuss other things with Chief Gonovan and Chondree.” With the children back to their parents, Graff was able to return to a more weighty matter: Gonovan’s desire for Chondree, and her absolute distaste for him. But that would be difficult since she had passed out, and Gonovan had walked off. Perhaps the story was enough, and he wouldn’t have to use any of his greater wisdom. End Last Captain : GeneT : 743 Words To the sea it is I consign these words. May they roll and turn within her. May she find them pleasing so I may rest In her deepest embrace. Cold yet sure. Blue yet black within her. We chased them upon the blue. White sheets thrown into the sky to harness wind and purpose. Our minds and eyes upon the task, we fed cold iron to canons strapped flames in hands ready. It is here that we come that I give voice to my Mother. Blue and black with frothing white boiling clouds upon the swell to him that is what we must need to him that is within her. Aleksandr. Aleksandr. He who is our Captain Grasping a boys head in a single hand dead upon the wood his eyes blank yet open peering into those of our Aleksandr. By way and wind By life and limb We are the last pirates and die by the whim of our Mother. Captain says I as Aleksandr turns brown eyes not blue not Mother’s color of ground and green of harvest moon of corn and tobacco and indecision. Orders Sir. Orders. By vote By Arm By fingers By eyes By the souls of crew and rope of wood and sheet We stand for Orders. We lay alongside the prize athwartship we shudder ropes and hooks did pull us in until our rails kissed and we slaughtered. With decks cleared she is ours except for crew below the main boarded and sequestered against us. Aleksandr Aleksandr Captain did stand and let the boy go did glance and call to us. “Hold my men lest more life is lost. Hold against foolishness and folly.” “Where be the Witch.” Did he say. “Where be she that sets our sails.” “Where be the woman who curves into our space who fills our eyes and minds. Who stands silent amidst our bloody business so we may secure the key the talisman against the Flooding of Land against the disappearance of all firm ground that is left.” The swell of Mother is her. Up and around we feel it between our limbs and in our belly. The Witch did walk eyes shining over the rails past blood past feces past dead men with throats red. Eyes bright Smile turned upright against the smell of death. Is it here? Upon this vessel. Is it here? Yea be prophecy. The Sea is our Mother. Blue yet Black. To her we owe our lives. No sailor would wish to die upon land. No sailor would wish to forget her embrace. Blue yet black. to her I speak of Aleksandr. Upon the mast high against the spray lay the talisman. Nailed against the wood secured against the weather it is but single piece of iron forgotten. That which the sea holds. That which the Mother maintains against the flood. And the witch’s eyes follow high into the blue sky drawing our Captain Aleksandr. “Yea, so the heavens did speak. Yea, so the land did command. The talisman against our death is his upon the mast within sight within hand.” And so followed our Captain’s eyes Aleksandr along the fingers of the Witch’s hand to the mast and the talisman. And in a moment fed by froth and swell did Aleksandr draw his stone knife and cut his love down and pierce from Witch life. The Witch lay near the boy blank eyes turned to the bluer sky. Open but void to her lover until Aleksandr did kneel and close them. “Captain,” says I. “Orders.” Aleksansdr stood and sheathed his hand. Stone knife quiet. “Secure the crew and set this ship aflame. Burn it down into wave and squall into that which is Blue yet black. Make it bright make it shine. A star upon the night. A pearl upon our Mother’s breast.” I watched her sink. Aleksandr upon the burning deck. The witch’s face in his hands. And the boy's eyes closed to the end as we sailed white upon the blue wind within our sight land scarce as was our right Without a Captain. The Sea is our Mother. Blue yet Black. To her we owe our lives. No sailor would wish to die upon land. No sailor would wish to forget her embrace. Blue yet black. After our folly upon this place no sailor deserves eyes the color of Land. No sailor deserves to hear the voice of our Aleksandr. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 15th, 2014 at 02:42 PM. |
#59
|
|||||
|
|||||
December 2014 Competition Entries Topic: The Meaning of Giving Challenge: childlike wonder, peanut shells, and bloody wounds Tie: Away With The Fairies by Xiasmus and Sweetness by Pseudonymous That which is gone [589 words]
The growing season had just ended when Kaylie came home. She had been away for some time, tending to folk less fortunate than herself. But coming home was always as refreshing as leaving was. Kaylie had plenty of reasons to get away for the growing season, her seven sisters, and six brothers, all younger than she by various degrees; but younger and therefore annoying, lovable pains her her rear. Even though she was only 20 years, and in all reality not that much older than her closest brother, Cedron, who tried to get away for the summers; but there wasn’t much use for the first son, especially if his father was the third son of a third son. Besides, someone had to look after the farm, and help the children mind their parents. Cedron never seemed to complain either, he didn’t have Kaylie’s talents in the field. She could gauge the quality of the harvest by the look of seedlings only three days after sprouting. Even their parents noticed her gifts early. By the time Kaylie was five, she had found a way of doubling the production of peanuts, per plant. In time her family was able to afford more land, to plant other crops, but they still kept the peanuts in rotation. Most of the peanuts were dried in their shells before being pressed for oil; and the small town of Cringboil lived or died based on the yields of peanut oil. Kaylie spent her summer working with the other sharecroppers in Cringboil. Including one short and rather irascible newcomer, who went by the name Pych. The only thing it seemed he could grow, with any real success and no real effort, was his beard. It wasn’t lack of trying either; Pych spent endless days in the sun, pulling weeds and generally being the best plant caretaker he could be. But he never had a good harvest, until Kaylie came to his small field. The grump had probably been busting the sod for about three years when she first came by, that was close to six years ago. Pych’s typical crop was all shell and no nut, but with Kaylie’s help he finally had a peanut crop worth drying. But Pych didn’t want to wait for the peanuts to dry over winter, which is what most of Cringboil did. He built himself a small furnace to speed things up. At first he fed his furnace the dried stalks, and then later peanut shells. When Kaylie first saw his contraption, she was filled with childlike wonder. Yet again she would have that look of childlike wonder when she helped him hull the peanuts, as the ultra hard peanut shells left bloody wounds on her soft and delicate hands. Pych grumbled as he quickly dressed her hands in some clean cloth. "This won’t do. It just won’t! I must find a way to hull these little nuts without you giving up your soft hands." However, this was to be Kaylie’s last year coming home. She decided that she was going to move in with Pych, and his fantastic peanut processing machines. Her parents complained, but they also understood. Kaylie might be their first daughter, and as such she should marry into a family with more money, but they also knew how much she truly cared for Pych. And so come spring, after the first planting, Pych and Kaylie were married in a simple ceremony; only for her to spend the summer helping the other poor sharecroppers in Cringboil. End The Giving Of Meaning by Vex (710 words) A single torch flickers in my crypt, using up what little air managed to get in through ancient cracks. Most of my kind shy away from fire, for it is the symbol of life and of change, and neither applies to what I have become so many years ago. Which was one of the reasons I keep the flame burning, replacing the torch whenever necessary. It reminds me of life, and of a time I could still feel warmth. I do not take pleasure from the memories, for all things pleasure are now merely ash. I have become a creature of hatred and bile and guilt. Guilt over what I have lost and hatred for my companions. I remember them well, their faces etched into my desiccated brain and kept alive in the shadows thrown by the flickering flame. There was the halfling Quynn who kept meeting the world with childlike wonder despite whatever cruelties we experienced on our travels. Quynn's naivety sickened me even then, and decades of loneliness have not changed anything. It was a mercy when my arrow found its mark in her heart, though mercy was not my intent. I remember the barbarian Marcs. Greedy where Quynn has been naive, especially when it came to food. I remember the peanut shells in my bed roll. My blades in the night have been the only reasonable way of stopping that uncouth creature. He deserved no less - but our Captain had him buried with all of the proper rites. It is likely that Marcs gets the last laugh, from whatever heathen afterlife he is watching me. The Captain. I thought he loved me, once. I believe I loved him once, too, but it is so difficult to tell the feelings from the heart and the stomach when the one is no longer beating and the other is no longer present. This is for the best, I feel (as much as I am capable), for my heart obviously betrayed my mind in making sound judgement. The Captain was a strong and imposing elven warrior, and he would have certainly commanded my respect had I not fallen for him like a silly child's fantasy. He could never be mine, or so he said, on that fateful day. We faced each other. I had my spells and knives and bow. He had his shield and holy blade and willpower, but I still managed to give him a bloody wound before he knocked me out. I remember. I remember that when the darkness came for me, I prayed for the first time of my life. Not for forgiveness, or for mercy, but for the strength to end him, to grant me the revenge I deserve. And the darkness answered, filling me with strength and something that I took as a semblance of life. In my crypt, I glance again at the naked flame. It is agitated today and nearly burned down, clinging to it's last shred of light. It's agitation matches my thoughts well as my bones begin to float gently up from my the lab of stone I rest. I form the semblance of a body and reach towards my little treasury to search for a new torch. And then my non-existent heart flutters for I feel a presence in my chamber that is not mine nor that of the dying flame. "I should not have let you alone, my love", a familiar voice whispers. I am paralyzed - not by any spell, but by my own thoughts racing each other. "I am sorry it has taken so long to find you. I forgive you", the voice behind me whispers and I feel a burning presence behind me. I turn my skull towards the torch's dying flame as the holy presence behind me begins to consume the very darkness that maintains my essence. "Peace be with you, my love" is the last thing I hear in this life, and the only regret I leave behind is that my grinning skull is not suited to smile with the serene peace I feel. As the torch dies, so does the essence of darkness within me and an empty shell, devoid of memory but again full of meaning, crumbles to the ground. The End. Away With the Fairies (990 Words) by Xiasmus “Come dance with me,” said the strange man, his face beautiful and pale. He smiled, his amber-colored eyes warm and oddly distant, and I noticed with childlike wonder that the curve of his jaw fell in line with his angle of his ears. Ears that peeked briefly through his long, straight hair. It was a strange trait, and one I had never seen before. I found myself mesmerized again by his eyes. He took my hand in his, and despite my slight size his hand still seemed slender and delicate in my own. My hand that seemed thick in his grasp. His fingers traced across my close-trimmed nails, my knobby knuckles. How could he want to touch me? I was nothing so fine as he was. His lips trembled with excitement. “Come dance with me. They will all want to meet you. There will be music and laughter, and the wine will flow like rain. Tell me you will come.” His teeth were all uniformly flat, I noticed. Perfectly in line. I wanted to touch them. I half-reached towards them, but then thought better. I never acted like this. It was hard to look anyone in the eye. And now I wanted to touch a man's mouth? I wasn't even sure why the urge came over me. Maybe I was having an episode... A moment later, I knew I hadn't been having an episode, because the world suddenly went vividly psychedelic. The light glared from lamps red as bloody wounds. Despite the baleful glare it fluoresced around me, bending to unseen textures in the air, washing the room in cobalt, ochre, and kelly green. I tasted acid and tin-foil under my tongue. My ears rang, and it felt like my skin was bathed in ice. I stepped back, and my heel came down on a what looked like a thousand mouse skulls, which splintered under my heel with a sound like broken peanut shells. Now I was having an episode. My hand struggled to hold his. I looked at him, ashamed, embarrassed. “I need to go. I need...” “I need my medicine.” He looked at me, his hand not letting go, his eyes searching my face. And then the corners of his mouth pulled back into a sharper smile. “I can help you,” he said. His voice held tones of harpsichord and chainsaw, but only in the echoes. “Let me help.” Confused, I could only hope. My feet felt unsteady on the rolling floor of skulls. I nodded. He placed two fingers on my brow, just between my eyes, and he inhaled deeply. The extra color drained from the world. The taste flattened and fizzled like so much antacid. The pain felt as though it was pulled from my skull, and the sound suddenly became normal. I was standing on the plain pile carpet of the visitor's room. I had the vaguest sense that he'd breathed the madness all in, pulled it in through those thin nostrils of his. As if, somehow, he consumed the moment, leaving me free of it. I stared at him. His pale hair gleamed like white gold. His emerald, crushed-velvet coat, which hugged his thin chest seemed the counterpoint to his pallor, and I noted the lace at his cuffs, that implied the old kind of frilly shirt that no one had worn for at least a hundred years. In a way he looked all the more vibrant than he did before. More intense. More real. And I wondered, was his offer for me? Or was it for himself? I was grateful for the gift, but somehow I felt certain he had gained just as much in return. He pulled at my hand with all the more fervor. “You must come dance with me. I know a way through the hedge, just outside the garden. The doctors will not know the difference. It is almost dusk. Already my people are singing the evening song, and laying out the table with plates of crystal and jade. They are setting out the lights in the meadow. They have left the door in the hill open to welcome us home.” “Please,” he whispered. I looked at him a moment. “But I can come back?” I finally asked him. His body shivered for a moment with excitement. “Yes,” he said. And nothing more. Somehow he knew that any more begging would make me say no. I looked to see an orderly pass by. He smiled at me, but he paid no attention to the man. When he turned the corner, I let out my own breath, which I realized I'd been holding. “I will come,” I said, glancing away, just to be sure. But the world around me was normal. The sounds were natural. The same hospital I had come to know over the last two months. He nodded briefly, as if this had all been a formality, as if we had always been planning this. “It will be a night to remember. I have told them all about you. They cannot wait to meet you.” As he lead me gently out into the patient's garden, he brushed a strand of my hair out of my face. “You have such a rare and precious gift, my dear. It would be a shame to squander it in this place.” I wanted to ask him how he knew me. What his name was. Where we were going. And yet I knew that there was magic in silence, and in secrets. Magic did not hold up to questions well. As he lead me to the gap in the hedge, I took one last look back at the dull white building. “None of that now,” he said, turning me back to look at him. And he planted a kiss on my forehead, light as a butterfly, tingling like the first flicker of electricity. “Come.” And I came. The End? Zoo Time by Neqq (571 Words) It was Monday morning Show and Tell time in Miss Osbourne’s Pre-School class. Miss Osbourne was nearing retirement; a prim and proper lady who thought she was helping better disadvantaged children. She looked at her list and at the eager young children on mat. With raised eyebrows and a forced smile she said, “Gary Southby, it’s your turn today. Have you got something to show or to tell us about?” A young boy wearing board shorts and a black sleeveless t-shirt stood up and said, “Yeah, Miss O I got a real good story Miss.” He walked up to the front of the class and began, “On Saturday my dad took me and my big brother Timmy to the zoo. It was boys’ time mum and my little sister went shopping for clothes and an Elsa doll. At the zoo we saw lions, tigers, meerkats, kangaroos and penguins. But, my favourite was the elephants. They were Indians Elephants. The daddy elephant had big tusks and two trunks.” Miss Osbourne looked over her glasses at Gary and said, “Are you sure he had two trunks?’ “Yeah, he had his normal trunk on his face. It big and long and it sound like a trumpet, whhhoooo!” The other children laughed and Gary now warming to the task continued to spin his yarn, “He used it to pick up peanuts off the ground. He ate them shell and all. And he had another trunk between his back legs, it was big and long and almost touched the ground.” “Maybe that was his tail?” “No it was another trunk and guess what the elephants were playing piggy-back. The daddy elephant was climbing up on the mummy’s elephant’s back. And it must have been elephant Christmas Miss, because the daddy elephant had a present for the mummy elephant.” The next question fell out of Miss Osbourne’s open mouth before she could stop it, “A present, what was it?” Gary replied in a steady stream of words, “I didn’t see what it was, but my brother said he was really giving it to the mummy elephant. My dad told Timmy to stop being an idiot and got really angry with him. Timmy told dad to lighten up and dad got more angry and went to hit him. Timmy started to run away, but he tripped over and took all the skin off his knees. Yous should have seen, it was super gross there was blood everywhere. Timmy cried really loud and everyone was looking at him. A zookeeper took us to a special room and put bandages on his knees. Then dad took us for ice-cream and brought us both a toy and told us not to tell mummy he was chasing Timmy.” Miss Osbourne sat transfixed unable to act. “When we got home Timmy showed me a funny way to pretend to be an elephant. You make the ears like this,” Gary said matter of factually as he pulled the pockets of his shorts inside out and left them to hang by his side. Gary’s hand moved towards his zip as he said, “The trunk you make like this.” Somewhere deep in Miss Osbourne alarms bells rang and she shouted, “NO! Gary, NO!” Gary smiled his biggest smile and said, “C’mon Miss it is real funny.” “No please sit down Gary.” Thank god this is my last year I hear his little sister is even worse. The box was powder blue, her favorite color. When she saw it on the end-table that morning she knew it had to have come from Robert. He had been so kind, even though she didn’t really deserve it. The thought made her smile. It almost made her forget about the twenty-seven stitches in her left leg. Almost. Beth lifted the lid of the box, greeted by the smells of sugar and vanilla. A cupcake was nestled inside. She let out a little laugh in delight. Blue frosting, white nonpareils and a tiny plastic horse and rider. There was a note taped to the inside of the box, typed out in blue letters with a picture of a heart. Wow. Robert really went overboard on the sappiness factor. Hope this helps you feel better. The note read. Take it easy! You worked hard to win- You deserve a rest! She frowned for a moment. “Worked hard to win.” Ugh. Robert meant well, but that was still a touchy subject. She guessed he wanted her to start talking about it eventually. Acceptance being the first step to healing, or some nonsense like that. Automatically she looked over at the framed picture on the end table: a portrait of herself and her horse Marmalade. It was taken in happier times, long before the… incident. She sighed. Beth didn’t like discussing that day, but it was always on her mind. Beth loved riding. She loved show-jumping. She lived for that moment in the air as her horse leapt over a hurdle, slowed down in her head to an eternity, feeling as though the creature had sprouted wings like Pegasus—it was magical. The same feeling could be seen on the face of every child who attended a show-jumping competition, and reflected in the surface of every trophy she won for her efforts. Except for the last one. She limped into the kitchen, cupcake-box in hand. Her appointment with the doctor had ended early, so it was technically still breakfast time. Cupcakes for breakfast, then. She pulled a plate out of the cabinet and poured herself a cup of cold coffee. Well, she might as well give up on adulthood altogether this morning and eat in front of the living room television. At least she’d have someplace comfortable to rest her injured leg. It still hurt after all these weeks, but that was to be expected, she supposed. It had been a bad time. A bitter victory. She hobbled to the couch and flipped on the TV, appreciating the ambient noise it created. The apartment could be so quiet during the day. Robert and the neighbors were at work, leaving her to stew alone in boredom and inability. And Stacy…. Well, Stacy really didn’t talk to her anymore. Stacy. She had been there at Beth’s last competition. That fateful last show. Stacy was perpetually Beth’s only real contender, and their long-standing rivalry was the stuff of legends at the riding club. That final show had been no different. Their scores were even throughout the day, until finally the last jump of the day rolled around. It would be Beth’s last chance to pull ahead for the win. Stacy was so cocky, so unpleasant about everything. She deserved to be taken down a notch, and this time Beth thought she could do it. And she did. Just… not the way she had originally planned. Not the way she had planned at all. Beth pulled the plastic horse-and-rider pick out of the top of the cupcake and studied it. The horse was a bay, just like her Marmalade. Not that this was a huge coincidence; she was pretty sure about 95% of all horse-related toys and decorations were brown. The rider’s costume wasn’t much of a coincidence either. English riding gear was pretty standard: Jacket, jodhpurs, black helmet, boots. Beth had the real thing in her closet, unworn since that fateful day. So did Stacy, presumably. Hmph. Stacy. Beth stabbed the pic into the cupcake, using it as a spoon to retrieve a chunk of frosting. She didn’t understand why Robert left this on the end-table rather than putting it in the fridge. The buttercream was losing its consistency from the heat. It had been hot the afternoon of the competition, too. Beth remembered everything that happened that day, unfortunately. She had the perfect routine lined up, practiced in secret for a full week. It was supposed to be her greatest act ever. But then came the last jump of the day. Beth remembered the sound of snapping leather as Marmalade leapt the final hurdle. She felt herself falling. The world spun; she heard the sounds of a thousand people gasping mixed with the shrill cry of a startled horse and the hollow thunk of a PVC hurdle bar being struck. She felt the wind being knocked from her lungs and a sharp, ferocious stabbing in her side. There was a flurry of dust and a world of pain, mixed with the crunch of breaking bone. The girth strap, the simple band of leather that secured the saddle around the horse’s stomach, had snapped mid-jump. The action sent Beth falling off the horse and into the hurdle, which in turn threw off Marmalade’s balance just as he leapt into the air. The metal cradle on the hurdle smashed into her side and pierced the skin as Marmalade fell onto her leg. The entire fiasco occurred in the blink of an eye, so quickly that Beth couldn’t immediately figure out what had happened. She remembered turning her head as she lay in the dust and seeing the light brown arena dirt stained with a deep crimson. There was blood—a lot of it—and it dawned on her in a moment of horror that all of it was hers. Her leg was crushed between the comb-like hurdle frame and a thousand-pound horse. The air rushed back into her lungs, and she started screaming. Robert ran out with the safety crew to free her. Stacy stood at the sidelines. Just… staring. Beth shook herself from that memory by taking a bite of the cupcake. It had an unusual flavor—Vanilla, yes, but something else too. It was familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Tasty, though. She still remembered seeing Stacy there, hovering on the sidelines as the medics loaded Beth on a stretcher and took her away. Her expression was dead. Empty. Days later, it was revealed that her saddle had been intentionally damaged. Someone had taken a pair of scissors to the girth strap, leaving just enough leather intact to stay in one piece. Every hurdle she jumped tore it loose a little further, until the last jump snapped it completely. The riding club declared it sabotage, and as Beth’s fiercest competitor, Stacy’s name flew through the rumor mill. Did she deserve it? Maybe, maybe not. Beth sometimes felt sorry for her, but really, what could she do? Beth grimaced as she bit down on something in the cupcake. She spit it out onto the plate. It looked like cardboard. Wow. Either Robert was a terrible cook or he had discovered the worst bakery ever. Well, at least Robert was trying to be nice. That’s more than Beth could say for Stacy. She had come to visit Beth in the hospital once, but not out of support or sympathy. No, not Stacy. She came to clear her own name. “You don’t believe them, do you?” Stacy demanded, barging into her room looking like a wreck. “I didn’t break your stupid saddle! You have to tell them that!” Apparently the rumor mill had been working overtime during her hospital visit. Poor, poor Stacy. It really wouldn’t have killed her to be a little nicer, though. Beth was in a world of pain, struggling through stitches and morphine and a nurse who forgot about Beth’s food allergies, and all Stacy could do was complain about her own problems. “I gave up EVERYTHING to compete this year!” she went on. “I worked two jobs just to pay for my horse’s boarding fees! I wouldn’t throw all that away just for a stupid ribbon!” That didn’t matter. Beth was awarded with the Best of Show trophy as a sign of solidarity from the riding club. Nothing was ever proven, but Stacy resigned from the club after the rumors got too personal. Last Beth had heard, she had moved out west somewhere, working for a catering company or a bakery or something like that. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Sometimes Beth felt bad about that. It really wasn’t Stacy’s fault. But then, if Stacy had been less of a heartless jerk, maybe things would’ve gone better for her. Robert wouldn’t have dumped her and started dating Beth if Stacy had been a bit less selfish and-- Her cell phone rang, startling her. Beth spat out another piece of cardboard and grabbed the phone off the table. She recognized the number as her apartment manager. “Hey Jim. What’s up?” she said, brushing cupcake crumbs off of her pants leg. She was starting to feel unwell—maybe cupcakes for breakfast was a bad idea. “Not much. Just wanted to make sure you got your gift okay,” came the voice on the other end. “I figured you wouldn’t mind if I let your friend in to deliver it.” Beth sighed. Jim had a habit of letting people leave stuff in her front hallway while she wasn’t home. “Yeah, I found it. Did Robert lose his keys?” she asked. ”He shouldn’t have bothered you for—“ “Oh, it wasn’t Robert,” Jim interrupted. ”It was a lady. She said she was a friend of yours from the riding club. Tall. Brunette. It was supposed to be a surprise gift, but it looked like food so I wanted to make sure you found it before it went bad.” Tall, brunette? No. It couldn’t be. Stacy was out west, in Washington or Idaho or something. Why would she..? Beth looked at the cupcake. It was getting uncomfortably warm and stuffy in the apartment. She was having trouble breathing. No. It couldn’t be… She couldn’t know… How could she know…? “I think she left an envelope, too,” Jim continued, unaware. “She wanted you to open it afterwards. Food-box first, then envelope.” Beth’s eyes darted over to the hallway end-table, and sure enough a blue envelope was sticking out of the drawer. She must have missed it. A strange feeling of dread growing within her, she hobbled over to the table and retrieved the envelope. With shaking hands she tore open the seal. Out popped a card, with a pair of photographs inside. The card had a cartoon cowgirl and the words YOU DID IT! in big bubbly letters. Beth leaned against the wall, feeling unable to breathe. Things were making sense now. Inside was a handwritten note. YOU DID IT. It said. NOW I KNOW YOU DID IT. CONGRATULATIONS, “CHAMP.” HERE’S A LITTLE GIFT FROM ME. --S The first photo was of a trio of saddles, all with broken girth straps. They were Beth’s practice saddles—the ones Beth used to gauge how far to cut so they would last until the final jump. There was something written in pen in the corner: I FOUND THESE IN THE DUMPSTER. YOU CUT YOUR OWN SADDLE. YOU FRAMED ME SO YOU COULD WIN. Beth couldn’t breathe. No. No no no. This was wrong. No one was supposed to find out. And it was never meant to go so wrong. She knew she couldn’t have beaten Stacy fair and square; she just wanted to fake an injury and pause the competition. Maybe make Stacy feel bad. But none of this was supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to actually get hurt. And no one was supposed to find out it was sabotage. Things had just spiraled out of control! How could she have admitted she ruined her own gear after all the fuss the riding club had made? No one was supposed to find out! Her vision blurred, her throat felt tight. The second photo was of a green and white box in a dumpster. The room started to spin and Beth struggled to see what the picture was supposed to be. Then it hit her. She knew what the box was. She knew what the cupcake was. She felt herself getting dizzy. The flavor of the cupcake was suddenly more familiar. The box was her supply of allergy EpiPens. They were sitting in the dumpster across the street. She felt herself choking. And now she knew why. It was Stacy. Stacy, who worked in a bakery. Stacy, who saw her in the hospital with an allergy bracelet. Stacy, who lost a boyfriend and a trophy and a home, all because of Beth. Struggling, she reached for the cupcake. It fell off the plate, sending the pieces of brown material flying. They weren’t cardboard. She knew this feeling: It had happened before, as a child, back when she discovered she had a food allergy. Oh no. Oh God. They weren’t cardboard. They were peanut shells. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Feb 1st, 2015 at 07:08 PM. |
#60
|
|||||
|
|||||
January 2015 Competition Entries Topic: Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies Challenge: redemption, a rampaging nun, and rodents Winner: Contemplations of a Bird by Tongue Rocks' Fall, Everyone Dies by Vex (1059 words) My name is Elagrim Rockbreaker. They used to call me Rocks. In a better world, I would be known as a hero. In a better world, I would still be known as a Paladin. Even in a slightly better world, I would be searching for redemption. But this world, is no better or worse than I deserve it to be. In this world, all I am left with is my shame, and the knowledge of why Goodman Everyone had to die. It was supposed to be a simple dungeon run. Get in, kill some crazed beasts, get out. Save the town's sewers from a mad druid using her minions to wreak havoc. Don't accidentally doom the world. There were four of us for this. Silben Shimmerspell was a resident sorceress, and her spells proved invaluable in the dark tunnels below the town. Merle the Monk, a fearsome warrior woman dispatching enemies with her hands. Silben used to call her "the rampaging nun" in reference to her outfit. Behind her back, at least, and never to her face, although I am certain Merle knew her reputation very well. And the last member of our party was the halfling rogue Goodman Everyone. Obviously it was not his true name, and while I disapproved of the hiding of identities, Everyone came with excellent recommendations. We entered the sewers and defeated the first waves of opposition - sentient slimes, giant rodents and swarms of cockroaches. Exactly what you would expect as an adventurer of some experience in the sewers of a middle-sized town. We found our target quickly enough, and while I was hoping to bring him to justice, we had to resort to force to put the rabid druid down for good. And that's when it would have ended, in a better world. But Everyone found the secret passage on our way back to the surface, and all three of my companions overruled my desire to return to the surface. A sewer without a villain is no place for a Paladin. Unwilling to abandon my companions, I continued with them. The path led us through the ancient catacombs underneath the village's church. The sanctity of the dead had been violated by something other than us, and we had to keep the restless undead at bay by blade and magic. Onwards we continued, past the catacombs and into unexplored ruins. Neither our rogue nor our resident sorceress ever heared about these ruins, but we could sense the evil that must have driven the druid to madness and disturbed the slumber of the dead. Something was stirring in these ancient ruins, and as a bringer of Light, it was now me who insisted to continue adventuring. In a better world, I might have taken Everyone's advice and returned with additional supplies and people, but my zeal to do justice drove us forward. We found the evil at the heart of the town, in the bowels of the earth. A demon was stirring, an ancient evil we were ill-equipped to fight. None of us was backing down, though, in our foolish determination to do good and to make an even greater name for ourselves. The pride of an adventurer was our fall. Specifically, my pride. The demon tempted and tested each of us. The sorceress Silben was promised knowledge and power, ancient tomes of undiscovered witchcraft. She just laughed and resisted, confident enough in her own abilities to defy the demon's temptations. Merle the Monk was promised recognition and fame. I heard she described a vision of heading a monastery, founding her own school, one of the highest goals achievable only by the greatest of all. The style of the Rampaging Nun would become the most powerful of all the monastic schools, and Merle herself a legend sung by bards. I remember seeing the temptation growing within her, for I was still aware of such things then. Merle's inner force and calm was a wall of unquenchable fire and steel, however, and the demon's temptation would not stray her from her path and goal. We continued, and the halfling Goodman Everyone found a secret cache of gold, a literal dragon's hoard of wealth. Clearly tempted to fill his pockets with the precious items, we counseled him caution and wisdom. Silben ran her spells over the hoard and I searched for signs of malign tempering. For all of our arcane and divine magic, we found no sign of evil. The hoard we found was a genuine treasure, and my companions filled their pockets without qualms. Even I pocketed some gold to donate to my church, and to purchase new equipment. It was then my eyes fell on the golden blade hidden within the treasure pile. It spoke to me in a voice I could not described, it whispered a song of justice and peace. It promised me that wielding it, I would be able to overcome any danger, any foe, right any wrong. Slay everyone. I did not realize then this was not a trap for our rogue. This was a trap for me, and bluffed into complacency due to the lack of obvious malign intent, I fell for it. I took hold of the blade and the world went black. A better world would have remained black. Instead, this one turned red. When my senses returned, Merle and Silben had fled. There was a mad laughter in my head that mocks me to this very day, and before me, Everyone's headless body lay before my feet. The golden blade in my hand dripped with blood, and I felt the laughter within my skull driving out my patron's divine guidance. My greed and carelessness claimed the life of Goodman Everyone. Justicars and lawyers might argue I was possessed, that it was not my hand that wielded the blade. This might be the truth for mortal law, but I know it was my decision, my action and my consequence that claimed the life of an innocent. The golden blade is a powerful artefact. I have it still by my side, and guided by its mad laughter, together we search for its creator. My quest is one of vengeance not redemption, and it is far from over. In a better world, I would have to pay its price only once, when Everyone died. But this world is not one of the better ones. The Redemption of Sister Roberta Ramone by Neqq (1620 words) Sister Roberta Ramone was a very round woman. Her face was like a plump full moon, circular, pale and full of craters. She stood at 4’10” and had the build of keg, her brown Sister of Mercy habit further enhanced this metaphorical categorisation of her appearance. The combination of her pugliness and stout build often had her mistaken for a dwarf. Anyone stupid enough to enquire if she had dwarven heritage received a dent in their shins the shape of the Sister’s heavy black boots. What was not small was Sister Roberta’s heart. In her work with the Sisters of Mercy she had help to feed, house and care for the Blackport’s needy. She did this turning a blind eye to the injustices and evils of the city. Sister Roberta realised she was only one woman and she focussed her energies in helping those she could rather than tilting at windmills. This was the case for twenty five years until one day she snapped. It was any particular incident that sent her over the edge, but merely the weight of a thousand incidents piled up upon her broad shoulders. It was midnight down at the docks, a sailor helped himself to service of one of the street-walkers without payment and without permission. The young woman was screaming the sailor saw Sister Roberta coming and continued his assault. She went to walk by as she normally would, but found that her feet refused to follow her instructions. Almost without thought she picked a bottle the sailor had discarded, stepped up on to a box and smashed the bottle on the wayward seamen’s head. A feeling of divine elation filled Sister Roberta. She thought, This is god’s work and it feels good. Regret began to seep through her euphoria almost immediately. Twenty-five years of unwanted memories had been dredged up. The nun questioned herself, Why have I not acted before? It was on the dock that Sister Roberta swore she would redeem herself for not acting earlier and begin to clean up Blackport. She had a plan to do it, it had dwelt deep inside the nun, in a place where the unthinkable is considered, a place where thoughts are born that don’t not normally see the light of day. Now however, a window had snapped open and sunlight flowed into the dark recesses of Sister Roberta’s psyche. As the light grew perversely the darkness spread and the nun found herself on a new and very twisted path. Three months later deep inside the cellars of the Sisters of Mercy Nunnery the stocky figure of Sister Roberta strutted around her five prisoners. Sister Roberta had always been a dab hand at mixing sleeping concoction to help the sick. Administering the drug for her new purpose was not hard, find your target on an empty street or in a crummy bar. Bump into them and slam a treated dart into a leg or an arm. No one ever expected a nun of foul play. So when there were others around they tend not to ask question, but help Sister Roberta load up the poor unfortunate soul on to her donkey cart. Now here they were some of the vile pus that infected the city of Blackport. Each of the prisoners was gagged bound tightly to a chair and each had a noose around his or her head. The chairs was placed in the corner of a small stone room with the prisoners facing each other. In one corner two identical prisoner sat side by side on two chairs lashed together. The chairs all sat on trap doors. “Now then scum,” Sister Roberta began in a very un-nun manner. “Each of you should have some idea why you are here, but I don’t know if you know each other so let me tell you all what I know about you bunch of degenerates. First though I should introduce myself, I am your hostess Sister Roberta Ramone of the Sister of Mercy and this is Mr Lynch,” she said indicating the collection of nooses, pulleys and beams that the prisoners were connected to. The nun made her way across to stand next to a scrawny looking Ratman and introduced him to the group, “Lady and gentlemen, this is Gedro, he gives rats a bad name.” The Ratman squirmed in his seat his beady eyes wide open and focussed on his hostess as she continued to speak, “He is a gravedigger, an honest way to put food on the table. This malevolent maggot has been taking the connection between his work and providing sustenance for his family literally. What sort of depraved maniac feeds his family on corpses he should be burying.” Roberta spat in the Ratman’s face and moved on. Next she stood next to a very attractive middle-aged woman and said, “This is Sister Elena Yormic of the Order of the Shield. As you know the order is sworn to protect the weak and to bring justice to all.” The woman maintained a composed appearance. ”This sister,” Roberta hissed out the word, “is the biggest supplier of children to men and women with perverse and wicked tastes. She did not protect the weak, she profited from them.” The nun drew back her hand and delivered a stinging slap across the woman’s face. Elena took the blow stoically and returned fire with a glare of pure malice. On the next chair sat a richly dressed old and frail man trembling with unabashed fear. The nun looked at the quivering geriatric with mock pity and said, “Oh, an old man on his last legs. Despite his advanced years and frailty Hans Ingles here is Sister Elena’s biggest client. He has purchased at least sixteen boys in the last two years. Sixteen boys whose whereabouts are unknown.” The nun raised her boot and drove her heel into the Hans’ withered manhood. She left him slumped in his chair. Finally Sister Roberta came to the two prisoners who sat side by side. The pair were identical Oread twins, seemingly hewn from granite. They had massive bulk and sharp chiselled features, their eyes were cold blue gems. The nun stood by them and said, “These are the twin brothers Oram and Iram. Oreads by nature are normally philosophical and sagacious, these two are an abomination to their race. They like to play a game called 'Between a Rock and a Hard Place.'' By my count they have killed at least a dozen ladies. They are merciless misogynistic monoliths.” The nun produced a small rock pick from her habit and drove it in turn into each of the brother’s head. They roared abuse with a muffled fury. Having made her point Sister Roberta moved to the middle of the room and spoke, slowly turning to face each of the prisoners, “You are all evil lowlife and you all deserve to die. I am answering the call of the one true god who has told me to deliver justice. However, I am still a Sister of Mercy and I will kill only one of you tonight or the two of you,” she added pointing to the Oread twins. Sister Roberta scratched her chin and announced “I hate making decisions, are there any volunteers?” Looking at Elena the nun said, “Will it be you, seller of children?” The woman sat defiantly and shook her head. Next she turned to the Ratman, “Will it be you devourer of the dearly departed?” The Ratman shrank back into his seat and urinated, the nun disgusted said, “I take that as a no. What about you old man maybe you can molest a cherub in heaven or an imp in hell? The old man shook his head furiously and began to cry. She turned to the twins, “What do you say boys two for the price of one. You like to do everything together, don’t you?” The Oreads shouted muffled abuse through their gags. “What was that?” Sister Roberta enquired as she removed Oram’s gag. The Oread now free to speak said, “No religious freak lady dwarf can kill me. You ever loved anyone nun? Untie me and my brother and will show you what a real crush is?” “Thank you for volunteering,” Roberta said in a matter of fact manner. She stuffed the gag back in Oram’s mouth and walked to four levers on the wall. Turning to view the Oreads Sister Roberta pulled the upmost lever down. The trap door flew opened and the brothers fell a few feet before the ropes around their necks went taunt. The other three captives allowed themselves a moment of relief as they slumped in their chairs watching the Oram and Iram dangle at the end of the rope. Sister Roberta felt an enormous amount of satisfaction, it had gone to plan so beautifully so far. She stood silently and counted, One, two, three. Behind the wall the rope pulled taut by the weight of the Iram pulled on rod that slowly slid upwards. The rod had been act as a brake mechanism for the untouched levers. Free from the rod the three levers moved into the down position of their own volition. The three remaining trap doors sprang open and the remaining perverted trio performed a short macabre dance at the end of their ropes. Sister Roberta said, “I was true to my word I only killed the two Oreads, Mr Lynch took care of the rest of you.” She smiled to herself and continued, “The rocks fall and everyone dies a very poetic ending and a very promising start Mr Lynch. I will clean up tomorrow and then find you some new guests to deal with.” The convent tower of Ispehonie "The Cloud Walker" lay atop a small but steep hill the center of Carsus. A small and humble town, the nunnery, though rarely visited, was really the only thing of note for many leagues in any direction. It was a landmark structure of the realm but getting very old and falling into serious disrepair. It was because of this that the Stonemasons from the capital had been sent to repair it. It would take 15 years but perhaps it would strengthen Isephonie's waning influence in the lands, while preserving some of her heritage.
A tall dark man in rich velvet robes slowly ascended the winding road which led to the tower. His gait was long, strong, and purposeful. Above him a large raptor of some sort circled low. As he made the courtyard he had to take a wide detour around a big hole that the stonemason's had opened on the new site. The masons, two foreign looking types could be heard arguing in the bottom. "That's not bedrock. It's too uniform." An old man’s voice directed. "Yes it is." A cocky youth replied. "Not it's not. " "It's pink. " "Granite can be pink." "Then put a lever brace under it and we'll pull it out. You’ll see." "Ok. But then I’m hungry. Let’s break for chow soon." "Good nuff. Get’er done and help me out this mud hole." came the gruff reply. The dark man ignored them and approached the stout oak door of the tower. Stopping on the threshold the raptor (which was a falcon) landed on his shoulder. He rapped three times hard, listening as the hollow sound echoed down the hall on the other side. Mother Ingred Sildof answered the door promptly, she had seen the strange man as he made his way up the road. Here before him she got her first good look. He was tall and imposing and she recognized him immediately. It was the dark eyed sorcerer Agnop from town. A man of infamous reputation. A man of some power it was said. But not here, up on the hill, this was her domain and Mother Ingreg showed no fear. She knew the tower was protected by Isephonie's Acolytes, formidable priestesses from the capital and a powerful spell had been cast on the tower when it was built. He knew it too. NO man could enter unbidden. "I’m sorry to bother you." He lied "But still, here you are…." She smiled in agitated indifference. "I seek a thief." Here visage grew very hard. "A thief... among you." Make that murderous. "Are you accusing...." "No. Not you…. Not Sister Margret either... " He paused for effect. "It's your latest. "He added finally with an air of contempt. "Sister Agnes? Impossible!" The mere thought of the woman (Sister Agnes) made Mother Ingred as mad as a hornet but she hid it. Whatever her feelings she would not have this malcontent slandering a good woman of Isephonie's flock. Even though... She hated her. HATED! Strong words for a nun of Isephonie. Her angry thoughts crowded in unbidden. She ate too much, she had terrible manners and was borderline blasphemous often. Mother Ingred folded her arms in defiance. But she was still a sister. Sent straight from the Arch Mother in capital city. None of this was new, and Sister Agnes had quite a reputation. One that had reached them here in Carsus long before her appointment to Mother Ingred's care. Her behaviour was terrible yes, but not too surprising, mostly not anyways She is a fake! he stammered angrily, losing his cool. Mother Ingred returned his hard looks. And how would you know that Sorcerer? The man took a deep breath and rallied his thoughts. Collected his rash anger and pushed it down. Well. let us examine the facts. He said with an aloof roll of his wrist. First, your numbers have been declining at the castle for over 10 years. At present. There are only three of you in this pillar of rubble. Lots of rooms, not so many people. As hiding places go, it is a good one. Second, Sister Agnes has been newly assigned. Third, and this is just speculation, though I’d bet my life on it. She is positively un nun-like... un lady-like too I’d wager. Fourth, but most important. Fourth, I have just come from the capital, and there I had a meeting. With the REAL Sister Agnes. She was on edge now, but she was listening. Agnop saw it too and pressed. I have lost a powerful artifact. A necklace. He motioned around his neck. Plain silver in appearance but for a very small blue sapphire. It is magic. A necklace of polymorph for those who know how to trigger it. AND He continued. Slightly embarassed. "It would seem I have also lost my apprentice Jusiv. I daresay it is NOT a coincidence." The mother superior had seen that necklace. Her cool demeanor fell apart and her jaw dropped before she caught it. Agnop sensing victory, pounced. Let me in. He insisted. I will…. Just then at the end of the hall Sister Agnes appeared. She came around the corner holding a stack of books and froze in her tracks. Mother Ingred turned. All three seemed to lock eyes. Sister Agnes’s visage flickered. For the briefest of moments a scraggly teen stood there. Smirking. And then, Sister Agnes once more, she/he EXPLODED in the other direction. Throwing down the books and running to the end of the hall she burst through the door disappearing into the stairwell. To say that the Cloud Walker Nun was surprised would be a gross understatement. How? The tower is protected by powerful magic. No man can enter, unless I... It’s the necklace fool! Invite me in. Invite me in. Invite! Me! In! Agnop was beside himself. The noble mother fumbled with it a moment longer before mumbling the incantation to allow Agnop across the threshold. His falcon “Percival” though was knocked hard off his shoulder as if by an invisible hand and the bird ***SQWWWAKED*** in surprise before taking righting itself, taking flight, and spiraling high into the sky. Inside the Sorcerer gathered his wits quickly. Where does that door lead? Mother Ingred likewise, whether in righteous anger at such deception, or just cooler thinking in a crisis, gathered herself and her tone grew deadly serious. "Only up, or down. The upper floors and roof, or the catacombs below. The only door back outside is the one you entered." He grinned and turning he closed the door with a spell of warding. "It will warn me if he passes" he explained. "He did not bother to explain that it would also stun the lad. You check the upper floor then. Percival is watching the roof and I’ll take the catacombs. And... where is Sister Margret he suddenly added. " "Upstairs I gather, in her room. I’ll warn her on my way up." He nodded. The powerful sorcerer prepared his spells as he approached the stairwell. By the time he opened the door began his descent, he was positively CRACKLING with power. Suddenly a rat scurried out and he blew it apart with a look, a mere focus of hatred. Well Jusiv. I have you now. Did you think I wouldn't find you eh? I sent minions out, I searched everywhere. I even consulted with dark spirits... I did it all. Another rat exploded up ahead as it made for the shadows. The grin on Agnop’s face was maniacal. "I did it all, and still you were no where to be found. But that was your undoing. There is only one place in these parts that my magic cannot penetrate. You knew it too though. You knew the tower was shielded. Alas...". ***Sizzle*** BLAAAZAPPPST!!!! another rodent painted the floor in a halo of guts. "Alas, I knew it too. So here I am thief. Come and face your DOOM!" ******************************* The upper floors were clear. Nothing moved. The windows were still shuttered the doors all unlocked. No Sister Margret either though, not so much as a songbird. As she made the ladder to the roof hatch she hiked her dress up and ascended carefully. Opening the hatch she crawled out, hands an knees on the hard cobbles. It was a glorious cool Autumn day, but up here, windy. Standing gingerly, the wind knocked her ritual habit from her head and it sailed off to the south. Running to the edge she watched it fly lazily down into the open foundation hole. The Mason’s she could see were just coming up the hill in the distance returning to their work from lunch. Deep in debate, they didn't see a thing. "Yah yah. You were right." the younger whined. "Not just bedrock. Foundation. A key stone!" The Master Mason opined. Suddenly, she saw Sister Agnes. Or rather, a stumbling rat turning into Sister Agnes, before turning into a scraggly teen. He's getting away! She gritted her teeth. The audacity! To betray our trust. OUR GOD! Mother Ingred Sildof, stout matron of the House Isephonie lost it, for just a moment, but she lost it just the same. She wrenched a loose brick free. "Lyyyying thief!" she screamed. Hurling the brick downwards with all her might. Just then, from out of the doorway the previously absent Sister Margret raced, on her heels Agnop leapt out and grabbed the boy around the neck from behind. "Help there’s a strange man in the tower and he’s blowing everyone apart! "Sister Margret screamed in a frantic wail. In triumph Agnop flooded power into the boy, intending to blow him apart from the inside out. Slowly. To make him suffer. REDEMPTION! The brick struck him squarely in the head. Caved it right in to be accurate. One moment a crazy nun was freaking out, then there was a whistling sound, then an explosion of light behind his eyes, then... nothing. The spell though was not wasted though, it went exactly where he was looking when the brick struck. The boy, gasping, whirled away, shocked at the gruesome site, of Agnop’s misshapen head. It almost turned his stomach. Only just, did he hold it in with two firm fingers on his lips. "Nooooo!" Mother Ingred yelled. "Yeeeesssss! "the boy whooped, though a little greenly. Then, giving a little wobbly jump for joy he turned to run. "Blarrrrgahharrg!" He puked. There, directly on the path, lay Sister Margret. Her neck was still smoking and her head was, to put it mildly. Everywhere. "Noooooo. Noooooo! Margret!" came painful wail from atop the tower. Then, "Seize that boy!" she yelled to the masons. She raced to the trap door opened it, coming from the bright sun outside, to the dark gloomy tower, she should have slowed down. Hurrying, she missed a rung and slipped, falling the 15 or so feet onto the hard flags and cracking her tailbone into several pieces. Jusiv regaining his wits was a rat again in an instant. Scurrying down the path in a zig-zag pattern. The Masons though saw the boy, saw him become the rat. They were ready for him, but too slow. In a blur, the falcon grabbed the rat with a Shriiieeek! and speared it savagely in it’s long talons. As the Masons charged forward it climbed steeply high above their heads to escape. It was then that suddenly the rat turned back into Jusiv. Dead and limp Jusiv. The falcon to be sure, was definitely not prepared for THIS. The pair dropped like a stone until in a panic, it released Jusiv’s body. From 60ft up the teen landed squarely on the Master Mason. The old man’s neck broke like a bloated, rotten, branch. The younger Mason jumped with fright when the body struck. Slipping on the muddy lip of the hole he fell into the pit. The only sound he made was a sharp "Ooops" before he let out a gurgling scream. The boy had fallen on his makeshift bracing, breaking his femur on one leg and the ankle on the other. His too ribs were cracked and he could hardly take a full breath as he lay in a crumpled heap in the muddy bottom. ****************************************** For days Mother Ingred lay on the hard floor at the base of the ladder. No one came. Each day she grew weaker. Each day her whimpers grew quieter. Eventually she noted she did not have the strength (or even the tears) to cry. She would just sleep, painful and restless, but too tired and weak to stay awake any more. More and more each day she slept, until about a week later, she went to sleep…. and never woke up. Out in the hole the young Mason shared her same fate. Two souls in such proximity, in such similar circumstance, but not close enough to share so much as a look. The lonely nun in her lonely tower and the foreign Mason, down in a hole and no one the wiser. Just a lonely pitiful death. The Falcon you ask? Well he lived. Sort of... The following morning he strayed too close to a hen house and the farm boy put an arrow through his neck. I like to think. If he had a thought. Besides SCREEEECH SCREEECH SCREECH. That it would be this. Life is fleeting. Enjoy it while you can. Plus.... people are JERKS. Especially farm boys. My mother called me Roxanna, my friends call me Rocky. The dressmaker calls me a gem, and wonders why I never buy any of his wares. Truth is I’m more of a pants and shirt kinda of girl. But it’s an easy thing for me to do, since dear momma’s been gone for a long time. Blackport is a big city, and I can easily hide in sight wearing what I choose to. It might not hurt that I’m the Lord Mayor’s only daughter, and bound by the rules of law to inherit the mantle on his death.
However, there is a thorn in my Father’s side, a rampaging nun. Blackport has strict laws regarding murder, and the constabulary refuses to investigate the matter, claiming that this Sister of Mercy is doing God’s Work. Even though her father had reminded his Chief constable that there was supposed to be a method, “The law exists to allow the corrupt to seek redemption in the eyes of their fellow citizens. Those folk who operate outside of that law should not be exterminated like rodents, which is what this nun is doing. As such I see no choice but to authorize this writ for her arrest. I have no doubt,” Her father went on, “that she believes with her whole heart that she is doing right by God and the people, but she should not have taken it upon herself to be Judge, Jury, and Justicar. As Lord Mayor, I am the highest Judge in this fair-port, I want this nun stopped.” While it may be true that my Father didn’t tell me to put a stop to this rampaging nun, he’s also been disappointed that I wasn’t born a boy. In his eyes I fell from grace the day I fell from my mother’s womb. This might be my shot at redemption as well as a chance for the nun to explain herself to someone in a position of secular power. So I pulled on my favorite leather outfit; Leather shirt, woolen hose- in the color of my family, the ruling family-and a studded leather skirt with a solid pair of boots and I went out in search of the fallen nun, with a copy of the writ in my hand. It didn’t take long to find her. Afterall the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy is just outside of town. Their original mission had been to minister to the homeless, the sick, and the honored warriors without families. Often they also had to tend to the dead; as such the convent was surrounded by an ancient and sprawling cemetery. As I walked to the grand front door of the secular symbol of the power of the Sisters I couldn’t help but notice that there were several fresh and unmarked graves. If those graves had belonged to one of the congregation, some fashion of marker would have adorned the graves; but these were barren and bereft of any identifiers. I knocked on the door and announced that I was acting on the authority of the Lord Mayor. One of the lower ranking sisters showed me in and lead me to Sister Roberta’s study and announced me to which the barrel shaped nun only laughed, “You are too young and too small to be in the Town Guard, even if you dress like it.” To which I could only reply with the truth, “Perhaps I should have my father amend this official writ to include insulting a member of the Ruling Family, why else would I be wearing these hose? The Guard wear hose two shades darker, and checkered at that!” Then we both started laughing, she laughed at the audacity I had, and I laughed because I was mildly amused at her stupidity, hiding her victims in plain sight. “So what say you sister? Shall you come willing to the Lord Mayor’s house and face justice, or shall I execute this writ, and drag you there in irons?” The irony is not lost on me, looking back, Sister Roberta outweighed me by easily thrice my own weight, but some how I managed to bring her down, like a wall of rocks, but yet here I sit as a guest of her friend Mr Lynch, laughing. For the Sake of Snack Cakes by Xiasmus (2955 Words) War... War never changes. Throughout human history wars have made animal peril worse. It is believed that during the Crusades, ships supplying beseiged cities carried back plague-bearing rats to Europe from the Holy Land, and spread the Black Plague that would threaten all of human society during the 14th Century. During World War II, saboteurs left dead rats loaded with explosives in factories in Germany, in hopes that boiler stokers would toss them in the boilers in order to dispose of them, only to destroy the high-pressure boilers they tended. And that was before humankind unleashed their worst weapons on each other. After the Holocaust, the peril has only grown worse. Giant radroaches, mole rats, and bloatflies have all become a common peril throughout the New Californian Republic. But in the NCR's southernmost region, Dayglow, the radiation forces many species to adapt or die. The population of Dayglow includes more ghouls than are found in most of the NCR, but humans and super mutants have made this area their home. As have fever flies, bullbugs, ghoul rats, and deathclaws. Dayglow is only able to hold these creatures at bay because of the assistance of the Brotherhood of Steel, whose Point Loma Chapterhouse produces the Knights and Paladins who protect the community from this constant onslaught of feral wildlife. Despite their best efforts, the Brotherhood has limited manpower, and they are forced to recruit from the local tribals to support their efforts. It is a tenuous balance, and should the Brotherhood no longer be able hold back the radiation-born hordes, Dayglow might only be the first casualty of this new invasion. *** Lolo crouched behind the upended pool table, watching the half-dome of security mirror in the far corner of the room, and listening as the ghoul rats fought over his last offering. The mirror was a wide affair, made to help prevent shoplifting from the time when this room was the original recreation room in the Chapterhouse, and this was a gathering place for initiates and officers. Due to the nature of the reclaimed land under Point Loma, the base had sunk and periodic earthquakes compromised this part of the building. Few came here now and that allowed the rats to find their way in. The Brotherhood had put in steel plating over the holes the rats had made, but Lolo knew Brotherhood tech well enough, and he could remove the plates to test his device. The rats were fighting over a small brass cage that sat on the ground. Inside was a package of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes he'd found in Sister Nora's bottom desk drawer. Unwrapped, he discovered that the decades old cakes were still spongy and filled with the sweet white cream that was supposed to last for at least another 50 years. The rats, oversized, rad-ravaged creatures who plagued most of the Dayglow area were drawn to them for the sugar they craved, and they tested the metal structure that held the pastry inside it. All according to his plan. Lolo waited, tensely, for them to set off the faraday cage. He'd saved the electron charge packs that Brother Marco discarded as incompatible with any of the weapons in the Brotherhood's current arsenal. Linked with scavenged power coils and wired with a level switch, it was supposed to discharge with a breif electrical burst once the rats jostled it hard enough. He wasn't sure whether it would just stun them, or kill them outright. Either result would be the proof of concept he need to bring the design to Elder Casey. But something was wrong. Either the level switch was not wired right, or the rats needed to really get the cage moving. There was a bang as one of the rats rolled into the cage, and Lolo waited for the snap, the crackle, the hum of the electrical discharge. Instead he heard the high-pitched shriek of Sister Nora. “Lorenzo Guillermo Mendoza Perez!” Lolo closed his eyes. The ghoul rats, apparently as frightened of Sister Nora as he was, retreated back into the holes he had lured them from. He watched as the last made its way into the hole in the far wall. Another Saturday lost. Lorenzo clambered over the pooltable barrier, and replaced the steel panels, re-engaging the magnetic locks that held them in place. “Lorenzo Mendoza, you get in here!” Lolo ducked next to the rat trap, and disengaged the power supply. If someone wandered into this room, and made it over his barrier, the cage might well do them the kind of harm he had hoped to bring to the rats. “If I have to come find you, Lorenzo, so help me God I will...” “Coming, Sister!” Lolo called out, and he scrambled out quickly, brushing the dirt and oil from the front of his initiate robes. Sister Nora was no more tolerant of dirt than she was of his petty theft, experiments, or lack of discipline. She had already made it abundantly clear that she considered Lolo unacceptable raw material for the Brotherhood, and if his father had not been a Paladin, she would have had him cast out of the Point Loma Chapterhouse already. *** “Did Sister Nora find you?” Tricia asked, as she took her seat across from him in the refectory. “Yeah,” Lolo said, pushing his black beans across his metal tray, trying to scrape up some of the salt with them to add flavor. “She was crazy angry with you. What she do?” “I got a week mucking out the Desal Works.” Tricia whistled, impressed. Since Dayglow was right on the edge of the Pacific, and Point Loma's Chapterhouse stood on an isthmus of reclaimed land, the only good water supply was full of irradiated salts. The Desaliantion Works should have been completely clear of life, but just like the ghouls, mutants, and rats, local flora had adjusted to the background radiation by metabolizing it. It was the algae on the coast that gave San Diego its new name of Dayglow, and in the Desal Works this special brand of algae bubbled and blistered in glowing green sheets throughout the tanks. Only constant scrubbing with the steel brushes and pumice stones kept the vats clear. The pumice was the expensive part, hauled all the way down to Dayglow from Mount Shasta in the upper NCR. Of course, even with the best radiation suits, the Desal Works was supposed to be a rotating shift, so that no one person was got over-exposed. “She trying to fry all your little swimmers, Lolo,” Tricia told him. And then she stabbed at the corn, rice, and beans on her tray. Around them recruits and full members of the Brotherhood ate and conversed in the refectory, showing that everyone was an equal in the Order. “Swimmers?” Lolo asked, not quite sure he knew what she meant. Tricia, a tribal recruit, was always teasing him with her tribal slang. She only used it around Lolo, since Sister Nora didn't tolerate improper English. “She don't want you to have kids,” Tricia clarified. Lolo shrugged. “I don't think that's a real risk right now, anyway.” Tricia cocked an eyebrow at him. “You have no confidence, Lolo,” she said, poking him in the chest. Lolo looked at Tricia, confused. “What does confidence have to do with anything?” Tricia shook her head, and Lolo was again certain that he'd missed something. Then she continued. “Why you nick her stash, anyway?” Lolo was pretty sure Tricia was talking about the cakes. “I needed them for an experiment.” “Another one?” Tricia rolled her eyes. “What was you up to this time?” “Faraday cage. Weaponized.” “Huh?” “A big shock box,” Lolo translated. “Like lightning?” Tricia asked. “Yeah.” “You trying to make some kinda weapon?” “No, just a trap.” “Nun trap?” Tricia snorted. “Rat trap. For the ghoul rats in the walls.” “Oh,” Tricia said, suddenly serious. The tribals near Dayglow understood the danger of the ghoul rats, and the fact that the Brotherhood was unconcerned with the infestation in the walls struck all the tribal recruits as problematic at best and dangerously short-sighted at worst. If the ghoul rats got into the food supply, things could get very bad very quickly. It could be the beginning of the end. “Does your lightning trap work?” “I don't know,” Lolo admitted. “Sister stopped me before I could test it.” “Did you tell her about it?” Lolo just stared at Tricia. “Probably a good choice,” Tricia concluded. “Could be longer in the Desal Works.” “A week is long enough,” Lolo agreed. “Still, maybe you can help me next week? The rats crave sugar. They won't come out for any of the other stuff I've tried to bait them with. Sister Nora took back the cakes I stole. If you can find some, then we can test the cage, and maybe we could prove my design works. Then I could get transferred out of Sister Nora's class...” “And into Elder Casey's!” Tricia nodded with approval. “That's smart.” Lolo nodded. “And that would mean I could go to work for R&D. I'd have a permanent place here in the Brotherhood...” “And you honor your father...” Lolo looked away. That was the whole thing. At the age of 16, Lolo had yet to show any aptitude on the shooting range, had failed to gain the muscle mass of his father, and was cursed with being near-sighted. If he couldn't justify his place in the Brotherhood in the next two years, he'd be kicked out of the Chapterhouse, and he'd have to find some kind of job in the main part of Dayglow, which was generally less hospitable than Point Loma. And worse, that would mean he let his father down. His father, who gave his life for the Brotherhood and the People of Dayglow, fighting a Deathclaw migration from Tijauana last year. Two years could slip by all too quickly. “Sure thing, Lolo,” Tricia finally agreed, punching him in the arm. “I help you next Saturday.” Lolo rubbed his arm and smiled, but he also nearly cried. It was good to have a friend, finally, even if she was a tribal. “Thanks, Trish. We'll meet in the hallway near the old rec room.” Tricia nodded, and took her empty tray to be washed. Washed in the water that Lolo's scrubbing would help provide for the next week. *** If there was one thing that the Desal Works gave you, it was time. The rake work went pretty fast, but the scraping with the pumice stones was slow and tedious. And even afterwards, the radaway treatments meant spending at least an hour in the infirmary when you were done. The problem with his cage was the trigger. The rats had yet to set it off. They could smell and see the treats, and the wires were supposed to trigger with the jostling, but nothing had happened so far. What he really wanted was something more reliable, so that as soon as one of the rats came up to nose the cage, it would flare out, and catch everything around it in a nice little burst. But short of salvaging sensors, he couldn't really see a way to make that happen. Hour after hour, day after day, the problem ate at him, but he was no closer to a solution. On Friday, Sister Nora gave him the answer. “How is the fight going, Lorenzo? Have you got the algae on the retreat?” she asked archly. “I'm not sure there's a way to defeat the algae Sister Nora. It grows so quickly...” “Are you using both the rake and the pumice?” Sister Nora asked. It was a silly question, because there wasn't a way to do the job without both items. They brought a bucket of the pumice to the edge of the tank, and you scrubbed and scrubbed until the bottom was silty and the walls were clean. You couldn't even leave the Desal Works until the vats stopped glowing. But if Lolo said that, Sister Nora would take offense, and he might well end up with another week of punishment. “Yes Sister. But how can the algae grow back so quickly? It doesn't make sense.” Sister Nora smirked. “Maybe there's a lesson in there for you. If you applied yourself half so much as the algae, perhaps you'd be a Journeyman Knight right now, instead of an Initiate.” Lolo grimaced, but did not complain. “Yes, Sister.” Sister Nora eyed him with a steely gaze. “Too bad you only have a box of rocks on your shoulders, instead of real talent. But it's only two more years. Maybe you'll find your true calling out there in Dayglow, instead.” Lolo left, angry, confused, insulted, but too afraid to say anything. *** Box of rocks. Box of rocks. The words echoed again and again in his head. As he scraped at the walls, pumice in hand, he couldn't help repeating the whole conversation, and wondering how he could have done better. At one point the stone slipped from his hand, and tumbled to the bottom of the vat, causing the whole container to ring and vibrate. Box of... Wait. Lolo grabbed up the stone, climbed to the top, and then took the whole bucket. He slowly tipped the bucket until the stones were barely perched on the edge, ready to fall into the vat. Then he poked the bucket with a finger, and one of the pumice stones fell into the vat. There was a terrible din, a vibration, and the stone clattered to a stop. Box of rocks. That was it. Lolo finished his scraping in record time. He even skipped the radaway treatment, despite the rads he knew he was carrying. There was no time. He had to find an old hubcap, an egg crate, some scrap metal, and the rocks he needed. And he had Sister Nora to thank for it all. *** When Tricia met him on Saturday near the old rec room, Lolo could hardly contain himself. “It's going to work! I know it.” Tricia looked at him “Sure.” she resonded, not sure what to say. He let her in to the room, and she looked over the cage. “It don't stand straight” she said, reaching out to right it. The hubcap he'd put on the bottom caused the cage to tip to one side now, but that was part of the plan. With an unsteady base, any touching would cause the whole thing to rattle easily. And the new part on top, the crate, now held rocks perched on thin, bent metal sheets. “Don't touch. The whole thing is ready to go.” “Whatever...” Tricia said, shrugging and following his lead. Together they pulled the metal panels from the walls, revealing the rat holes again. Already he could hear the sounds of the creatures as they moved in the passages. Were there more of them? Lolo wasn't certain he wanted to know. One of the creatures peeked out of a hole only barely after he made it behind the pool table barrier. “What now?” Tricia whispered. “Now we wait for the rocks?” Tricia frowned. “Rocks?” Lolo nodded. “Wait for them.” Tricia and Lolo watched the dome mirror as four ghoul rats exited the holes, and began to circle the cage. Each beast was nearly as large as a dog, and had the scrappy fur and glowing green eyes that marked their irradiated species. One seemed to glow in the dim light, and patches of green flesh showed through the ragged fur on its sides. As they circled, they eyed the Snack Cakes intently. Then one of the rats broke the circle, and moved to test the cage with its teeth. The cage rolled easily on its round hubcap base, and in the crate above the cage a rock tipped, fell, struck the bottom of the crate and set the cage to rattling. And the whole device flared up, reacting as soon as the first rocks fell. Long arms of electricity reached out and seemed to grasp the circling rats. They writhed, shuddered, and collapsed quickly. Lolo dashed forwards, and checked each of the rats that lay very still. “Dead,” He said. Tricia shrugged. “Good.” “No, this is really big. My device worked!” “How?” Tricia suggested, not really interested, but happy to ask. “The cage is at an angle. It rolls with the slightest touch, and the crate has rocks ready to fall. The rat touches the cage, the rocks fall. When they hit the cage, the charge trickers ,and Zap! Discharge!” Tricia shook her head. “Huh?” “Rocks fall, everyone dies.” “Everyone?” Tricia repeated, trepedatious. “Well, everything. The rats die. But if we made more like this, it would work against intruders, too, I suppose. Maybe not kill, but stun. I'd have to test it.” And then the excitement was too much. “It works!” Lolo shouted. He impulsively took Tricia's hands in his, and spun them both around in glee. Tricia finally disentangled her hands from his, smiling, and knelt to look at the ghoul rats. “All dead. No good to eat, though. Too much glow.” Not that any Brotherhood members would eat rat, but the tribals weren't so picky. Lolo nodded. “Yes. No good to eat. But good enough for Elder Casey.” “Good enough for Father?” Tricia asked, looking him in the eyes. Lolo looked over his device. He finally had a way to protect the chapterhouse from the rats. And now someone would have to take him seriously. Was it enough? For Elder Casey, most likely yes. For Sister Nora, it no longer mattered. For himself... “It's a start.” The Tower by Eddas (1253 Words)
At some place, in every plane, in every verse, there exists a Tower. In some worlds, it exists as a black spire of an unknown metal. In others it looks like thousands of rocks piled on top of each other. The only things that remain constant are its height, over a mile high, and the fact that neither the tools of nature, nor the destructive entropy of the universe are able to leave any mark, or make the smallest breach in its perimeter. The interior of this Tower, all Towers exist in the same time at the same place, outside of the realms of mortals, is neither large, nor small. Every room has a purpose, and for every purpose, a room. Though there is neither an entrance nor an exit, nor any windows to be seen in any of its incarnations, from the inside, one can see anything that happens in any time or place that the Tower has seen. Inside this Tower, there exists a Caretaker. The Caretaker was created in the same moment as the Tower, indeed, the machinations of the Tower are an extension of his will. The Caretaker was neither short nor tall, for how do you compare something so utterly unique? With a crystalline substance for a body, the Caretaker was neither a he, nor a she. Matters of gender and sex ere not important when you are a species of one, as old as time itself. For the first half of eternity, the Caretaker diligent in his work. In each universe, a bang. First one, then a hundred, then a million, for eternity is as wide as it is long. Some verses died out, some were sterile, some flourished. In some, only a single species gained sentience. In others, dozens or hundreds of races grew from star stuff. After half of an eternity, the Caretaker grew lax in his duties. Fewer and fewer universes were being created. In the unending battle between order and entropy, entropy was gaining the upper hand. The Caretaker spent more time wandering from room to endless room, inspecting the artifacts of every civilization that has risen from the waters. The Caretaker doesn't go out and collect these artifacts, for leaving the Tower is unthinkable. Each time a species becomes sentient, a new room appears in the Tower. Items appear in a species room randomly throughout the time they are alive. The items are completely random, but the Caretaker is certain that they are representative of each culture from the time period the item comes from. Most of the items are primitive stone and metal tools. A few are books. Vary rarely are their technological items. The most rare are items of magic. If he had to pick, the Caretaker's favorite items would be paintings, and those of magic. As the eons went on, the Caretaker started spending more and more time among the rooms. For the first time, since the beginning of time, chaos overtook order. In the oldest universes, stars started flickering. Some just died a quiet death. Others exploded spectacularly, leaving a lasting mark on the rest of their galaxies. One day, while wandering among the rooms, the Caretaker heard something he had never heard before. Unable to describe it, for it wasn't something he knew of, it wasn't a door closing, something falling, the hum of the great machine at the Towers core, nor was it any noise he had ever made, he ignored it. A while later, he heard it again, closer this time. Setting down the strange glowing pebble he had been inspecting, he started looking for the source of the sound. Turning the corner, he came face to face with a lifeform for the very first time. Not once in all of eternity had a living being been brought to the Towers many rooms. Standing there, a full head shorter than the Caretaker was a young woman. He knew she was a woman, from the occasional moving pictures he came across. Though he wasn't sure what the difference was, he never did understand carbon based life. Again, that weird sound. It came from the strangers face. Was it speech? The Caretaker had read of speech, it seemed that every species that was represented in the Towers unending rooms used such a form of communication. As he was the sole inhabitant of the Tower, the Caretaker had never needed to vocalize. His interactions with the Tower were purely mental. Staring down at her, a million thoughts filtered through his mind. First, he accessed the Tower. Everything was normal there. Then he looked around the room she was found in, wondering if there were more of her. She kept making sounds at him, though he didn't understand a word of it. Taking her by the hand, he gestured for her to lead the way. Hoping she would lead him to where she had entered the Tower. Days and weeks went by. Unable to communicate, the Caretaker was content to share his favorite finds with his guest. Eventually, he noticed a change in himself. First, he had difficulty communicating with the Tower. It became a chore to interact with it mentally. Then he noticed a physical change in himself. First, his body started to change. No longer was he prismatic. His crystalline skin slowly took on a similar color and texture as that of his guest. Eventually, he could no longer interact with the Tower mentally at all. Then he discovered he could make sound. Months pass, in which she teaches him her language. Unnoticed by either of them, outside the tower, entropy was cascading. No new universes were being created. The newest ones died out almost immediately. In others, stars started to implode, first signally, then by the hundreds and thousands. In all the universes, the tower, which had remained untouched by time started to decay. In most, it was on a lifeless planet with no one to notice. In others, those that noticed, panicked. In the oldest current living civilization, which had been alive for millions of years, they had records, first ancient cave paintings, then writings, drawings, photographs, and eventually scientific scans of their Tower coving over five million years. This was one of the universes in which the Tower appeared as a solid metal monolith. The city built around it started to panic, as the unthinkable happened. The untouchable tower started to rust. Years passed, and the Caretaker knew nothing of the troubles the multiverse was experiencing. Never once leaving his companions side, as they explored the endless rooms. One day, he found something as shocking and unique as the woman behind him. A doorway leading outside. Standing at the threshold, he was torn. Deep down, he knew he shouldn't leave the tower, but not why. "Come, my love. Step in to eternity with me." Taking his hand, the young woman, though looking at her now, he was surprised to notice that she was no longer that young. How long had it been? Stepping through the doorway, he looked up, and for the first time, saw the nights sky. Looking back, he saw the words Reactive Omega Catalyst Kinetic Starforge etched below the letter R.O.C.K.S. etched above the doorway. As they walked away from the tower, he noticed that one by one, the stars were blinking out. From behind him came a rumbling, and they turned in time to see the tower collapse in on itself. "Does this mean I can sleep now?" He asked. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Feb 16th, 2015 at 03:36 PM. |
Thread Tools | |
|
|