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February 2015 Competition Entries Topic: Water Under The Bridge Challenge: a broken bottle, a trumpet, and bright green socks Winner: Tie, Gonzo and You by Neqq and Becoming A Dragon by Xiasmus Autumn by Plodi (567 words) Life begins in Autumn. Before the first snowflakes kiss the rocky vales nestled in the mountains, a window opens and reveals the colors of paradise. This was our secret. The doorway that appears in the fall and, for just a moment, permits a glimpse of the divine. It isn’t that we didn’t tell anyone else. We did. We tried to share the perfection that touched our souls. But in the end, it was just us. As teenagers we came, unknowing and unaware of the truths we would find. Stopping at an old railway bridge spanning a rushing stream, we would sit and watch the world truly live for a fleeting instant before death claimed its due. The celestial trumpet resonated through us in the colors of the trees, the rushing of the wind, and the burbling of the water below. When I first brought her, I worried she would not experience the wonder that I knew existed. But as she sat, legs dangling off the edge of the bridge, her expression told me more clearly than any words that she understood. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The sun caressed her cheek, warming her skin as the chill wind of the season rustled her gray cable sweater and wool pleated skirt. Her bright green knee-high socks flashed in the dappled sunlight under the bridge as she kicked her feet, inviting the warm glowing colors in the land to join us on the bridge; to come and dance in a bacchanal of rebirth. She leaned forward, hands braced against the edge, inhaling deeply, as if by her breath she could drink in the essence that gamboled around us. I watched as a warm flush painted her cheeks, and when she turned to smile at me our souls intertwined, joining in vibrant revelry. We brought friends and colleagues over the years, as we tried to find others who could appreciate the wonder as we did. But the secrets of autumn continued to reveal themselves only to us. Our companions would nod, pretending to understand, making grand gestures and general comments about the ephemeral beauty in the vale. And we would share a smile, both intimately aware that it was we who were ephemeral and the beauty that was eternal. One by one our companions faded away, blinded by the veil of routine and obligation. We watched them go without argument, for we understood that for them, the trip would never be more than a bridge and a stream. We smiled and wished them well as they left, but we did not miss them when we sat on the bridge, surrounded as we were by the rushing and swirling zephyrs of creation. I’ll be going to the bridge by myself for the first time in 72 years. Since her passing, I’ve often wondered if the experience will be different, as if the magic had somehow become dependent on both of us being there. I ask myself if, like a broken bottle leaking water, the fascination will seep away leaving only emptiness in its wake. Or, when the gates of paradise open as they always have, will she be there waiting for me, the wide-eyed expression of awe and reverence plain on her face as it was so many years ago? I miss her, but I don’t fear the uncertainty. For I know that life begins in Autumn. Serendipity by Eros (1354 words) It was cold, so cold. It wasn't just that the weather had been cooling over the past few weeks, or that the old man hadn’t much in the way of materials to keep himself sufficiently warm. The reasoning was that most of the time he couldn’t even notice the temperature, let alone notice that there had been a stark turn towards the worse, at least weather wise. The old man grumbled as he put effort into getting into a more erect position against the cold stone face of his newly christened domicile. He had no clue how long he'd been lying motionless on his back, upon the hard and dirty surface beneath the bridge he now called home, but he hurt badly and his joints groaned in response to his movement. He spent a, not unusually for him, long amount of time exerting energy in standing up, nearly falling over once or twice before succeeding. Despite his efforts, and lack of recent drink, his body was still swaying with the non-existent breeze… or perhaps it was the movement of the very earth itself that caused him no end of trouble with his balance. Finally standing, the old man leaned against the bridge, and tried his hand at pissing in the river that flowed beneath the bridge. It was a valiant effort, back arced and all. But the cold, nearly freezing, weather had reduced the river considerably, and his piss fell far short of his attempt. However, he was more than capable of getting some on his self. That, at least, was warm. ===== [<O>] ===== *BREEEEET* The sound of his alarm clock trumpeted louder than the young man remembered. As he hadn't needed it in quite some time, he'd all but forgotten that the alarm could be so, well, alarming. Especially, he mused, at so early a time in the morning. Awake, but not yet alert, the young man went about starting his morning routine. He’d had somewhere to be. Each step in the start of his day was a stark reminder at his loss. Everything lay where she'd left them. He was unable to move them without his heart shattering. Even those ugly bright green socks, a frog’s face at the toes, were a reminder. They had been something he had bought for her on their first date as a joke. True to her nature, they had become her favorite. The young man tried to push all that aside and simply swallowed what he couldn’t. He would deal with it later when he could, but it had been a while, and others were telling him it was time to move on. Of course, he never would… but it was prudent to just put a brave face on for the world and his friends, and make everyone happy. He would likely never be happy again, at least not like he had been before. His mother had died during birth, and his father had blamed him and abandoned him as a child to the state, and now his wife was gone thanks to the big C. He knew he was loved by others. He was so alone now, and felt so unloved at the same time. Still, he needed to put on a brave face for the world. She wouldn't want him giving up. ===== [<O>] ===== What had gone wrong? The old man leaned against the face of the stonework once again, his mind lost in some thought of the distance past. He’d been respectable once. Married, employed with good benefits, and a child reliant upon his support, and who seemed to hang on his every word. That is, when the old man chose to even speak to the child. He hadn’t been good at any of those things. He'd been a horrible man, a loving but inattentive husband, and even worse as a father; just as his father had been. No wonder he turned out the way he had. The old man moved away from the wall and stepped out from beneath the bridge, crushing the remains of his bottle from the evening before. No longer buffeted from the freezing chill of the wind, the old man felt its full effect, all but numbing his extremities in but a moment after leaving the safety of the bridge. He needed one of two things, food or booze, and he was sadly bereft of any cash. The soup kitchen however was located only a couple blocks away. He could almost smell it from here. He stumbled up the grass and sediment barrier than anchored the south side of the bridge, had he been younger it would have been the perfect hill to play on, sliding down it in winter, or rolling down it in the other seasons. As it was now, he could barely climb the small knoll. But, he did climb it, and was on his way. One thought driving him. It would be warm there. ===== [<O>] ===== I’m going to be late! The young man was dressed, fed, and sufficiently caffeinated. At least as much as he could be in the short amount of time he had between the alarm and when he had to be at his new job. He wanted to work with people, especially after losing his wife. She had wanted them both to volunteer, to bring them closer together. He had been reluctant, at first. He was just trying to be altruistic. But her smile, persistence, and her warm heart had worn him down. It was, after all, sensible. And he thought, she was just being her ever loving self. Actually, it was because of a letter she'd written him while still in the hospital that prompted him to return here. She had simply asked him to come back home. A place that he had tried to all but forget, but failed to do so, no doubt thanks to the onset of emotions that flooded him the moment he thought of his old life. She had been right, after all. They'd had time to plan and discuss what he would do, but never how he would actually feel. The commute to his new employ wasn't but a couple minutes. It was a small grace he was grateful for. It meant that he didn't need to drive down many roads and risk getting side tracked by nostalgia. His father used to walk these streets daily. He would overcome it in time, but he knew he desperately needed that time, if he couldn’t find closure. He entered the building. ===== [<O>] ===== All he could smell was bread. It was heavenly. The smell permeated the building in the same manner the old man’s stench permeated his clothing. He could describe it as intoxicating, and probably would, but the reality was that any food would likely fit that bill. He only ate once a day; rain, snow, sleet, or shine, sometimes he didn't even do that. Just like the post he used to deliver. The old man had been coming here for as long as he could remember. If the weather got worse he would have to go through the long process which would allow him to stay at the shelter, but he didn’t know if he would. The shelter didn’t allow any booze on site. The risk heavily outweighed the rewards for those who tried to sneak some into the shelter. He noticed almost immediately that there was a new face on staff. Volunteering wasn't as common as it had been in his generation’s youth, but it was still nice to see a new face at the kitchen. They always smiled the widest, at least before being tainted by the reality of the people they were helping eventually set in. He wasn't sure why, but the old man was certain that the new face was familiar. He couldn't put his finger on it. As he approached the young man’s section of the serving line, he had a momentary spark of recognition. As if the old man should know this new face, a haunting visage long ago forgotten? The growling in his stomach snapped him back to reality. Likely, just his imagination. Water-Under-The-Bridge by Vex The castle's wall was broken by the mighty trebuchet she brought with her. It had been a long march, from the distant swamps of Bone through the mountain paths of Snow to this, the beginning of the plains of Gold. Only Castle Mountainlock was left standing between her and the rich pastures beyond, and she would not be deterred, not defeated, not turned away. Not this time. The elders had said it was impossible to unite the tribes, to stop their in-fighting. She turned in her saddle and surveyed the army of swamp-folk behind her. She had defied fate and destiny. She was close to achieve the impossible. She had led her army, her people from desolation to a better land, a richer land, a land where starvation would not loom every winter, where demons would no longer prey on them every spring and summer, and where the children would not fall to the poisonous creatures in the autumn. But to achieve peace, she must wage war. The plains-tribes would not share their bounty willing. On that at least, she agreed with the elders. She dismounted her shabby horse. Hardly one worthy of a destined hero, but a reliable mountain-breed that carried her safely through the treacherous paths of Snow, never faltering, ever onwards. Patting his mane with real affection, she drew the long, curved blade from her back and approached the castle's drawbridge. Her army's trebuchet had damaged the winch, and the gate stood wide open for her troops. Some archers were left on the battlements, and a solitary figure in plain but heavy armor stood on the bridge with drawn halberd, barring her path. The battle was won, she knew. The resistance would be futile, but she would grant the plains-dwellers a swift, merciful death. They had fought well. She approached the solitary figure on the bridge, her dark hair blowing behind her from a sudden wind with a sense for drama. The bridge was wide over a deep moat. She looked over the edge and saw nothing but mud and dirt below. The remnants of a broken bottle glimmered in the evening sun, somewhere in the mud. Entering a battle-stance, she cautiously approached the solitary figure. This would be her last obstacle. "Let us pass", she shouted in the strange language of the plains-dwellers. "You are defeated. Your castle is without protection, without men. You cannot stand against us." She continued to approach the lone figure slowly. "Let us pass, and we will grant you a merciful death." There was no malice in her voice. "Castle Mountainlock has not yet fallen to any army," the armored figure shouted with a deep voice. "And it will not fall while there is Water-Under-The-Bridge. You would do well to retreat." She could not help but laugh at the man's brave words. "There is no water under your bridge, friend. Has despair addled your mind?" "While the Castle stands, there is always Water-Under-The-Bridge", the man replied calmly. "You bring a great army with you, but you will find nothing but death here if you proceed." The hero chuckled and shook her head. The man before her was brave, but it was the braveness of a madman. Without another word, she charged, her sword in hand, a flash of blade so fast it cut through the wind with a whistling sound. The man before her dodged her first blow and parried her returning backhand with a fierce clash of steel on hardened wood. Another lunge, another parry. She ducked under the halberd's counterswing, and with a swift cut, her blade shrieked along the man's armor, finding flesh near the arm and cutting deep. Momentarily stunned by the pain, the armored man did not react fast enough as she dropped her blade and shoved him off the bridge. Without making a sound, the man fell in the mud below. She looked up at the archers defiantly, but no resistance was forthcoming. They simply stood there, silent, watching. The hero turned to her army, picked up her blade and raised it like a banner to a loud cheer. The swamp-folk knew they had won this battle. A trumpet sounded from their ranks, and they began to march forward. She turned around again to the open gates of Castle Mountainlock. Hers, finally. Marching ahead of her troops, she neared the open, broken gates, as suddenly, there was a gurgling sound below her. A quick look confirmed that the moat was nearly full of water. "What sorcery is this?", she demanded and fell silent as a massive figure raised itself out of the moat, barely recognizable as humanoid and composed entirely of water. "No sorcery, my Lady. I am Water-Under-The-Bridge, and it is my sworn duty to protect this Castle from any enemies," the elemental spoke with the same deep voice as the man she had fought just seconds ago. Before her panicking swamp-folk had a chance to react, a massive wave in the form of a savage fist swept her army away. Tumbling into the moat, the screams of her companions around her. As the water closed around her head, a calm voice whispered to her: "You have fought well. I will make you a part of Water-Under-The-Bridge." The wild currents pushed her down, down, further down, and as the mud closed around her, there was only darkness. Gonzo and You by Neqq (601 words) You were six years oldWaking in darkness, is it Christmas yet? You only wanted one present that year, Gonzo Other kids like Fozzie’s wakka wakka Beaker’s mi mi mi Swedish Chef’s borgy, borgy, borgy Miss Piggy’s karate chop with hiya! Even Animal’s ANI-MAL! Kermit, you never got Kermit He hosted the Muppets, but did the News Flashes on Sesame Street What was up with that? He needed to man up and tell Miss Piggy he didn’t like ham It not easy being green, ha He should have tried being you Gonzo, that blue buzzard-turkey thing You didn’t know exactly why, but he was the one for you A magnificent weirdo, every week he stole the show The Muppet’s opening song On the most sensational inspirational celebrational Muppetational This is what we call the Muppet Show! The sign came down and there he was In the middle of the O Resplendent in a mauve tuxedo Then he raise his trumpet and blew Every week a different sound He never got it right - classic That was it the peak of the show Unless Gonzo was performing a stunt Evil Knievel and the Fonz in Al’s carpark combined A little daredevil in helmet and cape He was better that Pigs in Space You found his chicken infatuation a little confusing But he was loving and gentle And he probably was a type of bird You wait and wait in bed Is too early, has Santa come? You at that age where you cling to Santa being real Deep in your heart you know the truth So into the dark hall you creep In the longue room The light is on Dad is passed out on the couch Six brown long neck bottle are on the coffee table Dad must have drank five One you left out for Santa The bottle have red labels that read Cascade Bitter The labels don’t lie Your Dad was a drunk This was his weekend ritual When he was drunk, he was full of self-pity and anger Somehow it was your fault your mum left Somehow you were a target There was no tree No tinsels No cards One single box near the oil heater No wrapping No label But there was hope You were a child, naturally optimistic It was a shoebox Bigger enough to hold a Gonzo You take the lid off Your expectations crashed In the box is a sock It is a bright green sock You pick it up It looks like an old footy sock It has two buttons sewn on it There is no Santa Your childhood ended right there Your father had given you a sock for Christmas You begin to cry You begin to bawl Your tears come in great shudders between gulps of air Snot runs from your nose You sniffle it back up just for it run down again He woke up or he came to Your father, the monster awoke In spit-laden shouts You little ….. Why are you crying? I wanted Gonzo Well you got Kermit It is a sock You ungrateful little ……. ! Glass exploded next to you You ran You ran into the darkness You ran through the illumination of the streetlights You found yourself in a dry creek bed Sitting under a bridge you hug your knees And you cry You understand why your mother left You can’t understand why she left you behind There the tears ran into the dirt They flow deep into the earth There they’re set in stone Some hurts never heal Some things are never forgotten. Becoming A Dragon by Xiasmus (3249 Words) He should never have told Kenji his dream, Akito decided. Akito crouched in the brush along side the sacred koi pond in the Shouyou-en garden. Clutching a fragment of a broken glass bottle in his hand, he angled it so that it picked up the light of the late afternoon sun. Reflected golden beams traced across the cherry blossom studded waters and flustered the resident swans. Akito froze as he heard the sound of a monk shuffling along nearby, but the boy was hidden where he was. Akito was short for his 7 years, and the bushes were nearly as tall as he was. Plants in the Shouyou-en were allowed to grow without trimming, since the buddhists of the Rinnoji Temple were loathe to harm living things. If he was caught Akito would be in big trouble for certain. And all because he had wanted Kenji to tell him what his dream meant. Hopefully he wouldn't be caught at all. Yoshiro and Kenji, his older brothers, had been showing off lately. They knew Akito was jealous of their lessons. Both older boys were attending school, an opportunity so expensive that it took nearly every coin that their father earned from the boat tours he gave to foreigners. Yoshiro used a paint brush to write his name over and over again, explaining that calligraphy was the way to better yourself, and to show mastery of language. Kenji showed off his learning by telling the story of the ambitious koi from the paper he brought home from school. It was a short story, but Akito, watching his brother read from the paper, wished he could do something so magical. The story was about a koi fish who swam up the Yellow River in China, and, after ascending the falls, turned into a dragon. The only thing more glorious than reading was reading about such magical things. That night he dreamt of a great koi swimming up a thundering river. It darted in and out, between great rocks and over fast water that shone green. As it came over the last crest, it kept climbing, ascending into the heavens above the spray. The great white scales turned silver, and the wide mouth sprung the whiskers of a dragon. It was an exciting dream, and Akito wished he could join the dragon flying among the stars. That day he wanted to play dragons with his brothers, but they had to study for exams. And that night the dream repeated. When he had had the same dream each night for that week, he grew afraid. He went to Yoshiro, but his eldest brother ignored him, not even willing to listen to the dream. Kenji was a little better. He asked questions, making him repeat details again and again. Although he laughed, eventually Kenji told Akito what the dream meant. “It means one of two things, Akito. Either you are being tested, or this is a real dream, meant to speak about your destiny. Are you swimming in your dream?” Akito shook his head. “Too bad. A testing dream is easy. If you were swimming, then all you would have to do is follow the koi up the river into the sky. Your dream is different, though. It is real dream about your future. Your dream is telling you that you must make the koi into a dragon. If you fail to do this, then you will fail the gods, and your destiny.” Kenji smirked a little, and put his hand on Akito's shoulder. “What a huge destiny to give a small boy like you. It's too bad you'll never be able to make it happen. At least father has Yoshiro and me to be proud of.” Akito wasn't sure what made him angrier: the teasing, or his brother's belief that he would never be able to achieve his destiny. And so, here he was today, crouched among the scrub, luring a koi fish to the edge of the pond, so he can achieve his destiny and make his father proud. The afternoon was warm, the winter chill finally gone, and the water was tepid to the touch. Akito let his fingers brush the water. He watched as a great koi, white and mottled red, edged towards him. On its back he counted four black spots. The red, he noted, was mainly behind the fins, but it spread almost like the wings of a butterfly along its length. Akito knew that the markings on each koi were supposed to be special. They had something to do with luck. If he could help it to become a dragon, though, it would be lucky for everyone. Perhaps even all of Nippon. The koi swam towards him slowly, watching the flashing lights and looking for food. It was a trick he'd learned from his father, from going out to the edge of the Daiya River to draw fish. His father had once been a fisherman, and the broken bottle trick could catch many fish. Akito moved away from his shelter and reached deeper into the water. The koi moved towards his hand. Maybe it thought they were worms. Akito waited until it bumped his hand, and then sprang forward to grab the fish. The fish was big: bigger than he expected. As he tried to haul it out of the water, he realized it was as long as his arm, and thicker. Just as he had both hands around it, it lunged to escape, and pulled the boy into the water. The commotion of his fall and struggle set the swans to chaos. They flapped their wings, trumpeting in indignation at the disturbance. Akito had fallen forward on the fish, and finally wrapped his arms around the koi, but he was entirely soaked. The pond water ran through his clothing and left them clinging to him, as he stood. Thankfully the pond was only up to his knees. He scrambled onto the nearby bank, which was a little tricky with the struggling fish. It was then that he heard a sound that made his heart pound with fear: the slap of sandaled feet and the swish of robes. The monks were coming! There was no time to hide again. The rippling water, the noise of the swans, and the twisting of the koi would give him away. Akito staggered through the brush and onto one of the main paths, only to hear someone cry out. Getting his bearings, he saw the monks coming from the direction of the temple. He had little choice. Akito fled towards the back of the garden where there was a smaller gate to the back temple street. As he stumbled down the steps, he found the road filled with locals and tourists who gawked at the soaking wet boy clutching the fish. Akito had only a moment to make a good choice of where to go. Directly across from the Shouyou-en was the monks' Sannai residences. Although there was a path through them towards the river, it would be impossible to get through at this time of day and not be caught. To his left the road lead towards the Jodoin monastery, before it turned north towards the Kitano shrine. To his right lead the path towards the great Futaarasan Jinja, which was too far away from the river to do any good. All of this part of the river was dedicated to holy places, including the Nikkō Tōshō-gū, where the great Shogun Ieyasu was buried. Though the Emperor had finally returned to rule, the people of Nikko remembered the Tokugawa, and it was the culture of Edo that brought people to Akito's home city from all over the world. This is what made money for his family, and it was his heritage. Akito began to run towards the Jodoin, more because it wasn't immediately dangerous than because he had a plan. As more monks gave chase behind him, he realized he had only one hope. Near the Jodoin was a path that was forbidden: it was the foot path for Imperial couriers. It was only used to bring word from the Emperor, and no one was allowed on it. It was a steep path, shaded by tall, ungroomed trees, that lead down to the Shinkyo bridge. As he came to the corner, the monks and foreigners began to gather, expecting him to be caught. Akito dodged to the right, making his way onto the mossy stone-paved path that wound between ancient buildings. As he ran he nearly tripped when the fish in his arms gave a mighty heave, but he held fast, and soon the sounds of running behind him faded. Even the monks did not dare to break the Emperor's law. Those who wished to keep chase would cut through the Sannai residences. The hill path was steep, and a few times Akito had to slow to keep hold of the fish. It's mouth worked hard, as if the great fish were attempting to drink in the air. It seemed to be growing weaker. The sunlight broke through distant branches above to play across the beautiful white scales of the creature. “Stay strong, fish. You need to be strong to swim up the river,” Akito pleaded. The road ended quickly at the bottom of the hill, but as Akito hustled out onto the paved street there were cries already following him. Some of the monks were very healthy, it seemed, and they were running towards him. If they caught him, he would have a bad punishment. He had to move fast if he was to get away. A mile down the road to his right was a modern paved bridge, as well as a path down to the boat docks. He could release the fish into the Daiya river there. Right ahead was the Shinkyo, it's beautiful red span decorated with sedge leaves. Akita's mother had once told him the story of how a monk had had a dream of two great serpents that wove themselves into a bridge, which lead from sedge bush to sedge bush over the span of the river. After the dream, the monk came to find a bridge here, so there was always a bridge built and rebuilt on this spot. It was long, high, and wet from the spray from the Daiya, which was flooded from early spring snows. Still, the water flowed far below. His father had once made him promise never to play near the Shinkyo, so this was the closest he had ever been to it. It was property of the Futaarasan Jinja priests, and only they and the Emperor's couriers could cross it. The other bridge was too far away. Akito fled onto the Shinkyo. The bridge's great wooden span was painted red, with fancy wooden sides that were decorated with brass leaves. Four men could stand side by side on the bridge, and not touch each other. As he came to its crest, however, the koi surged, in one last attempt to break free, and Akito, unready and on slick wood, fell, losing the fish from his grasp. “No!” Akito cried, hitting his head and feeling pain in his leg. Letting out a desperate sob, he tried to stand up, but couldn't. His ankle screamed in pain, and he cried out. The koi, just beyond his grasp, flopped away from him, its mouth working hard, its eyes staring. Akito crawled towards it. “No, fish! Don't go that way. I need to get you to the river!” The fish rolled away with another weak twist of its body. “I need to get you to the river!” Akito repeated, tears in his eyes. “Stop, boy! You are in big trouble!” Akito glanced back to find a monk and a soldier standing at the other end of the bridge. The soldier, unlike the monk, stepped onto the bridge. “No! Not yet!” Akito cried, hauling himself across the short distance to the fish on his hands and knees. The soldier was nearing him, and Akito understood at that moment that he would never be able to hide with the fish. He would never be able to run away. His ankle was hurt, his head throbbed, and he was going to be punished terribly. Akito looked directly into the fish's eyes. “You have to be a dragon,” he pleaded. He began to push the fish towards the railing. “Stop, boy! What are you doing?” the soldier shouted. It took two pushes to get the fish to the railing. It took kneeling and lifting the fish for Akito to get it through a space between the wood and brass. Even as he put it through, he heard the soldier cry out, trying to reach him across the slick bridge. For a moment it flopped down on the edge of the bridge on the other side of the rail, but it's final spasm pushed it just enough to fall free. He watched the fish drop away, down, down, down into the thick roil below. It was a great fall, and there was a big splash. As it disappeared into the churn, Akito was afraid for it. He strained to spot the koi in the water, and for a moment he thought he saw red scales moving forward in the white rapids, pushing up stream, under the bridge, up towards the rocks. “Go, fish. Be a dragon,” Akito begged. The soldier, finally reaching him, grabbed the boy, pulling him to his feet. Akito tried to stand, but the pain in his ankle made him fall again. The soldier watching him, understood, and picked him up, holding the boy in his strong arms. “We must go to Futaarasan. You have a lot to answer for.” *** Akito sat in courtyard of the Futaarasan Jinja, under the great stone Torii which stood taller than his house. With him sat the angry monk and an older Shinto priest. Akito had never seen a Buddhist monk and a Shinto priest sit together before. But this was not a happy moment. His mother and father knelt nearby, their faces long with pain, confusion, and shame. The Shinto priest spoke first. “So, you believe that you had to set the fish free, so that it could become a dragon, or else you would be haunted by an unfulfilled destiny? That is why you crossed the Shinkyo, even though you knew it was wrong?” Akito, ashamed and feeling foolish, nodded. The Buddhist monk shook his head. “It was for a dream, that you stole the koi from the temple garden, and dropped him from the bridge?” Akito nodded again, and then buried his head in his hands. After a while he heard a sound he had not expected. He heard laughter. Looking up he saw the old Shinto priest laughing so hard the tears rand down his face. The Buddhist monk scowled, but after a while he could not help but smile a little. Akito kept quiet, still confused and scared. Was this priest laughing at him like Kenji? The priest stood and walked over to talk with his parents. Then the monk joined them. They walked away, and talked with the soldier. They talked together for over half an hour. Akito could only hear a few words. There was talk about money, lessons, and punishment. And then they came back. “Akito,” his father said, “we are going home. Your punishment begins tomorrow.” *** On the next day, Akito woke early to the smell of sweet beans. It filled the house, reminding Akito that this was the Fifth Fifth: it was Boy's Day. He limped out of bed, and found that already his ankle did not hurt so much. His mother shook her head as he reached to get one of the fish-shaped treats his mother was making for the celebration. “Go help your father,” she told him. He walked outside to see his father putting up koinobori, great fish-shaped windsocks. His father had Akito tie each one to the line, using sailor's knots, which his father checked studiously. First was the black koi, for his father, then the red, for his mother. Yoshiro's koinobori was blue, and Kenji's was bright green. Then there was Akito's which was purple. But, before it went up on the side of the house that overlooked the Daiya river gorge, he noticed that the top of his koinobori had been decorated with four black spots, like the koi he had taken. Each of the koinobori danced in the wind, their long forms gliding in the morning air like koi leaping forward in a swift river. Akito saw that all up and down the river gorge, on either side, families were hanging up their windsocks. It seemed that for a mile in either direction the air was filled with color, black, red, blue, green, purple, orange, and yellow. The stark beauty of the stone and the water below was complimented by the bright dancing fish that flew above it. He looked up at his father. “What will my punishment be, Father? Will I have to go to prison? Even on Boy's Day?” His father shook his head, but he still looked serious. “The monks of the Rinnoji have asked that you help to tend the Shouyou-en with them for a month, to make up for the loss of the fish. They wish for you to learn the keeping of the koi, the meaning of the markings, and the role of the koi in Nippon. They will want to see you in the morning, each morning, starting tomorrow.” “The priests of Futaarasan wish for you to sweep the Shinkyo clean for a month, and warn away the foreigners, who do not understand that it is forbidden to them. They have asked for you to come at noon tomorrow, and they will feed you a meal, so you can do your work for them.” “The soldier wanted me to know that he will be watching you, and that if you set foot on the Emperor's road, he will have to punish you severely. But you will never go on the Emperor's road again, will you?” Akito shook his head emphatically, but kept quiet. “Today, after your breakfast, you will start your punishment with me. You will help me working on the boat with the foreigners. You will help them in and out, keep the boat clean, and listen to the stories, so that, in time, you will be able to repeat them. That way you will know the stories of our people, of Nikko, not just silly stories that people read in school, but the real stories. About the shrines and temples, about shoguns and emperors, about dreams and bridges and rivers.” His father looked him in the eyes. “Then, when you have had your punishment from each of us, if you do well, the Futaarasan priest said that they may be willing to help pay your tuition for school. The monks, the priests, and the soldier all agreed that you will need to keep busy if you are to be kept out of trouble.” Before he was done speaking, Akito clung to him so tightly that the pair stayed there for a long while, watching the koi windsocks swim against the current, each one straining to rise to the heavens. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Apr 1st, 2015 at 05:21 PM. |
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March 2015 Competition Entries Topic: Sleep of Ages Challenge: an odometer or an ornithopter, terrorization, and naivete Winner: The Harbinger of War by Jerioke Dreams of the Darkness by Vex (647 words) The universe is ever expanding, stars surging through the black vastness of space, ever faster, ever further from their place of birth. But no matter where the stars go to shine their tiny flashes of light, dark nothingness has been there before. It does not retreat from our expanding universe as much as absorb it, swallowing the stars and extinguishing them over time until They become lifeless rocks floating in eternal emptiness devoid of light, of sound and of life. At least devoid of life as we know it, for there are tales and stories and fables about beings hiding in the darkness between the stars. Not much is known about these creatures, these sentinels of darkness. They abhor the light and will not stir until the last of our stars both known and unknown is extinguished in the great dark beyond. Until that day comes, They sleep, hibernating in the places and cracks between existence and matter. Ancient people have worshipped them as sentient Gods, and with the powers of their faith, They grew restless until all who knew of Their existence were driven mad or died unnatural deaths, and the beings between the stars calmed again, sinking into Their eternal dreamless slumber. Modern science however declares declares to have found what we call anti-matter, the absence of everything we can hope to understand. It is the very essence of these sleeping creatures, and science shares more similarities with faith than most would wish to admit in our blessed naivety. And as we speed towards enlightenment and learning and understanding matters best left not understood, They stir again. And in Their restless sleep, They begin to dream again. It matters little what They dream about, or if there is any malign intent on Their part, but Their dreams have always affected ours, filling us with mad ideas beyond our capabilities, inspiring us to a greatness we should not strive for. The Pyramid of Giza is a testament to the madness of one man, but built on the blood of a hundred thousand slaves, their backs breaking beneath the weight of the massive stone blocks required. The Colossus of Rhodos, a giant lumbering construct, the building of which costing more lives than the war its construction celebrated. The ancient Aztec empire, a people rich and wealthy by living by following the teachings of madmen, prolonging their lives and their crops by the slaughter of children. All of these things of splendour and cruelty, inspired by the restless dreams of the things sleeping in the darkness between the stars. Then civilization came, and the darkness and madness of the blasphemers was banished. Faith receded, to be replaced by doctrine and rules. Made safe. Until now, for again the dreams of men echo incomprehensible splendour and greatness, for our believe in science feeds Them in a way we dare not understand. Thus, cruel inventions spring forth the minds of madmen. We invent large scale weapons of mass destruction, rockets capable of annihilating a significant amount of life on our world. We invent the cruel, small things as well. Personalized odometers count every step you fail to take, setting your personal goals out of achievable reach until you erode your own humanity to reach them, every day, every hour while you are marching to your own soul's destruction. Our ancestors have freed themselves from the terrorization of these ancient dreams. But we lap them up now, eager to improve, to be come greater and greater than we should dare, reaching for a splendour that will bring madness and destruction to everything we are. Until our star, among so many others, falls either into the darkness within ourselves or to darkness out there, waiting patiently, dreaming restless, always hungry and uncomprehensible, and maybe, then, on the eve of Their waking, will we finally understand before the madness consumes us all. All Mixed Up by koboldsDIE (518 words)
The OdoMeter was an odd name for a saloon, but not the strangest one that Clyde had come across in all his years of service to the divine powers. He looked out of place, with a large sword on his back; everyone else on this plane of habitation used blasters, or plasma rifles. But Clyde liked getting personal, found it to be more honorable. At least more honorable than a bolt of hot plasma to the base of the skull. Even the jawas, discussing their plans for a motorized ornithopter, paused to regard him. He looked something like a wookie, but not. His coloring was different, and fur far too short, and muzzle too big. Clyde was a hound archon, sent by Garl Glittergold to investigate the terrorization of the local gnomes. In return for this small and trivial quest, the tinkering god had promised Clyde a contraption that would help him get the best sleep ever. The god was trying to play on Clyde’s naivete, but it didn’t really work. See Clyde only needs about 6 hours of sleep a day, while on his home plane. Here, he can’t seem to help himself to more than a few hours at a time. Completing this mission would bring the hound archon to the sleep of ages, that much he knew; however he had no clue if he would one day wake from such blissful sleep. It took Clyde a few years to put things together. The jawas were the de-facto gnomes of this particular realm, not that they-nor anyone else-knew it. More the his great confusion was the way in which law and chaos had coalesced, whereby those who stood up for the little guy were chaotic lawful; and those who enforced the laws, were more closely related-at least philosophically- to the followers of Hextor. Slavery was rampant, corruption was common, and what was a proper law loving champion of the people supposed to do. He had the answers to Garl Glittergold’s question, but not an answer to the quest itself. A few days later, while walking under the sun and clouds, a contraption fell from the sky. A large contraption. The gnomes had managed to scrounge up enough spare parts to try and make their motorized ornithopter, which they launched from the top of the OdoMeter. However, it stalled and landed on poor Clyde. The crash was spectacular, as it exploded in such a way that it managed to open up a transdimensional portal, through which the jawas and Clyde were drawn. On the other side of that portal stood not Garl Glittergold, but Gond, the other tinkering god; to the jawas he said, "Did you not make another copy of your creation?" They gestured something furious, but in contradicting fashions. The one on the right claiming that they had made a copy, albeit of a smaller scale, and less functional; the one on the left insisting that this was the up until now only working version. Clyde, with his sword still strapped to his back slept like he hadn’t had a bed in years. Sleep of Ages by Solomon777 (806 words)
Garrod exhaled with an audible sigh as he hoisted the last of couple sack loads of dirt and broken rock from the small crawl-tunnel in which he had placed his dreams of gold. The old Taldan was new to mining, but his instincts could literally taste treasure under these stones. Smiling to himself he wondered if he had dwarf-blood somewhere in his veins. He lifted his travel pack from its hiding place among a collection of boulders, and uncorked the ale-skin he had pulled from within. He sat looking up at the towering, earthen monolith that was Dagger Rock. Garrod’s hopes and dreams were filled with promise. He pulled a bound journal from his pack and wrote notes of his findings within before tucking it back into the pack. The day’s sunlight was fading fast when a low rumble, a weak quake, vibrated the ground. Earthquakes were a common occurrence here at Dagger Rock, though none yet showed any real threat. Ever-so quiet, a high-pitched squeal reached his aging ears. He paused, listened; upon hearing nothing further took another swig of ale as he looked back at the majestic earth-work. He glanced over to the sacks nearby and mumbled, “Guess, you should be empt’d fer tomorrow.” His old bones protested as he pushed himself up, corked the ale-skin, and hefted the sacks. The squeal echoed between the hills again; this time closer, louder. The sound was certainly a scream, not a squeal; maybe human, maybe not. A chill raced down Garrod’s spine. The settlement of Relford laid to the south by nearly a half-day ride. The scream came from the north. He dropped the sacks of dirt. Snatching up his pick he began moving in that direction, mining tool ready for any problems. After a short hike among the base of Dagger Rock he came to follow a bright yellow glow. Campfires possibly, but they must be as high as pyres as it became apparent they lit up the quickly darkening sky. The screams had all but gone, but the sounds of laughter became slowly apparent as Garrod neared the fire-light. Garrod lifted himself above a collection of tumbled stone and looked in horror at what was once a traveling carnival that had amused him the night before he left Relford. The nine covered wagons that had made up the small train were all ablaze. Several people ran about the wagons cheering and laughing as they slashed at already dead bodies that cluttered the dusty ground. In the center of the inferno sat the marvel of the carnival, an ornate ornithopter from lands far to the east, upon a flat cart. It was also ablaze and looked as if it were the mythical phoenix to Garrod’s eyes. Everywhere spread large pools of blood reflecting the fire’s light against the growing night. A large figure stepped out from the circle of fiery wagons and grabbed up the limp body of a man garbed in vibrant color. Garrod knew this large man; he had seen this limping figure three days ago, in Relford. His eyes, due to either recognition or the brutal tactics of terrorization he was about to witness, locked on the large man as he draped the body over a log and hefted a huge axe. Garrod cried out, not realizing his true situation. He instantly found himself targeted as many of the crazed, blood-thirsty mob dashed toward him. The large man continued his duties and began to dismember the body. Garrod stumbled back, and nearly lost his footing as he turned to flee. He could hear the curses and the threats of the others right behind him, regardless of how near they truly were. Horror gripped his heart and he stumbled toward his crawl-tunnel. He possessed the momentary wherewithal to grab his pack and hurtle himself into the crawl-tunnel. Breathing hard he tried to calm his wheezing panic. There followed a long moment of stillness. Garrod’s chest thundered and his rapid breathing was a tornado in stagnate air. Then came the voices. The would-be miner cursed his naivete. Why had he done such a thing, why had he even come to this damnable region? He longed for his home, the quiet countryside of Belhaim. As if on cue, a subtle rumble shook through the ground, as before. He could hear a voice call out from above, but the words were lost followed by cackles of laughter. The rumbling grew louder and dust began to fall around Garrod. It had become dark outside and only a shaft of moonlight reached into the depths of where he hid in the crawl-tunnel. Glancing upward he noticed the mouth of the tunnel fall shut, he needn’t bother much longer over the crazed gang roaming outside. A breath later, stone shifted collapsing the tunnel, crushing Garrod in darkness and silence. Running out the Clock by Mowque (2,485 Words)
[Taken from the records of the late Professor Corner, on loan from the School of Demonology. Items in italics are notes from his assistant, Percy Wavell] Professor Corner: Ah, excellent. Have a seat, yes, yes. Have a safe trip? Yes, yes. This man is Percy, my assistant , he will be recording our interview for record keeping purposes. No objections? Very well, let us begin then, I understand you have some urgency …Name? Client: Peter Dagen Professor Corner: Excellent. Age? Client: Seventy seven. Professor Corner: Occupation? Client: Wielder of demonic powers Professor Corner: I, um, don’t think we can help you sir… (Client breaks in) Client: I believe you can, proceed with the questionnaire. Professor Corner: Um…very well then. Reason for applying for the Sleep of Ages? Client: Escape. (Audible Pause) Professor Corner: Sir, you do know what we offer, yes? It is simple enough, and I doubt it will help any demon problems. Perhaps the University would be a better…. Client: No, no! I don’t know its name, without a name they are useless to me. That is why I need you, Professor. Professor Corner: I can only offer my spell, sir. A sleep that can last for as long as you wish, no more, no less. Perhaps if I explained the procedure you would see how it is a perfectly useless tool for escape… Client: Please, go ahead. I understand you use a Permanency Charm applied to a Hibernation Spell? Professor Corner: (puzzled) Of course not. It is a Dormancy Trance laid over with a Stasis Hex. But the real trick is the Soul Binding, which quiets your mind and stops you from going mad.All we have to provide is a safe place for you to rest, watch the odometer tick over and wake you at the appropriate time. As you can see, it will do you little good. Client: (Sounding Impatient) And is there a duration limit? Professor Corner: Well, no. In theory, The Sleep could last forever, the name is not in vain. Even if I died in an unhappy accident, anyone could follow the instructions for awakening you. Most seldom use it for long though, some to escape debts, others to avoid illness, I even have a few hoping to simply outlive the current ruler. In any case, the fee is sizable… Client: Money is no object. But are you so sure, there is no limit? No way that I could die quietly in that long twilight? Professor Corner: None. Client: Then you give me what I need most. Time. Professor Corner: I don’t… Client: Then let me explain. I am one of those cursed souls, one of those men who had sold their soul to the Underworld. *rustle* Please, do not stir, Professor, I am not contagious. Surely you have heard of my like before? Students full of their own power and naiveté, who seek a pact with the darker powers? Yes, I see you have. It worked you know, the deal. I traded away something I’ve never seen or used for a lifetime of wealth, success and accomplishment. Ah, the symphonies I have written, the spells I’ve casted, the fortunes I’ve made, the women I have bedded.*audible sigh*….It was a life worth living, Professor. But the end is nigh, and it is inescapable. At least, until I heard of you. Professor Corner: I’ve heard this before, Mr. Dagen. My spell will not let you outrun death. When you awake, even in one thousand years, you will still be an old man, with only a few years left. Client: Indeed, but it is not death I fear. It is the bargain. But your spell will allow me to alter the deal… Professor Corner: How? Every schoolchild knows deals with demons never end, that they will hunt you to the ends of the world, and the end of time. Client: Yes, assuming the demon is on hand to collect payment. Professor Corner: You don’t mean to imply, I mean killing… Client: Killing a demon? Why not, it can be done. Professor Corner: But it is an event for legend and myth, maybe once a century… Client: Yes, yes. Don’t you see? That is my escape, that is how I get out of this hellish bargin made at the dark crossroads. Professor Corner: I don’t…. Client: (With intense feeling) Playing the odds, man! Don’t you see? Your spell gives time, time to outlast the infernal demon himself. It can go about, terrorizing cities, stealing souls, battling heroes until, one day, it is defeated. It is a mathematical certainty! With it gone, the deal is broken and I die a free man. I have my full life and retire to whatever awaits men with souls. Professor Corner: You may wait a long time, Mr. Dagen. Client: That matters nothing. Your spell can provide for me in the waiting period, keeping the demon at bay. Then, when the time is right, you release me and I beat them at their own game. Any objections? Professor Corner: Well, I suppose not. I assume you have the payment required? Client: Professor, I am the most successful man who has ever lived. Please, you will be paid, I assure you. Professor Corner: Then all I need is your name on the dotted line, Mr. Dagen. Client: Excellent, excellent! –sounds of quill scribbling-. Good, now just time to….run out the clock. The vaulted, echoing chamber is dimly lit, with both ends disappearing into darkness. It is lined, on both walls, with curious furniture. Huge, stone coffins, with no lids. Inside each one rests a person, arms crossed and eyes closed. No breath stirs, no heart beats, no eye flutters but each bears the mark of life not death. No empty husks of humans here, but merely….a halting of life, rather than the end. A stopping figure wanders between them, checking a stack of forms held under his arm. Here and there, the old man touches a resting body, adjusting a hand, checking the skin, brushing off dust or lichen. He moves easily, with no great rush, ignoring his macabre surroundings. “Mr. Dagen, how are your first few years going?” he murmurs as he reaches a new coffin. “Settling in well?” He touches the coffin lightly, dusting it gently. Suddenly the sounds of hurried footsteps breaks the quiet scene, as a lamp carrying young man runs up the old man. “Professor Corner!” he says, gasping and coughing with exertion. “There is a man…” “Easy Percy, easy. Who is it?” The professor says, but the younger man doesn’t answer. More footsteps sounds in the distance , these ones measured and unhurried. The two men stand together in the small circle of light from the lamp, peering in the darkness. Finally a dark figure emerges from the gloom, a tall man in the latest upscale fashion complete with cane and tall hat. In one hand he carries a sheet of paper, in the other is a pocket watch, of the newest design. It swings negltiantly in his grip, as he strides up, its ticking being just perceptible in the silence of the sleeping. “I have to say, I love the atmosphere. Reminds me of parts of home.” The man says, his voice a curious mix of honey and fire. Both Corner and Percy blanch at the merest sound, but the voice remains conversational. “Yes, I do enjoy it. You would be Professor Corner?” He asks politely. The Professor nods his head shakily and asks, “And where is home for you Mr….?” The man laughs lightly, and the chamber rings with an odd echo of it. “I have traveled far, Professor. More than you’d believe. But as much as I love the surroundings, let us talk business, shall we?” “Business?” Corner stutters, one hand grasping on a stone coffin for support. “Yes, you see, you have become involved with a certain...contract of mine. One involving a Mr. Dagen. Does that prick your memory?” Suddenly both men start and jerk back from the tall man. “You, you are…” Percy stutters but the Professor draws himself up and starts to chant an ancient prayer. The walls hum with the strange choral echo. The tall man quickly raises a hand placating and says, “Please stop, Professor.” His mild voice and obviously pained expression cause the professor to falter. In the silence the man speaks smoothly. “Please, let’s not have any of that. It will work of course.” The man says, brushing some dust off of an immaculate sleeve. “ If you start throwing the names of gods and saints at me, I will go through quite intense pain. But conversely, I will be less….pleasant to you.” Silence reigns again in the corridor and the man smiles. “Good. Now, down to business. I took the liberty of taking, from your office, a copy of the contract and transcript involving Mr. Dagen.” He waves the paper in his hand. “You can see what trouble this little scheme of yours puts me in. For one thing, you delay payment and my superiors set a great stock by prompt delivery of items due. Overhead, late fees, accountability, you understand, yes? For quite another thing, you put myself in some danger. You see, for the term of this contract I am forced to remain on this plane, in some physical form. I can change it at will of course,” he waves a hand over his imposing figure. “But I must remain here, locked in a shape. And you never know when some hero will come by with a magical sword or some priest will try to lock me in a reliquary or any number of unpleasant events. Usually this is of small concern, what is a lifetime or so spent in shape? But see, your little spell magnifies the term of the deal. It puts me at quite an unacceptable level of risk.” The man stops talking, and checks his watch. The silence grows in the corridor, only broken by the breathing of the two terrified men. Finally the Professor speaks up. “So what do you want from us, I mean me?” he asks, his voice harsh and rasping compared to the tall man’s. “The soul of Mr. Dagen of course. I’m nothing if easy to please. I take it you have it somewhere? The transcript mentions a soul binding of some sort?” The man asks easily. “And what do we get in return?” Percy says, speaking up for the first time. The Professor looks askance at him, but the younger man waves him silent. The tall man’s eyes glint in the darkness and a frosty smile comes to his clear features. “Excellent, a man of business! I do like dealing with those…”He rummages for a paper and quill out of his clothes, and lays them on a near-bye slab. “A contract then. What do you desire, my friend, power, money, women, glory?” His soft voice ripples endlessly off the smooth walls. Again the professor tries to speak up but younger man shushes him and turns back, hot eyed, towards the demon. “Everything.” Percy breathes. “I want it all, like Mr. Dagen had. The women, the music, the gold…” For a minute the words hang in the air. The tall man chuckles, “Ah, a man of aspirations. Even better! A simple transfer of contract then. You get your deepest desires, and I get Mr. Dagen’s soul returned. We can your discuss further payment later, at your convience Mr..?” The man asks Percy, quill in hand. “Percy Wavell, um, sir.” he adds, stammering a bit. One of his hands grip painfully on Corner’s shoulder to silence the old man. “Percy Wavell, good. All signed then. Just sign here, and we’ll be in business.” He hands over the document to the younger man, who scans the spiky black writing quickly then scribbles a signature. “Men of action, may you never disappear from this world.” The tall man says formally, taking back the paper. ‘So then, let us take care of the small matter of Mr. Dagen. Where is the soul bound?” “Percy no, you mustn’t!” Corner says, finally getting a word in edgewise. “Silence!” The tall man booms, and his voice echoes through the vaulted chamber like a thousand voices in pain. The Professor wilts into cringing silence. “Where is the soul, Percy?” The man asks the trembling Percy, his smile once again fixe don his face. “On...on that stone. Near his head. We simply lock the soul into it. It keeps it dormant during the Sleep of Ages.” His voice is weak now, but he searches the demon’s face with eager eyes. “And to break the bond? Can you do it?” The man asks, his own voice rising in tempo. “Yes, it is very easy. Anyone who handles the stone will break the bond and the sleeper will awake. It is a very delicate process but easy to disrupt, hence why it took so long to discover.” At this the Professor starts, turns to Percy as if you speak but is waved silent again. “Excellent. you will go far, my friend, you will go far. I promise it.” The tall man strides forward, cane swinging. He takes a look at the pocket watch in his hand. “Ah, only two years late, Mr. Dagen. He shall pay for this delay, indeed he will.” With that, he puts the watch in pocket and grabs the stone. With relish he squeezes it and the rock instantly is crushed into powder. For a moment the demon grins trimhpuntly as a white light shines from the powered rock. Then, suddenly, the light travels up the demon’s arm. ‘What, what is happening?” for the first time his cool voice breaks into fear and confusion. “You have entered a contract, sir!” Percy shouts in joy. ‘A very different one thent he one I signed. By touching the stone, you have entered the same Sleep as Mr. Dagen. Enjoy your twin slumber!” With a howl of rage, the tall man leaps toward Percy but mid-stride falls into a heap, crashing to the floor. For one long moment silence returns, as the howls echo down the passageway. Percy takes a step, then two towards the fallen man. After another moment, he bends over and touches it. He smiles, “We have done it Professor. I am sorry, but I needed to trick him. The deed is done, he is locked into slumber along with Mr. Dagen. Until we choose to awake them that is. My own demon contract is null and void for that term.” Corner grins and says, “Good work, Percy. We’ll seal this one up with a lid, watch and all. Same with Mr. Dagen. Lock them up and burn the recovery instructions.” he nods vigorously as he speaks. “Then what?” Percy asks, his voice tiny in the silence. “Wait for the clock to run out, of course.” The Harbinger of War by Jerioke (3,133 Words) Jesse looked over her driver's shoulder at the clock. It was 12:01 in the morning. They were riding through the streets of Multhe, a city of over one-million souls. She'd had a long day. Breakfast with the high-priest of Sehanine, in his penthouse at the top of Multhe's largest skyscraper; lunch aboard the thousand-foot-long ornothopter – Julius – with the Duke of Longshore, and dinner with the Chief of Police. Before she relaxed back into her seat, she had noticed the odometer read well over one-hundred-thousand miles. It was about time. The steam-powered locomotive that the dealer had called a 'mobile', was nearing the end of its service record. The mobile continued rolling along the cobblestone road. Its headlamps burning yellow in the misty night. Only the rich and powerful would ever be found in a mobile, everyone else walked, took the overhead-rail, or rode horses. Ten-thousand-years, and we're still riding horses. Jesse thought, disgusted, at least they're still readily available as feed for my dragons. How many years had it been, since she had last called upon them for war? Jessebelle Autumn Von'Delving had lost count. There had been no need for a great catastrophe for the last four, or five-thousand, years. Over one-hundred-thousand years ago, Jesse had gained immortality through black magic, and sacrifice, to her – now dead diety – Tuern. Tuern had been killed by the god Bane. A loss she still felt deeply. A band of adventurers had interrupted her ritual and paid the price for it. After killing everyone except the priestess, Jesse had used the she-elf to fuel her ascension into a demigoddess. She loved irony almost as much as she had loved power. But not nearly as much as she still loved him. The mobile had finally exited the outskirts of Multhe. She felt no desire to look back. She knew how the city looked with all of the lamps shining in the windows of the skyscrapers. As if the stars themselves resided on Faerûn. She thought, The wondrous imagination and creativity of humans will never cease to amaze me. Neverwinter had once stood where Multhe now stands. It had fallen shortly after her ascension. When she had seized the city in retribution after the mad king had ignored her recommendation to negotiate a treaty with the Thayans. There were valid reasons for that treaty… and the fool still refused! Over the hilly planes they drove, until they came to a magnificent castle. It was old, but had been updated and rebuilt and improved upon, not to mention expanded, several times over. It looked like it had been built yesterday, with its twelve towers reaching up so high, that one could freeze to death without a fire in the hearth. Why had she built them so high? Partly because she could, but mostly because the towers intimidated anyone visiting her. The mobile entered through the massive titanium gate as two hill giants opened the doors and made a rough salute to their mistress. The driver honked his horn as they passed, which caused the giants to smile. They had been acknowledged. The massive gate shut behind them with a loud boom that echoed throughout the castle as they made their way to the garage. Her human, goblin, and many other lower race servants, went about their daily errands. Saluting as jesse and her driver rode by. The central throne room, which was massive enough to fit over a thousand people inside, was dimly lit. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere, no sign that the chamber had been occupied for a thousand millennia. Two goblin guards stood outside of the door to the room, and as Jesse approached them, opened the door. "Mistress, we hear creaking coming from the mountain," One of them said "Yet, the mountain stand tall." She nodded her thanks to the goblin, who took pride that he had been acknowledged for his report. All of her servants wished to please her, and all of her servants knew the punishment for failure. She walked through the door. The mountain, as the goblin had called it, was a giant crystal prison in the center of her thrown room. It was so large, that its peak came only a foot away from touching the ceiling. The feet of the mountain spread out far enough that one of them had cracked the bottom granite step of the throne's approaching stairway. The crystal prison was, quite possibly, one of her crowning achievements. She had been in the middle of conducting a one-hundred year war when she had heard of one adventurer that was thwarting her at every turn. He had come out of no-where – in an age of cowards, liars, and famine – to champion the same cowards and liars that had caused the famine in the first place! It had been infuriating. Did no-one realize that she was helping? She was the harbinger of war! It was her job to bring war to the land and inspire the people to fight, survive, and improve so that they could continue to live and go about their worthless lives. In the heat of the moment, with anger boiling up from reminiscing about that time so long ago, she slammed her fist into the side of the mountain and saw it crack. Her face lit up in a smile so big, she looked like a child again as she put both hands on the crystal in front of her and peered in. He had defeated every single guard that stood before him. It had taken him only moments to defeat her generals as he strode proudly, without pause, into her chambers. She remembered so clearly how his pit black hair had flowed behind him. And the blood-lust in his brown eyes had made her heart pound so fiercely. Blood had been splattered across his armor from her armies, and turned the armor into a piece of art. There had been barely a scratch on him! She had known she'd fallen in love with him the first time she saw him in the scrying glass. Fighting her minotaur in the Southern Reaches, Such a magnificent specimen. She had thought. But she'd needed time. There was no talking to this man. This warrior. She had to create the perfect opportunity to give him pause enough to listen. He would be hers. As he had continued strolling across the thrown room, Jesse stood. She'd begun weaving a magic of which she had never before even thought of using on any enemy. It was new to her. Strange to feel its power, a power of life and not of death flowing from her core. But it was her twisted love for this magnificent being that drove her to such lengths. The mountain cracked further as she watched. Her heart started beating faster and she waited for the man encased within the crystal mountain to show signs that he was going to awaken. Both terrified thinking of what might happen when he did, and excited that the waiting would soon be over. She'd waited forever for the possibilities that this moment could bring. Jesse had been staring into his eyes when she finished casting the spell that encased the hero in this preserving crystal mountain, and she was starting into his eyes now – as they came to life. The mountain shattered in a deafening explosion. Jesse was knocked back, onto the floor, and the man pounced on her with his sword drawn against her neck. His face contorted in emotional distress, fear, rage, and a multitude of other emotions swirling behind those eyes. Those beautiful eyes. "What have you done to me!?" He screamed at her, pleading for an explanation. Playfully, and it might have been the wrong thing to do – but what could she do? She was loosing her mind having him on top of her like this and being unable to enjoy it – Jesse wrapped her arms around his breastplate and drew herself up towards him. Pushing against the blade and, as it began to draw a bead of blood, the hero drew it away from her throat but kept it at hand. He wanted answers. "I have given us time, my love." She whispered into his ear. She saw his eyes widen at the word love, but she continued, "You've been asleep for more than ten-thousand years. Your quest is over and the world lives on." At this, he jumped back and she let go of him – falling back to the floor. He looked around wildly, obviously confused. "Your throne room hasn't changed!" He yelled pleadingly, "Your LYING!" Jesse empathized with him. The magic she had used to imprison him had affected the throne room as well. It had never needed repair. Never needed cleaning. Maybe I should have used the spell on the entire castle. She giggled. "Do NOT mock me!" The hero snarled at her. And she sadly shook her head as she rose to her feet. "My dear hero," She began, "I am no longer your enemy. I am the harbinger of war, yes. But I am not your enemy. I will explain everything to you soon." "But first, I need you to come with me. The times have changed and no one in this world wears the armor of old." She smiled, "And I think you will like what I have gathered for you." "I want nothing from you" He snarled, but he followed her anyway. Ready to attack at any sign of betrayal. The goblins opened the door and dropped their weapons as they did. They knew what they were supposed to do when this day came. It was integral to her plan for the hero to think that there was no danger. She would introduce him to the new world, let him run free, and watch him come back to her in time. Jesse led him to a walk-in wardrobe filled with an assortment of high-tech armor designed to look like clothing. The clothes had been designed using a combination of magic, science, and alchemy to provide the same level of protection as a full suite of magical armor, like the one the hero wore now. "Examine them to your heart's content. You will find no deceit here." she said, as she closed the doors behind him. She could hear him try the door from the inside and then, seemingly satisfied that the door wasn't locked, she heard him begin rummaging through the clothes she had provided. She heard a couple of large thunks from him removing his armor, and then the sound of a blade slamming against the table that was placed in the middle of the room for folding. She looked in at this and saw him standing over one piece of clothing, trying to cut through it. Gods! He is a beautiful man! And then she quickly closed the door and blushed when he saw noticed her peeking in on him. The sword slammed through the wood of the door and she couldn't help but giggle. His reaction was childishly simple after all. After what seemed like hours, he finally came out of the room. He was dressed in a black suit, but forgot the tie, his hair was drawn back in a pony tail and the stubble on his chin emphasized the curves of his jawbones. He tried to look calm and sure of himself, but she could see that he was nervous and doubtful. "You could almost pass as someone of importance!" She applauded politely, "But there is one item that goes with that, and you wouldn't have known about it." She grabbed a tie from the rack and began to tie it for him. He resisted at first, but her calm persistence seemed to put him more at ease. Finished, she placed him in front of a mirror and stood slightly behind him in her red silken gown. Being next to him accented every curve. Made her look even more beautiful. The horns curling towards the back of her head, barely showed through her thick red hair. "You look like nobility," She said, "and you should." "Now that you are properly dressed," Jesse continued, "We will go to dinner in Multhe. It is a lot different than what you remember. And it will prove to you that the world has endured." "Will you give me the honor of joining me, John Sable?" She asked. Jesse could see the realization wash over the hero, as he finally understood that she had been watching over him for a long time. She should not have known his name! She wondered if it was disgust, fear, pride, or any other multitude of feelings that was going through his heart right at this moment. And then he surprised her. "It seems that we have a much longer history than I surmised, my lady." He said, "I thank you for the clothes, they are like nothing I have ever worn before and proof enough that the world is not the same." He walked over to a window, "But I will not be joining you for dinner tonight." She wanted to argue, but let him continue. "I wish to leave this place and see the new world for myself. If I find anything to prove I have been deceived, or that the world still fears you as the demon you were then… I will be back to kill you." Her heart broke at his words, but she lead him to her treasury and provided him with the currency she promised, and then offered to have her driver take him to the city. He refused and asked if he could borrow a horse instead. Again with those damn horses! She thought, but acquiesced. Watching from the southern tower, Jesse cried silently as her love rode out of the front gate. She had no right to love him, but loved him anyway. She feared she would never see him again, and secretly thought that was the least she deserved for her crimes. She wallowed in the tower for a year. Watching the front gate. And then returned to her thrown room and continued to sulk in her depression for another five years. The time slowly crawling by as she pondered over everything she had done in her past. Finding that she still believed that every move she made was the correct one to ensure that Faerûn kept turning. After another ten years, a commotion began outside. She didn't care. Her guards would take care of it. Then she started to hear murmurs echo… Returned… Back… Tell the mistress… "Mistress! The hero has returned!" One of her maids burst through the doors. And the Hero glided through the door behind the maid, wearing a suit styled after the one she had given him, but newer. It was a designer brand fashioned by a famous gnome stylist. As he approached the steps to her throne, he explained where he had been and what he had learned in the time of his absence. He had visited the priests and priestesses of his god, Kord, and learned that every time a great famine, catastrophe, or plague had begun to surface… Jesse had started a war. The war forced men to leave their homes to join in the fight, which left more food for the women and children that had been left behind. Blacksmiths found more work, bards created more stories and songs that improved the moods of the people around them. And inventors thought of new tools, weapons, and other items that improved the lives of those who owned them. He had visited the towns and cities and found that the nobles were corrupt and the police and armies had their pockets filled with blood money used to bribe them. Everything that he had been taught to protect, had been turned into a system used to oppress the people it should have been protecting. And he had found that the history books were twisted to honor the corrupted leaders that had hired him to kill Jesse in the first place! When his investigations proved that wars Jesse created were in fact the reason that the masses never completely succumbed to the disasters that plagued them every once in a while. "But the peace is about to end." He finished, "The priests have seen signs from a prophecy almost as old as I am. That will kill everyone, unless civilization rises to the challenge once again." Jesse stood up. "What are you saying, John?" She could not believe what her heart was telling her. She couldn't believe that he could be coming to her, telling her to start another war. It was too much to hope for, that he was offering to help. "Why torment me so with your presence?" She couldn't stop the tears from streaming down her face. John came up the steps so quickly, she lost her balance. He wrapped his arms around her to catch her before she fell, and though she struggled against him in surprise, he kissed her gently. She couldn't think, it was too much! How does this happen? She surrendered to his arms and kissed him back. She didn't know what else to do. Just when she thought it wouldn't end, he drew himself back. Still holding her gently, he continued, "I was blind, in my naivete, thinking that you were purely evil. But you are a part of a larger system. You are a necessity. If I had killed you, I would have doomed the world." He let her go and knelt before her, head bowed. "Jessica Autumn Van' Von'Delving, take me as your vassal in the upcoming war, and we will assist the world in moving forward at great speed!" He looked up at her. "But you will be labeled a terrorist," She gasped. She couldn't believe her ears! "I would send you to terrorize towns and villages and you will kill innocent people!" "Those same people would have died by hunger, sickness, or in some other way." He shook his head, trying to deny it himself, "But, only after consuming food and resources that could have saved other lives." He stood up and took her hands as he stared into her eyes, "I am yours, my lady. Do with me as you will, for you are far wiser than I." She smiled in her triumph. Her plans had been for naught. She had her night in shining… wait. No. She had her commander in his dark suit. Her beautiful man, and she knew at least one way to use him. She lead him out of the throne room and into the night. The End Duraini & Dragon by Neqq (851 words) Catfolk are a naturally inquisitive race. They also tend towards being egotistical and have higher than average levels of naivety. This combination of factors probably explained while there was a grey tabby catfolk with large lynx like ears strapped to the underside of an ornithopter flapping his arms and pedalling like crazy to keep the bat shaped contraption in the air. His name was Duraini and his destination was a huge mountain top cave, the home of ancient red dragon. Duraini had been contracted by the people of the town at the foot of the mountain to help end the century long terrorisation that the dragon had reign down on them. Duraini’s arms ached, but he had to keep flapping. Stupid dragon and his inaccessible cave. Duraini’s legs ached, but he had to keep pedalling. Why didn’t I get someone to magic me up to the cave? That’s right, stupid dragon and his magic wards. The catfolk was almost there the huge cave mouth gaped in front of him. Puffing and panting he put one last big effort and the huge leathery wings flapped at a furious pace. Stupid ornithopter. He glided in and tried to land on the two wheels either side of his the bar he was steering with, but face plant. He got himself untied from the ornithopter stood up and spat out a glob of mountain soil. Stupid me. Duraini brushed himself off and drew his sword and began the descent down into the heart of the mountain. The tunnel was magically lit and he had no need for lantern or torch. Creeping quietly on the soft pads of his feet he warily walked the steep passageway looking for any signs of traps. He found none and made good progress. This is too easy. 50 000 gold pieces in gems paid in advance and all had to do was start straight way and find the sleep of ages. Find that and the town will be safe from the dragon. Should be a piece of cake if I can work out what the sleep of ages is. A collection of mundane and magical containers were stored safely in his backpack ready to be filled with the sleep of ages. Duraini figured once in the dragon’s den inspiration would strike it always had before. Down and down he travelled deeper and deeper into the mountain. Suddenly the passage opened in to a huge treasure filled chamber and in the middle of the chamber slept the dragon. O my gods, I am glad I don’t have to fight that behemoth. The dragon must have one hundred feet from snout to tail. It red scales glistened in the magical light and even though it slept it radiate power and awe. Where is the sleep of ages? If it can kill the dragon, I am sure the dragon would keep it near to him. Tip-toeing and barely breathing he moved silently toward the slumbering beast. As he drew closer he spotted something. The dragon’s tightly shut eyes had produced a crusty residue in their corners. That has to be the sleep of ages. I am sure of it. Duraini sheathed his sword and took a small earthen-ware container from his backpack and removed its lid. Inch by inch he moved closer to be the dragon. Until he stood by the dragon’s head that rested on the floor. Holding his breath he lifted his trembling paw to the beast’s eye. He exposed his middle claw and every so gently he removed a large chunk of the dragon’s sleep and placed it his container. Twice more he dared to repeat the procedure and then he turned and walked back towards the chamber’s exit. I have done it. I will be famous. The bard’s will sing songs of my exploits and women will throw themselves at me. When he was forty feet from the exit a booming laugh filled the chamber. “HA HA HA.” The catfolk felt compelled to turn and find the source of the laughter. The sight that greet him as he pivoted was one that fill him with fear. At these times most creatures responded through pure instinct to flee or freeze. Unfortunately for Duraini on this occasion his instinct was to freeze. So there he was frozen to the spot looking up a red dragon standing on it hind legs, wings fully extended and it great jaw opened as it bowel-shaking laugh vibrated the chamber. “HA HA HA.” The catfolk stood in a puddle of urine still not able to move, the dragon looked at the pitiful sight and said, “Nice try cat, but you got it completely wrong. You have two things to do in this chamber. First deliver my gems, they should be in your backpack. Secondly you will find the true meaning of the sleep of ages.” At that moment Duraini was no longer frozen. In fact he was now the very opposite of frozen as the dragon’s fiery breath engulfed his body. The town was now safe from the dragon at least for the next six months. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Apr 19th, 2015 at 05:30 PM. |
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April 2015 Competition Entries Topic: Mistaken Identity Challenge: a note, a domesticated animal, and a mirror Winner: Super Effective! by Xiasmus Party Hearty Josh had never really thought about, well, anything much at all. He believed he was just another "Joe-Shmow." The guy at the party who no one can really pin down with who he came with, but was nice enough that nobody really minded all to much. He showed up to his work at the grocery store around the same time as every one else, made small talk with his co-works, did his job efficently and quitely. Josh like his life like that. Efficent. Quite. He'd never got below a 72% and never above an 85% on anything back in school. He flew not under the radar, but so closely to the other blips that he was missed completely. He had a few friends who he would go for drinks with, maybe go over to their house and play games then leave once 10 o'clock hit. He was completely and utterly normal and non-improtant. The way that Josh enjoyed it. One tuesday morning, he awoke in his bedroom, painted a sky blue, computer desk taking up the oppiste wall of the double sized bed. The moniter was off, tower on. I'll check my e-mail after I shower. He rolled out of bed at exactly 5:43 am, like any other day. His feet feel into the slight indent in the carpet where they always landed first thing in the morning. He stood, crossed the 12 paces to the door, turned left, another five paces, opened the door on his right, entered, closed and locked the door. He opened the mirrored cabinet, took out his tooth brush and paste, turned on the shower, applied the past to the brush then replaced it in the cabinet. Shower and brush teeth, check. I need to write a book on time saving. He returned to the bedroom, dried, dressed, and ready for another day. Checked his inbox, no new e-mail other then the sales flier for his work. Raised from the desk, hands laying in the one spot missing varnish, worn from use. As he made his way downstairs through his parents house, he saw something out of place by the door. A small folded piece of pink paper. I've never seen my mom buy pick paper before... He picked it up, slowly unfolding it to reveil large looping, flowing writting in blue ink. Last night was great. Should do it again sometime! Last night... Josh had been asleep by 11 last night. He frowned to himself as he refolded and place the note back where it had sat. He stepped out side, unlocked his bicycle from the poarch, and headed off to work. "Hey, Josh, whats going on dude? Sorry I'm late, but I'm hangin' HARD, bro. But you must know what I mean, eh champ?" Cory laughed as he strode into the back room, a full 9 minutes late by Josh's count. "What do you mean by 'Hangin', Cory?" He had stopped trying to tell Cory to show up on time. It wasn't worth being lied to that he'd "try harder next time" again. "Dude, what ya' mean what ya' mean? The party at Triss' place. Dude, we got tot's wreaked. I think I ended up taking a leak on their cat while it was in the litter box. Sooo wasted, bro." "You realize yesterday was Monday, right?" "Yeah, that's what I told you dude, but you were all like, 'Nah, we gots to rage. To-Friggin-Night!' I thought you were kidding, till you showed up with a two-four and half a fourty. Was killer, man." "What are you talking about Cory? Were you on drugs... again, last night?" "Only the ones you brought, hommie." Cory stated factually as his slapped Josh on the back. A little harder then was needed, from Josh's perspective. "Well, I have no idea what you're talking about. I was in bed at 11 last night. I don't 'rage', not when I have work in the morning, and not on a Monday night." "Pfft," Cory had managed to hide his diry Led Zepplin shirt under the red polo shirt of the uniform, mostly. "What ever you say man." As he walked through the store, Josh found himself getting more and more agnery at Cory. Not because he was late, and not because he got drunk that night. He was mad because Cory had seemed to spread the store that Josh had been there to the rest of their co-workers. Everywhere he went he had people calling out to him, "Wicked keg stand last night, J-man," or, "Hey, so, like, we were talking last night but I forgot to give you my number. Here." Never in his life had he had so many eyes on him, so many people talking to him. He could hear the little snipits of conversation before people would see him. From what he could gather, there had been a party last night, that most of the staff had been there, and that he had been the life of it. He didn't understand how it was all possible. He knew he wasn't there, that he had been asleep when it had all happened. But how could the entire store be lying to him. He knew most of them from highschool, and also knew most of them wouldn't be capable of pulling of this elaberate of a stunt. At that point, Josh remembered the note he had left by the door. Who ever wrote that could give him the answers he needed, but he couldn't just ask who it had been. People would get the wrong idea if he did. He knew he didn't leave any party with any girl that night, because he never left any party with any girl, and he had never been at any party last night... Had he? The shift was long, filled with penut gallery comments about 'last night.' Cory had started to spread the name 'Monday Night Mayham' and it had caught on. Josh hated to admit it, but it was pretty clever as far as things Cory said went. When he finally got home, he ditched his bike on the poarch, strode inside, and noticed it imediatly. The note was gone. It couldn't be, it was his only clue, his only way to puzzle out what had really happened. Josh sighed, long and low, slumped against the door, and tried to breath lowly. I don't understand what they're all talking about. I was asleep last night. I don't do that type of stuff. The rest of the day passed, thankfully, uneventfully. He made his dinner, washed the plates, and turned on the TV. Another M*A*S*H rerun. The one where Radar hits the con man. "Finally," he muttered, "something famillar." "Hey, Joshie-poo." Josh was only slightly shocked. His brother, Teddy, had sat down in the chair at the other end of the room. "Ted, don't call me that. It's annoying." "I know, that's why I do it." Ted smirked, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. "Damn dude, turn that down. My head is killing me." "Thats what happens when you sleep until 5 in the evening, Teddy." "It was a long night. So sue me." "It was Mond- hey, when did I get home last night?" Ted seemed shocked by the question, a puzzled look crossing his narrow face, head tilted to the side, "You didn't go out last night, dude. You stayed in. Like always." "I KNEW IT! Everybody at work kept trying to convince me I was at a party last night, but I knew I wasn't! I should report that jerk Cory for this. It classifies as harrassment, you know." Ted sat there blankly for a momment. Then started to tremble slightly. "Well it is. And he's always late, which would help me out in this case." Then, Ted broke. He doubled over in laughter, clutching his gut as though he'd been shot, like the paitents on the TV show. Tears started to roll down his face. "What, whats so funny Ted! It is harrasment, making up storys like that! Its defimation! An attack to my character!" Ted had started to calm himself now. "Whe-where was the.... the party suppost to be?" he managed to mumble between giggles. "Uh, at a girl from school's house. Triss. You remember her right? Redish hair, kinda short." "Yeah, yeah I remember. This is classic." "What is? I don't get it. Ted, this isn't funny. Tell me whats going on!" "The beauty of twins, my brother. The beauty of twins." It all fit now. Made sense. Teddy was unemployed, played guitar in a band, smoked pot. Teddy was the partier. But Josh thought they had cleared up being identical twins long ago. "But, they all know who you are. Why would they think it was me?" "Um, because I told them I was you. Duh." Teddy leaned back to watch the show. Klinger looked like he wasn't doing so well at poker on the screen, so Teddy giggled. "What the hell man! Why?" "Because I'm sick of you living in your little rut, Josh. I'm sick of people saying that I got all the energy, all the spirit. I did it so you could have at least one cool story. You should thank me, but, because we're family, no need." Josh sat their stunned. Was Teddy right? Did he really have no storys to tell? No personality to speak of? He settled back into the couch, watching the show while Teddy ordered a pizza for delivery on his cellphone. They both watched the next rerun of M*A*S*H. At the ending credits, after much more continplation then show watching, Josh turned to Teddy, sighed, and spoke. "Tell me what I did last night..." Flight of the Angered Dragon
Ixensotscada-drongoth lounged on the rocks above the entrance to her lair, the sun glistening off her mirror like red scales. She has lived here in the mountains for many years; watching the lesser creatures grow and fall much like a farmer might watch his flock of domesticated beasts swell and shrink as feast and famine mandate. Her’s is a shape that even the least knowledgeable fool would recognize as dangerous, for she is a dragon; wild, free and as foul tempered as they come. For centuries, or perhaps millennia, she can’t be bothered to use the same time scale that those lesser mites of the world use, she has watched and worked. She has more than a score of direct descendants in control over most of the lands she can see from her stony perch. Soon she would have to assume the guise of a human, or perhaps an elf, so that she might be able to conduct some business unmolested. Ixen, as her mortal form was known is a fire haired elf, with a temper to match, and the keeper of her villa recently sent a note that the King’s Tax-collector had been by. Ixen never had to pay King Dilbert; nor any of his forebears; truth is, the Kingdom was overdue to pay the fee negotiated for the maintenance of the non-hostility pact signed by Ixen and King Doldreeg III. Doldreeg sat on the very same throne that Dilbert now sits, and wore the same crown. If not for that non-hostility pact, Dilbert would have never been born. Perhaps the tax collector made a mistake, humans had a habit of doing that, with a fatal level of frequency. >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< Two days later, in her normal guise of the Fire Haired elf, Ixen entered her country estate, Feldsper, her estate’s custodian gave her the note left by the King’s tax man. Lady Ixen Drogoth Under the Authority of The King, and by decree of His Majesty’s Treasury, You are to pay taxes on your arable land 10 pounds of wheat per acre, or give up your farmable land, such that it may be used for the betterment of the Kingdom. The King is aware of the agreement between your estate and King Doldreeg III, may he forever rest in peace; however the King’s Grain silos are running dry, and most of his peasants consistently petition for the King to do something about the drought. [fancy signature] Reginald Vaultorc[signet ring impression] "Feldsper, prepare the carriage. We are going to pay the King a Visit. I will join you just before the Castle. THEY want the King to do something about the drought. I think I will do something about the King." With that Ixensotscada-drongoth stormed out of her sitting room, out of the manor house and took to the air, her elven form shifting into that of a 20,000 pound, 55 foot long, fire breathing dragon. In minutes she was cruising low, near the 500 foot mark, low enough so that there was no way these poor villagers would think she was a bird. She saved the vengeance of her ire for those farms not too horribly close to her own villa. Once the irate dragoness had gotten about two miles from her country home she began spewing forth fire and destruction. Every sun browned patch of turf was set ablaze, Ixen cared not if there were cows grazing, or children trying to coax the seeds to grow. Her ire and fire consumed them all, she even stopped to eat a few of the children, before sending a wall of fire to burn a simple farmer’s house to cinders. This rampage continued for three whole days, before the Army arrived, the pennant of King Dilbert not waving above their heads, but that of Queen Xiamara. The Queen herself at the center of the column, and far from happy. Ixen didn’t bother to take the more diplomatic shape of her elven guise, but settled to parlay in her natural form. The Queen, flanked by archers, war wizards, and the commander of her ground forces, the great dragon’s own half breed child, Tuoro Ti’Enint; approached until they were just out at the very edge of the great beast’s reach. The Commander of the Xiamara’s ground troops spoke first. "Ixensotscada-drongoth, you are in direct violation of a treaty that you went into willingly; by attacking the peasantry of Highampton, you are by your own words marked for death. We have with us a copy of that original treaty, witnessed by King Doldreeg III." Stepping closer than the mages would like, Tuoro pressed the list of charges against his mother, "For the past three days you have broken not only your treaty of nonaggression with us, but also killed 20 peasants, and burned more than 500 acres of farmland. For this, and in accord with your own recommendations, so listed in the pact, you are to die. Have you any last words?" Ixen didn’t have any words, so to speak, but she did have a few things to say, or rather mutter under her breath the words to a spell. A simple spell, surrounding herself with a wall of fire. "A dragon can do what it wants, when it wants. And any contract entered into with a dragon, is only valid for a long as the dragons desires. Not even Demons enter into contracts with dragons. Besides, I had thought I was in the countryside that was under the protection of King Dilbert. It appears that I have made a mistake, but that is all there is to it. A simple error in geography, since the farms of Highampton look so muchly similar to those in Grovisitir, but you should know that I have nothing to apologize for. Now you can either point me in the proper direction, or suffer the penalties for annoying a dragon as grand as I!" She then sat back on her haunches and waited, just enough to make them silly humans think that she was going to listen to what they had to say. Tuoro was about to compound the situation when Queen Xiamara walked up to him and laid a hand on his arm. "A grand dragon you may be, Ixensotscada; but even the best can find themselves on the wrong side of that which is sensible. I will forgive this minor indiscretion, if you do for me a small favor. As you know, there is but one port in this region, and it lies in the Kingdom of Grovisitir. King Dilbert has been charging MY merchants almost prohibitively high rates for the use of that port. If you could bring the port city of Quomado to it’s senses we would be willing to forgive this slight miscalculation." The dragon brought a talon up to her chin, a pensive look on her face. Not only working out the details of this new idea, so proposed by Queen Xiamara, but also the best way to deal with this ragtag band of tin wrapped treats that she had brought with her. Ixen knew that the queen was a powerful spell caster, as well as the war wizards; which meant that they quite probably had some scrolls and perhaps more valuable items in hand. The tin wrapped soldiers would be easy enough, but was she really in the mood to fight more. The destruction she could reap would be fun enough, but would it be worth the risk. Ten minutes later Queen Xiamara is surrounded by her dead soldiers, pinned by the dragon’s massive paw. Ixen slowly takes the shape of her elven form, because she can and whispers in the queen’s ear, "Forget not that I am a dragon, and make no mistake that I am letting you live because I can use you for something at some other time. If you want the port of Quomado razed, do it yourself. But don’t think that you can use me." With a satisfied grin Ixensotscada-drongoth, regained her natural form, and took to the sky. Her rage long abated and satisfied, she had little trouble in getting to her lair in the mountains; a heavy chest full of arms, armor, and other such valuable things gripped by her powerful forelegs. She may have mistaken the territory for that of someone else, but no one could mistake her for anything but a dragon; devious and diabolic, perhaps, but a dragon for sure. Moreover, Ixensotscada knew something that the poor Queen didn’t: Quomado had a special mirror, that could turn a true dragon into stone; regardless of the dragons intention. Guild Business by Vex (680 words] The face smiling at me in the mirror near my bedstand is not my own. Certainly the features, the eyes and those lips are mine, but the smile is not. Neither is the sparkle in the eyes, making them look like uncut emeralds. Those belong to her, not me. My name is Twinkle. That is neither the name I am currently wearing nor the name I was born with, but it is the name I have taken for myself when I joined the Guild. It is one of the few things truly mine. Unlike the smile I am smiling with my own facial features. I do not let the doubts I hold inside ruin this perfect face I have created for those waiting for me downstairs in the tavern. They would probably call the person they think I am a friend at best, an ally at worst. "Hey Kayla, hurry up if ya want some breakfast", comes a loud voice from downstairs. That would be Brak, our party's meatshield. "Lady needs her time to get up, you big oaf", I yell back, full of cheer in my voice I am not feeling. "Not that ya'd ever know how a Lady gets up!", I yell downstairs to the laughter of others. The cheerful, charming, freelancing rogue is who I am to them. Kayla the Swift, Kayla the Red, fierce with her daggers and throwing knives and always ready with a laugh and a smile and a joke. I despise Kayla, but becoming her is a necessity. I glance into the mirror a last time, making sure the eyes sparkle just right, and the smile shows just enough tooth to be charming and jolly. It wouldn't do to accidentally intimidate the others. Not at this point, not in this situation. Charming and jolly it is, and with a practiced saunter in my hips that does not reach my eyes - something I will work on -, I exit my room and join the others as Kayla. "Honey, you look gorgeous this morning", I exclaim with practiced cheer as I teasingly brush Brak's broad shoulder. "Whatever do they feed you up in the North, and where can a girl get more of your kind?" This is greeted with more laughter, as I expected. Sitting opposite the muscle-bound Brak is Marik, our healer. He's still young and has not yet become as taciturn and world-weary as the rest of his order. Which is a good thing, else he would certainly be more cautious. I glide over to him to lightly touch his shoulder in greeting, and he responds with a smile in kind as I sit next to the lean young man, glancing at the simple breakfast on the table with fake eagerness. While Marik and Brak discuss plans on how to best infiltrate the dead dragon's hoard, I pretend to be busy with eating, only nodding on occasions when my input feels welcome. Yes, I am certain I will be able to handle any traps. Of course I should be able to find the most valuable items. No, the Guild knows nothing of our unsanctioned exploit. Of course they do. The Guild is the reason I have joined with luckless Brak and naive Marik, for two purposes. The obvious one is to use of them to bypass the dead dragon's guards and traps. The other purpose, just as important, is to make certain their deaths will be a spectacular warning to all who think about cheating the Adventurer's Guild out of its share. Of course, "Kayla" will perish with them. But Twinkle will survive, as she always does. Brak makes a crude joke about draconic testicles. I join in on the laughter, pretending to nearly choke on the apple I am chewing, and smiling gratefully up to Marik as he pounds on my back. Even the healer is becoming protective of me. Soon, my work will be done. Marik replies with another joke, in high spirits. Again, I join in with the laughter. Soon, I will no longer have to. Super Effective! By Xiasmus (1194 Words) Something wasn't quite right about Jan's Torchic. The colors were off, for one thing. Jan kept insisting that that meant it was a rare edition. She even insisted that in the right light you could see it shine. But the feathers looked more like fuzz, and it refused to go in her pokeball. Every time Markus brought this up, Jan got angry, defending her Torchic by insisting that Ash Ketchum's Pikachu never went in his pokeball, either. “Jan, you know that Ash Ketchum is just PR, right? He's not a real Pokemon Trainer. He's an actor they pay to do that television show. Seriously! Have you ever heard of a place like Kanto?” Jan looked frustrated as she held her torchic in her hands, stroking it's yellow peach fuzz and cooing to it. “Kanto is real. I've heard about it in Geography class. It's supposed to be farther to the west, over the ocean, but you can get there by Wailmer.” Markus shook his head. “Now you're just making things up, Jan. Kanto is as real as your shiny Torchic.” Jan took her Torchic and stomped home. For the whole next week Markus didn't see Jan at school. Every time he walked home past her house on the way home, he strained his eyes to see if he could see her inside, but the blue flat plains of her front windows made it impossible to see anything from the street. More than once he thought of knocking on the door and checking to see if she was okay, but he remembered the last time he'd gone to knock on someone's door and accidentally let himself inside their house, instead. The people acted as if it was normal to have someone wander through their house, but Markus had been embarassed, and he didn't want to ruin his friendship with Jan. By the next Friday Markus was concerned, and he was so intent at trying to see if Jan was okay, he got hung up on her mailbox, and it took a few minutes to find his way around it. Frustration turned to inspiration, and Markus took out a piece of paper from his backpack. Despite not having a pen in his backpack, Markus wrote his note out quickly. JAN, JUST DO YOUR BEST, OK? MARKUS Markus felt a little foolish at how limited his writing was, but most of the school classes had to do with pokemon ecology, pokemon training, and pokemon identification. If only the Pokemon Exam wasn't part of the required school curriculum. Perhaps then they could get better grammar and language instruction. Markus left the note in her mailbox. The next day Markus woke to find Jan wandering around his room. She walked up to his wall clock and adjusted the time. She checked her appearance in his mirror. Then she went to his computer and began to check her e-mail. Markus, a bit disturbed, was suddenly glad that he slept with his clothes on. He began to wander around his room in a random pattern, hoping that Jan would take the hint and come over to talk to him. After she finished her e-mail, she checked out his government issued Nintendo Game Cube, and then sought him out. “Markus. I'm glad you came by yesterday.” “Are you feeling okay?” Markus asked, concerned. “Hayfever.” Jan responded. “What?” “I've spent most of the week wandering around the tall grass, trying to train Torchy. But I've got hayfever. If only you could find wild pokemon on the paths or in the forest.” Markus nodded his head. He hadn't known about her allergy. That would make it hard to be a pokemon trainer, for sure. He suddenly felt very bad for her. “So... how did it go?” Markus asked. “Not so good,” Jan responded. She reached into her backpack and pulled out her pokemon. Torchy looked a bit dazed, and its yellow fuzz was matted in places. “It hasn't evolved yet?” Markus asked, shocked. A week in the tall grass should have at least increased its size. “No, but it has gained a new skill.” Markus was excited. “Show me!” Jan shook her head. “We need to do it outside. I think Torchy has finally learned Ember.” In the back yard, Jan set up a small straw doll. Then she set Torchy down on the ground. Torchy began to wander around a little, scratching the ground and pecking at it. “Torchy, I choose you!” Jan shouted. Torchy ignored her and peeped to itself. “I can see she has Scratch down, but I don't think that torchics are supposed to have Peck. Are you sure this is a Torchic?” Markus inquired. Jan, angry, picked up Torchy and put her down near the straw doll. Torchy seemed a tad non-plussed, but soon was butting the doll with its head. Almost as if it was looking for something. “Use your Ember, Torchy!” Torchy began to bite at the straw doll's ratty clothing. Jan pulled a pack of matches from her backpack. “What are you doing, Jan?!” Markus asked, surprised. “Ember, Torchy, now!” Jan struck a match, and tossed it at her pokemon. It was Super Effective! Torchy caught fire quickly, its peach fuzz curling and browning. As it stumbled around, it also ended up setting the straw doll on fire, as well. It's quiet peeps became loud, piercing cries. “See,” Jan defended herself. “It even has Growl.” “Jan, I don't think that's how Ember works.” Markus was horrified, watching Torchy stumble about in blind terror. After a short while, it fell over and stopped moving. “Back to the pokecenter again,” Jan sighed, picking up the still creature. Markus looked at the burned doll, and the still Pokemon. “I don't think that's a Torchic, Jan.” Jan looked at Markus, angry. “You're just jealous because you never got a Pokemon out of a white pokeball before.” Markus shook his head. “I've never heard of white pokeballs.” “Well, I found it in Professor Pine's lab. It was white and oval shaped, but when I was near it, it began to rock back and forth, and then it cracked open. That's how I got Torchy. Professor Pine said she was just some worthless animal, but I knew better. She just needs training. Someday she'll be a Blaziken, and I'll be able to go to the big city and challenge a Gym Master. You'll see. You'll all see!” Markus walked Jan stalk off towards the pokecenter with the small creature. Something was very wrong, both with Jan and her pokemon. But Markus knew he wouldn't be able to convince Jan on his own. As he reentered his house, he considered talking to his mother. But she would only talk to him about how all boys would leave home someday. It was beginning to feel like his mother just wanted him out of the house. No, something was very wrong, and it would take a real Pokemon expert to figure it out. Perhaps it was finally time to visit Professor Pine himself. Last edited by Aethera; Jun 1st, 2015 at 01:13 PM. |
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May 2015 Competition Entries Topic: Delivery Boy (or Girl) Challenge: flower buds, a dirty feather, and [an] assassination Winner: The Insect by Percy Hux Sun Seekers by Ytter [878 words] "Here she comes again!" Breaking what had until then been a comfortable silence, Lily nodded her head in the direction of the tall girl bearing the pitcher and basket. "Well of course she comes again. She works every day," Delilah retorted, shifting position slightly to watch the girl make her rounds, delivering food and drinks to all the adolescent girls who hung out at the park during the day to get as much sun as they could. Iris, the shyest of the three girls, chimed in. "I think it's creepy that her uniform has pictures of old people on it." "Oh, you just wish you could look that good when you get old!" Delilah never could resist an opportunity to tease. "You're hardly one to talk. After all, you said that premature gray hair runs in your family." Lily had no qualms whatsoever about snarking right back at Delilah in defense of her quieter friend. Although they both thought Delilah was loads of fun, Lily and Iris and been buddies first. Delilah was fairly new to the area. Delilah glanced up at the stray tendrils sticking out of her bun, then at those of her friends. Iris was darker, but Lily was much lighter—a white-blonde if ever Delilah had seen one. "Oh, whatever. You're lighter than I am. They'll mistake you for gray before they do me!" As they watched the girl deliver food and water to the other park patrons, the three friends could hear the hum of birds overhead. Lily was not one for too much silence, so she broke it again. "Is it me, or are there more birds here than usual today?" "It looks like they're fighting each other. I had no idea birds could be so vicious," observed Iris. Delilah seized her opportunity. "They'll peck your head off if they get the chance, you know." "Ew! Don't say that! Delilah, you're—" Iris was cut off by the sudden commotion of two birds fighting right above them. They kept charging each other until finally they collided in a puff of feathers. It was difficult for the three girls to tell who won, but clearly somebody had, as both birds darted away. They turned their attention back to the delivery girl, when Iris let out a little shriek. "Lily! There's a bloody feather on your head! Gross!" Lily hated feathers. It was her weird phobia. "No! Get it off! Get it off!" "I'm not touching it! It's gross!" Iris was almost as panicked as Lily. "I'm not touching it either!" Delilah looked genuinely revolted. The three girls would have continued their freakout if not for the delivery girl's voice overpowering theirs. She was always chipper, but she talked so loudly—presumably because of her height— that the three friends were usually embarrassed for her. "You have a feather on you. That can't be fun at all!" The girl pulled the bloody feather off Lily's head and let it fall to the ground. Then she gave Delilah a stern glare as she set their food and drinks down between the three friends. "What are you looking at, weirdo?" Delilah had a thing about people making too much eye contact, and she was also extremely self-conscious of her height. Lily and Iris were by no means tall, but they were much taller than their friend. The delivery girl's only response was to shake her head and walk on to the next bunch of sun seekers. After the unexpected—and wholly undeserved, in Delilah's opinion—scowl from the delivery girl, Lily, Delilah, and Iris passed a lazy, uneventful morning gossiping and giggling until they heard the delivery girl's loud voice booming behind them. "That's the one I was telling you about." The three girls whipped around to see the delivery girl and a tall, bearded man in jeans and a flannel shirt. "I see her," he said coldly. Before anyone could even question his presence, he pulled out a syringe with a long needle and lunged for Delilah, jabbing her in the chest with a foul-smelling liquid. Delilah collapsed almost instantly, her skin blistering as the terrible poison worked. Lily and Iris both screamed, but in their terror, they were rooted to the spot. Oddly enough, no one else in the park seemed to be paying even the slightest bit of attention. The delivery girl looked surprised. "That stuff works really fast!" "Indeed. It's so strong, you can't legally buy it unless you work for the government like we do. Of course, it probably didn't help that the manufacturer named it 'Assassin Juice.' You know how terrible people can be to complete strangers." Either missing or ignoring the irony, the assassin gazed uncaringly at Delilah's corpse, not even acknowledging her two sobbing friends, still to shocked to move. He picked up the dead girl's body and unceremoniously dumped it into a trash can a couple feet away, making no effort to hide his actions. "Those two should be okay, but bring them extra water for the next couple days. We need to keep an eye on this bed anyway. When these two bloom, we'll probably want to replant one or the other to give them space, but they're fine together as long as they're still just buds." The Insect by PercyHux [2,136 words] The sun continued to bake the dry dirt of the ridge top as the day wore on. Every so often, a large hawk or some such bird would ‘whoop’ and ‘squawk’ as it rose into the wavering heat of the afternoon. Unimpressed by the sun’s furious onslaught, they would loop and soar as they attempted to catch insects. The only movement within a thousand yards was from the faint shadows cast by their deadly dance onto the cracked ground far below. It was midday and Rann Faust had been perched at the top of the high ridge for nearly six hours. He had arrived at the appointed spot before dawn, after a long overnight trek across the empty desert. All he brought with him was his large leather satchel and the rolled tube of buffalo hide that held his weapon. Over the years, he had become more accustomed to packing light. Where most Trackers traveled with a horse or other beast of burden and several weeks worth of sundries, Rann had mastered minimalism. A horse would only become a liability if the job stretched longer than expected, so he decided long ago that he didn’t need one. A wide brimmed hat covered his nest of black hair and blocked out the deadly sunlight that would dehydrate a man in minutes. The accessory was a precaution that would minimize his exposure, keeping him alive even though trek would take twice as long on foot. His rifle was tucked safely in the oiled hide roll, tied securely with a length of leather twine, and fastened across his back. Around his waist sat a worn holster that held an unnaturally shiny revolver with an ivory grip. In his satchel were several small packages of dried meat, nuts, beans, and a large skin of water that would last him most of the trip if he rationed. All in all, his provisions were conservative; they were just enough for a lone man to survive in the open desert for a couple of weeks. It would be just enough time to intercept his quarry and get back to town. Hours ago, the morning air had been cool after the heat of the previous day escaped the earth, back into the sky. Now, that refreshing chill was a distant memory, replaced by the pressing warmth of summer. Rann felt lukewarm rivulets of sweat trickle down from beneath his hat. The moisture collected under his unshaven square chin, falling in heavy drops to the white clay below. He clutched the long rifle in his sweaty hands, and stared through the sights and down the length of the carbine steel barrel. The weapon was a modified Highwall gun, known for its distance and reliable trigger. This particular model had been retrofitted with a steam-powered scope that was affixed to the stock. It made it difficult to hold comfortably, but he spent most of his day laying prone so Rann just propped the barrel up on a large rock for stability. Tiny mirrors in the scope’s steel cylinder allowed him to see nearly triple the distance of the naked eye. Tiny jets of steam shot upward from the contraption every so often as he adjusted the zoom range and focus with little dials. Should night fall before his target came over the distant ridge, the scope also featured a night-piercing function that would detect movement in the dark, lighting up the target with a ghostly glow when viewed through the lens. The gun was quite simply a work of art. Faust didn’t like to admit it, but the new rifle was solely responsible for his recent string of successful jobs. Before the gun, he was a mediocre Tracker, at best. The overly polished revolver was his sole weapon, so hunting from a distance was out of the question. To be quite honest, he wasn’t even a great shot close-up, and there had been many close calls and near-misses. Once, he had even been shot in the shoulder by a boy with a Pony Express revolver tucked down into his britches. The kid had just been faster…and a better aim. The Expanse had become a dangerous place over the last decade, and anybody could be packing. After his near death experience Rann had decided to change his luck. He came across the steam-scope contraption in a town called Horizon on the western edge of the Expanse. The manufacturer, a crusty old scientist with more than a few marbles missing, offered to trade the strange looking upgrade for a few dozen sheets of nearly-white paper (a commodity that had become rarer and rarer in recent decades). Luckily, Faust had come across a rather large collection of old books, left behind by his last ‘client’, so the deal seemed fair enough. Rann had no use for the stack of faded parchment, so he delivered them to the old kook and took possession of his good luck charm. Since then, nobody had been able to escape his watchful gaze; they were dead before they even knew they were being watched. No muss, no fuss, Rann thought with delight as he reminisced on the blistering ridge. His attention snapped back to the present as he heard the ‘squawk!’ of a bird overhead. A few seconds later, a large dirty feather settled gently on the stiff brim of his hat. He ignored the debris and focused on the horizon that spread out before him. His muscles locked suddenly as he caught sight of something in the distance. The birds had seen it, too. They performed one last acrobatic loop across the cloudless sky before disappearing behind a large mass of boulders down below the Tracker’s perch. A few hundred yards away, a caravan rolled into view as it emerged from the high-walled canyon to the east. Rann squinted down the scope of the rifle, a quiet hiss of steam echoed in his ear as he fiddled with a tiny knob. Through the lens, the tall wooden coach came into focus. It was a standard two-doored carriage. It’s painted wooden frame was peeling in black flakes, revealing the dingy whitewash beneath. The coach was pulled by two black stallions with large strong legs. They had obviously seen their fair share of travel; they flipped their tails as they galloped, swatting away insects nonchalantly. Along the visible side of the conveyance was a sign that read: “Dr. Bud Flowers, A.M.D. - Purveyor of Fine Munitions”, painted in red letters. This is it, he thought as he read the text on the grimy sign. The pay from this hit will be enough to get me the hell out of this god-forsaken desert once and for all. The truth was, Rann was not here by choice. Nobody was. Every last Wastelander was here because they couldn’t afford to be anywhere else. To travel to the very edge of the Expanse was an arduous (and expensive) task. The exact distance from edge-to-edge was unknown, though Rann had heard it estimated as “effin’ unimaginable”. A lone man wouldn’t make it on his own, and hiring a caravan was dangerous. You couldn’t trust anybody to keep it together long enough to reach Half Point before the group would inevitably devolve into robbing and killing each other. No, only the richest (and luckiest) of Expansers would make it out alive. He intended to be one of those few. The conveyance pulled into open desert, barreling toward the waiting sniper. Rann peered through the scope again to look for the target. The briefing he had received back in Oppenheimer described Dr. Flowers as a “boulder of a man, with a shock of fiery orange hair, and an artificial left arm.” Shouldn’t be too hard to spot, Rann thought with amusement as he recalled the description. Apparently someone up-on-high wanted Flowers out of the munitions business permanently. In this day and age, there wasn’t room for friendly competition and weapons sales was a decidedly un-friendly market. Like all the others, he hadn’t questioned the request—though the particulars of the job were a bit odd. Dr. Bud Flowers was renown throughout the Expanse as being a man with whom you did not mess. He had built himself up over the past decade to become the only consistent source for reliable firearms and explosives…everything a Wastelander needed to stay alive. It was rumored that he traveled with over a hundred bodyguards and hangers-on, though there was no evidence of that now, through the hissing scope of Rann’s rifle. There wasn’t another human in sight for miles around the carriage. Odd, he thought warily. Just rumors, then. All made up to scare children and old women. Rann tightened his finger around the rifle’s trigger in anticipation of the elusive doctor’s head coming into view. The horses turned north slightly, bringing the coach parallel to Faust’s position. He wouldn’t have a more perfect shot…but the window was empty. No shock of orange hair, no devil-in-the-flesh, no artificial arm…nothing. What the…?! The gunman panicked. Had he missed his target? Perhaps someone had beat him to it; doubling up on contracts wasn’t unheard of, especially if the mark was as high-profile as this one. But Faust’s reputation was well known, he had never failed a Tracking (as far as anyone knew), so there would be no reason to assign multiple assassins. He was the best; no one else could touch his record. Rann squinted down the barrel again in disbelief. Sure enough, he could see straight into the rocking black coach from this angle and it was indeed empty. The horses continued to gallop at near full speed, their hoofs making a ‘clop’ and ‘swish’ as they kicked up sand and clay behind them. Another noise quietly echoed across the silent ridge as Rann watched the ghost carriage speed by. It was a mechanical ‘ping’ just above him. The sound gradually increased in volume and frequency as the vehicle got closer. Rann looked up into the blinding sky to search for the source of the strange noise. A feather fell from the brim of his hat and landed beside him. At least he though it was a feather…it sure was shaped like one, and had a long white quill that ended in the expected angle point. This object, however, was flashing with a soft amber light and emitting the soothing ‘ping’. He picked up the curiosity and turned it over between his fingers. Rann then wiped away a layer of grime and dirt to reveal a silver latticework of filaments and grooves that wrapped around the plume in all directions. He had never seen anything like it before. It was beautiful, strange, and by no means a real feather. The sniper looked back up to the sky and saw the pair of birds from before disappear into the horizon. He looked back down at the carriage just in time to see its smooth roof slide backward and fold up into the luggage compartment at the rear. The conveyance of Dr. Bud Flowers then erupted into a cloud of smoke and flame, and a small silver rocket emerged into the open air. Rann was dumbstruck at the scene before him. The feather continued to flash and squawk in his hand as the missile arced into the light blue sky above him. Realization struck him like a punch to the gut and he dropped the faux feather and turned to run. Apparently, his reputation had proceeded him. What Rann Faust saw as his greatest score, others saw as their greatest threat. He had been double-crossed somewhere along the way; deemed too good for his own good. Figures, he thought with panic and dismay as he began to run toward the slope of the ridge. Stupid to think my fate would be any diff’rent. The Expanse takes us all in the end. The projectile reached its apex and curved downward, letting gravity take over once more. The gout of flames from its exhaust sputtered out suddenly and the air began to whistle as the shiny cylinder cut through the sky. Rann made it to the edge of the plateau and skidded to a stop. He’d never make it down the hill without falling and breaking his neck. He couldn’t escape if he tried. Rann caught a clear glimpse of the magnificent machine as it fell. Its body was highly polished aluminum with several rows of dark rivets running along its length and painted in fine script across the rocket's bulk were the words, "Delivery Boy". Funny, that. Death had a sense of humor after all. This would be the… The ridge, the plateau, the carriage, the horses, the feather, and the assassin disappeared in a flash of white light. They were replaced by a vacuum of boiling flame, then a towering cloud of black smoke and radiation. Far in the distance, two large birds circled and spiraled in dizzying loops in an attempt to catch insects. The End. Last edited by Aethera; Jun 15th, 2015 at 01:42 PM. |
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June 2015 Competition Entries Topic: It's Something of a Mystery Challenge: a hat, a vice, and a red herring Winner: Be Our Guest by Golden Gen Be Our Guest by Golden Gen
It has started out as quite the loveliest of days. The sun was shining high in the sky. The wind was blowing just hard enough to make the breeze feel comfortable in the heat. The leaves on the trees swayed pleasingly to the eye and made beautiful white noise with the rustling of the leaves as the wind passed over it. The grass was plush and soft on the feet. The smell of the dew was still lingering in the air. Though now a new smell was taking over. Archie crinkled his nose at the remembrance that the unpleasant smell was there. Oh how the day had started off with so much promise. Now to be ruined. And before he could have a proper cup of tea. Archie loved his tea. Almost more than his life. He knew he would give up his life for a good cup of tea. You could say it was his one and only vice. Otherwise he thought of himself as a most pleasant person. Good with conversation and a quick wit when it came to riddles. Again the unpleasant smell assailed Archie in the middle of his musings. Sure they were musings of himself but how could he not muse about himself when most of the time he was his only true company. Standing Archie moved along the table. It was a long table. Longer than most normal dining tables. This table was also more fabulous to behold than a normal dining table. Able to seat fifty people comfortably yet with an air of intimacy that one neighbor could talk to the other even at different heads of the table. Archie giggled to himself. different heads always made him laugh. A table didn’t have two heads or even one head for that matter. It simple had ends. He continued to journey down the table running his hand along the crisp white linen cloth that was draped over it. Not a speck of dust marred the cloths white brilliance. Magical for the table being outside. But then magic here was nothing to be surprised about. The unpleasant aroma was becoming stronger as he proceeded down the table. Archie paid it no mind being lost in thought. How it has been ever so long since his last guest at the table. His body seemed to halt of its own accord as he delved deeper into his memories. They were quite foggy for hit had seemed like an eternity. An eternity since that fateful tea party. His hands caressed a tall backed chair. The back curving out a little forming an oval. The dark cherry wood was carved with magnificent scenes of cats and cards and queens. So life like that they seemed to flow around the back of the chair in an eternal dance. The cushions were a brilliant deep red with golden buttons holding it down to the wood of the chair. The chairs feet where those of eagle talons grasping small orbs. If one were to take the arduous time to bend over and admire the orbs in the talons they would be surprised to find that the orbs were worlds. And like the carvings on the back of the chair the orbs seamed to rotate and the water flowed and moved. Archie’s hands seemed to know this chair for it was the same chair that his last guest took as their seat. A pretty young girl who was quite naïve. Sadly it was that naivety that was her down fall. Or was it an up fall. Shaking himself back to the present he walked on. He was very close to the origin of the terribly unpleasant smell. It was so pungent that he took up a cup and saucer and sniffed the air from the tea to clear his nose. Looking down he saw the source of the smell. He remembered he always knew the source but only now remembered that he already knew. It was a dead body. A little girl. No older then the last little girl that was a guest of him. Almost as pretty though the fact her head was now lying on her plate of tarts did take away from her prettiness. Her blonde hair was tinged red from the fountain of blood that had erupted from her neck as he head fell away. The look of surprise still frozen on her now frosted eyes. Miraculously her hands still held the cup and saucer she had been using. Archie bent over and tapped the cup and saucer from her dead fingers. Using only the smallest part of his small finger and then dunking it in tea to clean it of germs. The cup and saucer fell to the grass floor and shattered. “Dirty thing.” Archie sneered. The broken cup and saucer melting into the grass only to reform back on the table as if nothing had ever occurred with it. “There back in your proper place.” Smiled Archie to the little cup. “Let us fill you up again O little one.” With a flourish he swept up the tea pot closest to him and filled the cup. Setting it back down on the saucer he absentmindedly turned the tea cups handle to twelve o’clock. Every tea cup on the table had their handles pointed at twelve o’clock. “Time infinite.” Archie pronounced as he normally did when adjusting the tea cups. For the handles were neither beginning to turn nor ending their turning around the plate as a clock arms would turn around its face. Archie next turned to the dead girl. “You were by far a poor replacement for my old guest.” Nodding to himself as he picked up the head and staring into her dead eyes. “Yes, quite poor. Only now have I felt any appreciation for your presence.” With that said Archie causally tossed the head aside. The girl’s head bounced and rolled down a hill to lie amongst a patch of red rose flowers. Her body was soon to follow. Clumsily rolling and bouncing down the grassy hill. As Archie stood up from clearing the seat a soft sound reached his ears. To him it was nothing new. Flowers were always so overly dramatic specially when being crushed. Turning to the table he looked at the white cloth now died a burgundy swiftly turning black. Anger filled him at such a mess and with a wave of his arm he tore the cloth free from the table. Not one piece of serving ware or cup as much moved with the passing of the cloth. Crumpling the cloth into a ball he squished and crushed it ever smaller. As he crumpled the cloth red rain fell to the grass. Smaller and ever smaller he crumpled the cloth to the size of a pea. Finally with a flick of his wrist you unfurled the cloth again and it descended upon the table as a new layer of snow would fall over a forest. “Come now everyone. It is no time for games. We have guests arriving soon.” Archie clapped his hands together. With a pop and fizz all the dishes and foods and drinks and cups appeared yet again above the pristine white cloth. “That is better. No more filth to ruin our day now.” Archie began to walk back to the other side of the table when he stopped suddenly. So suddenly that both feet were still suspended in the air along with his body. Turning in midair he looked back searching for something forgotten. He finally finds it behind the chair the girl had used. Stepping out of the air he walks over to the chair and picks up a hat. The hat is a tall stove top hat. Straight and clean. The fur shined as if well oiled. The only blemish coming from the blood dripping off the brim of the hat. Putting it on his head he once again began to walk back to his seat. Paying no mind to the drips he could feel from the hats brim. He settled back into his chair and picked up his food. It was a herring on a cracker. His most favorite of foods. Just as he brought it up to his mouth a drip from his hat landed onto the herring coloring it red. Looking at it he was suddenly surprised at the color change. Then shrugging he popped it into his mouth and swallowed it. “Red herring.” Archie laughed. “Yes we have guests coming soon. Always new quests coming for tea.” Guts for Glory [514 Words] by Osse A man yawns. He is sitting alone by the riverbank, with a pole in hand. It's a hot summer day and it's noon. The man is sweating profusely, his little cap's barely enough to shade his whole face. The line moved. It was so sudden, that the pole slipped out of his hands. "Oh yer not getting away this time!", he shouts. With haste, he removed his cap and tunic, then almost immediately jumped into the water. He followed the floating pole, as the fish dragged it away. The river ahead forked into three shallower streams. The fish took the path to the right. The man stopped and smiled. He calmly waded. His arms spread to prevent the prey from backtracking. As soon as he got near, he knew that it wasn't necessary anymore. The large net he set earlier has caught the silver herring. "Thank the Gods.", he sighs in relief. After removing the hook from the creature's mouth, he dragged it back to his spot and pulled out a measuring tape from his cloak, which he used as a cushion earlier. He leaned down, measured it and found out that it's exactly 2 foot long, just like the hag requested. His heart is pounding louder now. The answer to all me problems, he reflects. He put his tunic, cap and cloak back on and made his way up the mountain. Fish in tow, the man walked at a brisk pace. He's imagining all the things he could do with the loot. I can finally pay all me debts! Then I can play poker for the rest of me life. The hags hut is located about several miles away from the village, where the man lives. It's old, but it doesn't look older than the woman. She's sitting on her porch, drinking something that smelled like autumn air. "What's this?", she asks the man. "The fish ye asked me to get a month ago.", he replies. "And who are you?" "Bledo, remember? My old man's yer brother-in-law." "Well thanks lad, but I've already had lunch." "It's for the thing! Ye know? That thing ye witches do." "I'm not a witch. I've just got a few talents, is all. Seeing as that smelly thing looks two foot long, I can guess what you want done. Put it here on the floor and grab my mallet from the kitchen." Bledo did as told returned after a minute. "Step away now.", says the hag. She then proceeds to hammer the herring's head, then did the same to its body until it was pulpy. The floor is red now. The fish's guts and flesh are all over the floor. "Are you sure this is what you want? Your life will not be peaceful anymore.", she asks. "I already said yes last month! Now can ye please get on with it?", the man responds. She closes her eyes and starts chanting. The fish guts moved and formed runes, undecipherable to the man. The hag finished and opened her eyes. "0!", she starts screaming. "3! 10! 13! 19! 31! 7501!", the seven winning numbers for this year's royal lottery. Bonus: mystery = what's the fish for?
hat = cap vice = gambling red herring = it's covered in blood here's Gilbert Finnegan, thanking you for reading A Twilight Sparkle by Vex "So, where'd ya get that fabulous hat from, Kee?" Red-haired Keira grinned broadly and replied coyly with the thick accent of the Sword Coast's homesteaders: "That's somethin' of a mystery, ey?" "Oof, sis, ya can be such a tart", her sister exclaimed in mock outrage. "So who's the mark, eh? Is he rich? Is he handsome?" "Oy, he's a handful o' somethin', alright! Never saw his face, but he's a proper gentleman!" Keira was unable to contain her excitement. The young buxom woman is vibrating with cheer as she continues: "Never laid a finger on me, did he! Says he likes my voice. Says he likes 'the sparkle in me eyes'." She giggles. "Eh? He's seen yer eyes but you haven't had a glimpse at him?", Keira's sister asked curiously. Keira blushed a little. "Well, he's a special one. First he wears a hooded cloak, the kind ya don't see anything. Next meeting he asks me to turn 'round afore entering. Meeting after, I gets to wear a blindfold." She adds with a dreamy voice: "Oooh, but he sounds handsome. And he gives me these gifts! Lou, I think I'm in love!" Louisa rolled her eyes. "And he never laid a finger on ye? He expects to, eh?" The younger woman poked her sister friendly. "Oy, stop poking at me", Keira complained. "Ye'd rather be poked by him, eh?", her sister responds laughing before Keira joins in. "So when is ya going to see him again?" Full of excitement and still a bit of blush, Keira whispers: "Tonight. There's a full moon, and he wants to show me something. Think I know what." Lou added, still laughing: "Just make sure he's not another red herring, eh?" *** The cowled man watched the clearing, certain the peasant would arrive soon. What a delightfully simple creature. A show of attention from someone clearly her better and a small gift was all he needed to own the important small part of her insignificant soul that would induce debtless servitude. Love, or whatever the mortals called it. Such a delicious little vice in such an otherwise strangely resilient race. Of course, her underpriviliged naivete had a certain charme, but thankfully a creature of the night as himself was largely immune to these feelings. Finally she arrives, excitedly traipsing through the woods like a graceless antelope, to meet her dark and mysterious stranger. Her benefactor. "Here I am", the red-headed tramp exclaims in a childish giggle that would indicate drunkenness among a man. "Where's ya?" The peasant dances around the clearing, her inept eyes trying to pierce the gloomy darkness, unable to make out his cloaked and hooded figure against the canopy of trees surrounding them. "So what does my tall an' dark an' handsome mysterious stranger want with a poor innocent lass like me in the dark?", she calls out, her grin audible in her voice even though she's currently looking in the wrong direction. "Do ya want to drink me blood?" ... What. How. Why would she.... The hooded man is stunned. How would a base creature like her recognize a superiour being like him? Or... wait, was she serious? Still resonating with the same amount of cheer as before, Keira adds: "Oh aye, I knows what ya is. Don't ya worry, secret's safe with me!" He stepped out of his hiding place, the pale moonlight washing over his grey cloak, making him seem to sparkle. "You know what I am", he speaks, a deep voice filling the clearing and resonating from the stars. It is a voice that makes her giddy. "Oh aye! Tall, dark, handsome, shies the light - we do got us a bard, ya know!", she replies without hesitation or signs of fear. "Figured ya's cute and all, and probably rich!" The man does not know what to say, how to respond. "You know then that my thirsts are different from those of mortals, and my desire for you is one of need." She laughs in reply, a beautiful sound like stars singing a serenade. "Oh aye! I knows what ya kind desires. An' here I am, willing!" "Why would you do this?", the cloaked man asks, a long sleeping curiousity awakening in his the absence of his soul. [b]"Because I really like ya!", Keira exclaims and turns around with a smile. As the silvered stake in her hand enters the shocked man's chest, she adds, still grinning as he turns to sparkling dust in the moonlight before her eyes: "And I know what ye'll bounty set me up with is enough to fin'ly become an adventuress." Last edited by Aethera; Jul 15th, 2015 at 07:14 PM. |
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July 2015 Competition Entries Topic: It Must Be Summer Challenge: a white dog, an explosion, and time travel Tie: The Stolen Summer by Vex and Karl's Dead by Tongue The Stolen Summer by Vex A musical in three acts Zoom in over a snow-covered world. In the distance, framed by mountains and frozen rivers, sits a small village. Smoke coming from the chimneys gives a false promise of warmth in the icy cold, for not even the dwindling firewood supplies stockpiled next to the huts are sufficient to combat the unnatural frost. Zoom towards the keep watching over the village. No guardsmen are seen, for it is too cold outside. They hide behind closed doors, drinking mulled wine and hope their shift is over soon so they can return to the grand hall where a massive fire is blazing in the hearth. Zoom towards the keep's solitary high tower, and to the single window there. Inside is a cozy room in velvet red, with a small hearth blazing away merrily. The Princess sits on a chair, alone. She jumps up, clasps her hands to her ample bosom and launches into a song. the Princess: I remember When a summer sun was tickling my heart But now: Eternal december! And my kingdom is slowly coming apart. How I long for a hope, For a sunray to grope For a sign that tells me just how to cope! Now I long for a love, From the skies far above In a distant land, far away, there soars a dove! Through a foreign sun, Will I be the one To end what the sorceress has begun? The melody continues, instrumental. We zoom out of the Princess' room, away from the keep and into the cloud-covered, snowing sky. There is a sickly sun up here, not strong enough to penetrate the thick clouds. An eagle flies over the low-hanging clouds, enjoying the brief warmth of sunshine on its feathers. We follow the bird when it plunges back through a hole in the clouds. There is a large mountain in the backround. Below the clouds, the landscape is still white. A frozen lake is nearby, and a human man stands at the shore of the lake, staring at towards the mountain. He is the Hero. He picks up the melody and joins in to sing, striking a needlessly dramatic pose. the Hero: I remember As a young child when I swum through these lakes And now: Endless december All the frozen tears, as my heart breaks! How I long for a hope, For a sunray to grope For a sign that tells me just how to cope! Now I long for a love, From the skies far above In a distant land, far away, there soars a dove! With my strength in hand, For my very land, I'll seek out this vile sorcery to disband! We switch back and forth between the Princess and the Hero while they repeat the chorus in alteration, unaware of each other. the Princess: How I long for a hope, For a sunray to grope the Hero: For a sign that tells me just how to cope! the Princess: Now I long for a love the Hero: From the skies far above the Princess: In a distand land, far away, there soars a dove.... Both, wistfully: In a distant land, far away, there must be summer... Yeah, there must be summer... We cut back to the Hero, no longer singing or striking a pose. He reaches down to pat his companion - a white, shaggy dog - and grabs his backpack to set off towards the mountain, certainty echoing with every step he takes. The dog is walking besides him. Cut to a small hut in the mountains. There are no clouds immediately above the hut, like a hole cute into them. Instead, the sun seems to be much brighter here, and the air is filled with the buzzing of bees and birds, while there is ample green grass and bushes surrounding the hut before the world turns into ice and snow again just a few feet further. A pretty but older woman sits in front of the porch, smiling and a glass of something in her hand. She is the Sorceress. A song springs up, very similar to that of the Princess and the Hero, but darker and slower. the Sorceress: My land was eternal winter once Now the birds and the bees, they sing and dance Only for me, only for me I will never set the summer free. Already there the Hero comes so fast Shall I greet him with a magic blast? That would be cruel, but not cruel enough There is another way, I will rebuff.... The Sorceress cackles in time with the music, each note of laughter accompanied by the string orchestra. She grabs a flying insect, crushes it between her fingers and adds it to the glass she holds, then stirs it with her wand. the Sorceress: Oh Asmodean, by bee and bark I bind thee with my magic dark Just one more eye of newt, and then a magic spark... An tiny lightning bolt from her fingers hits whatever brew is in her glass. It bubbles and foams. The Sorceress hurls it far away into the cold snow outside her domain. It explodes in a flash of magic and sparks, and a heavy mist seems to pour forth from the explosion, crawling away like a sentient thing. the Sorceress: Come and obey, oh mists of time! You will protect that which is mine And never will the summer's sun above me cease to shine! Cut to the Hero. He and his dog are travelling a mountain path. The heavy clouds are blocking out the sun, and a fierce wind is blowing. Then suddenly, the wind stops. The Hero looks around confused. Then, a strange mist appears. The dog is snarling at it, before it engulfs them. The Hero falls down, and the dog whines. Fade to black. Curtains fall. End of Act One. A few minutes later, the curtains raise again. A gentle trumpet announces the beginning of Act Two. The light fades in. The Hero lies on a mountain path. The dog is licking the Hero's face. Sunshine warms his face, and birds join in as the orchestra picks up again, a melody that starts slow but evolves into something cheerful. the Hero: I seem to live, am not deceased, And by my side, my trusted beast And in the skies, so far above A sun that fills with warmth and love! The Hero stands up, continuing to sing. He looks up the mountain - in the distant, there is a single cloud in the bright blue sky. It seems as if snow is falling across a very small area. There seems to be a hut in the distance, smoke coming from its chimney. The Hero begins to walk towards it. the Hero: In the distance, I seem to see My goal is right in front of me. Now no mists will keep me from Doing what to do I've come. I know not what magic guides me here, A blessing divine, or dark arts to fear, But I know there's afoot a most vile plot. I have to go, I must make it stop! While the Hero's voice over is singing, we see a collage of cuts as he and his shaggy, white dog are travelling towards the snow-covered domain of the Sorceress. He sees a very young, pretty girl sitting in front of the hut. She is the Young Sorceress. She holds a glass of lemonade with ice cubes in it in her hand, which jingle in tact to a very cheerful, childlike melody. the Young Sorceress: Hello, hello! Come in, come in! Why the frown? Come, wear a grin! It's lovely out here, out in the cold, So sit with me, let news be told! The Hero approaches, and sits with the Young Sorceress. He is visible confused, and this is reflected in the cheerful melody fracturing and becoming slower. the Hero: What strange sorcery is this? It seems that something is amiss. This seems so strange, and yet so real I do no longer know what to feel... He turns towards the Young Sorceress. the Hero: Just a few hours ago, everything was cold and snow, No wind not bitter cold would blow, no birds were singing but a crow. We seem to be in times long past I wonder, will this weather last? the Young Sorceress: I hope so! For this is my gift: To keep the cold, and seal the rift. No bitter cold shall your lands go through ... if you'll let me marry you! The Hero is taken aback, but the Young Sorceress merely giggles. the Young Sorceress: In jest I made these words of mine, Please worry not, I will be fine! Though sometimes lonely does it get Up here, in ice and snow so wet. I wish for more to visit me, Lest I'll turn cold and bitter with age And take out all the bottled rage And do something I don't agree.... The Young Sorceress looks sad for a moment. Then she smiles at the Hero. the Young Sorceress: I sense you are not from this time, And yet I sense the spell is mine. Please, remind me of the love I share with all of you above. Let me continue guard the cold And visit me with gifts of hope Send me a sign that I can cope When I am bitter, when I'm old. The Young Sorceress presses a beautiful frosted apple in the Hero's hand. He accepts it and looks at it in wonder, for it is the most beautiful apple he has ever seen. The Young Sorceress reaches out to ruffle the white dog's head. Again she smiles sadly, and begins to weave magical gestures in the air. A faint pattern glows between the falling snow. It grows, and it engulfs the Hero, who disappears. the Young Sorceress: What evil must I have done to send you here. Oh, I wish so much to keep you near. But you belong to him, my dear. Please, hold still and have no fear. She gently touches the white dog's head again, and it licks her hand in return. Then the Young Sorceress repeats her spell, and the dog disappears as well. She looks out into the lonely winter scape surrounding her hut up in the mountain with longing in her eyes. Fade to black. Curtain falls. End of Act Two. Act Three begins a few minutes later. The curtains raise to reveal the Hero awake in sunshine. A few moments later, the white dog appears next to him, barking happily and running around him. They are both in the small area of summer behind the hut of the Sorceress. She has not seen them yet. A quiet melody begins to play, and the Hero kneels next to the dog, hugging it as he sings. the Hero: I know now what I must do. A good companion of many, many years were you. Remember the lakes? The fishing we shared? I always knew how much you cared. The dog licks the Hero's face. the Hero: But now parting we must, for the young girl do I trust. Companionship she needs in age and loneliness. I feel she'll take goood care of this mess. Then the Hero stands up, and walks around the hut to face the Sorceress sitting there. She is surprised. With swelled breast, the Hero launches into a powerful song. the Hero: Still your spell! I know you dwell All alone, without a friend I come to claim the winter's end. A sacrifice, To end eternal snow and ice Can only be love So we can see the soaring dove. I know there is a little girl Deep inside your ancient shell. Take my old companion, my only friend, To make this winter end. The dog leaps and barks excitedly, and licks the Sorceress' hand. She stills the spellcasting she was doing. the Sorceress So it is true! The man was you. I recognize You in snow and ice. And you are right - For all my might, I have been alone so long Only with the winter's song. The Hero pulls out the perfect frosted apple. the Hero: See how there is beauty even in the cold? I did not know, did not expect, I did not know you were correct. This apple here is youth in old. the Sorceress: I see how there is beauty in the cold! I did not know, did not expect, But it is you who is correct. This apple there is youth in old. Let me be, I need prepare The spell to resume winter's care. For we will resume endless guard And be again the winter's ward. The Sorceress smiles as she touches the dog's head, and for a moment she seems younger. There is a sparkle in her eyes that reminds of the Young Sorceress. the Sorceress: Return to your Princess, hero friend And wait with her for December's end. The Hero bids farewell to the dog, who seems content to stay with the Sorceress as she begins chanting an arcane spell. We follow the Hero as he makes his way back to the village. As he approaches the tower, the heavy clouds lift and the sun begins to shine again. Cut to the Princess. the Princess: Dare I to believe my eyes? Did it all just go away, Like a dream from anywhere, Is this the end of snow and ice? Oh how I missed the warm sunshine Gently warming this kingdom mine. Who's at the door? Now could it be? Is this the hero who saved me? the Hero: Oh Princess fair, Your golden hair Alight in a new summer's flame. The winter's end Means joy to send And not to place anymore blame. For in a youth I saw the truth The Sorceress and us, we are but the same. the Princess: You bring my light, You teach me right, And we shall rule together. And once a year, When December's near, We'll ask the old for colder weather. For she has earned Like we have learned To unleash winter's tether. the Young Sorceress (not present, voice from the off): It ends, it seems In perfect dreams And harmony forever. Fade to black as the Princess kisses the Hero. The curtain falls. End of Act Three. Applause. C'era una volta in Estate or Once upon a time in Summer “It has to be summer. The days are getting longer.” The woman rode in on a pale horse. The cadaverous nag might have seen better days – but probably hadn't; no one could remember what a “good day” looked like. The rider was wrapped up in rags, so that none of her features were visible, but if anyone had to guess, underneath all those layers of clothing, she was probably as scrawny as the horse. Her long duster had lost most of its colour from being beaten down by the unforgiving Sun and was dotted with holes from moths, bullets and who knows what else. All in all she was a very unassuming figure, but for the fact that in this particular town, she stood out like bone in a fractured hand. The shanty town was a helter-skelter mix of reclaimed wood, sheets of rusty metal and cloth that flapped in the arid wind. Dust settled on everything and rose in columns to the grey sky, then fell on top of the houses and was swept away toward the desert that surrounded them. The people were completely wrapped up like her, but in much lighter rags that flapped in the wind as they moved about, carrying jugs of sand on their heads. Everyone was covered up when they walked outside. In their homes, they were people with faces, they were human beings who laughed, cried, talked to each other. Outside, they were ghosts that drifted around, carried by the desert wind, blowing with the dust and sand. The Sun would kill them if they weren't covered up. The Sun would drive them mad. Maybe it already had. “This must be summer.” In the years after what was creatively called “the Event”, old cities and nations ceased to exist. The survivors all went underground, hid in caves or generally stashed themselves and all they owned somewhere the Sun could not see them. When they re-emerged to find a world covered in ash and dust, they had forgotten what civilisation was, they had forgotten from whence they came and what the point of it all had been. And they had forgotten why they burrowed like moles in the first place. When they emerged, they too were blind, though their eyes could still see. When new towns began to emerge, they were not given names. Instead, the settlements and the surrounding land were referred to by the season that seemed to linger the longest. Time had frozen still on whatever day it was when the Event happened. Clocks no longer worked and no one could remember how to make them operate. And the seasons never changed. In the North where the woman had come from, they called the barren grey landscape Winter. Nothing grew, the trees were dead grey stumps that would not decay because the bacteria that was supposed to break them down had long since disappeared. The people of Summer knew this. In Winter nothing grew, in Winter everything was dead. They feared this woman and drove her away, lest she should bring the death of Winter with her. Though she had hoped to spend a day or two among the people of Summer, she did not regret having to move on. The people of Winter rarely ventured this far South and when they did, no one returned. She would have wanted to learn perhaps if any like her had come this way, but she would not waste a sigh on the hospitality of Summer. The people here were mad. Beaten down by the Sun every day. The Sun whose power was no longer kept in check by the Earth's atmosphere. The same grey clouds that kept everything from growing in the North, also kept everyone alive and protected from the piercing rays of the Sun. Here, in the South they carried sand in jugs on their heads. They picked it up from one place and dumped it in another, only to be picked up from there and moved somewhere else. Again and again, forever. And in the middle of their town, a large spear-like shrine that they had not built, but was there before they settled the land. It had strange markings on it that no one could understand, and no one knew where it had come from. So they worshipped it, brought offerings of sand every day to appease its unknown wrath, to ensure that Summer would prosper. So far, their God had not deigned to respond. She would move on, towards Spring. The mythical land of Spring that no one had ever seen, but all had heard of. In Spring, things grew. In Spring, life prospered. As she moved on, the thought occurred that this journey had brought her back in time. From Winter through the no-man's land they called Autumn, and now from Summer onwards to Spring. Since time was frozen, then travelling in space meant travelling in time. Time travel was boring. It was long and tiresome. That night after having left the shanty town, she found a cave to rest in. The walls had markings from an ancient, primitive culture. The cave walls had faded paintings of animals that no longer existed. Large woolly mammoths, slender gazelles, stocky cows and all sorts of birds. One of the paintings was of an animal she remembered but which had also gone extinct. Larger than all the other animals was the image of a dog. With sleek fur it stood proud and tall, gazing at a horizon that no longer existed. She felt the pull of nostalgia and regret. In Winter, they had eaten all the dogs. She fell asleep dreaming of dogs running across a grey landscape. She woke up when her horse neighed in a panic. The pale animal stood at the entrance of the cave, looking deeper in where she now saw a pair of glowing eyes. When she pulled out her torch, she could see a large white dog. But it was unlike the ones in her dream. It had no fur, and its bark sounded like a sharp metallic twang. This dog was made of metal and plastic. Perhaps someone had constructed it to remember what those proud animals were once like, or out of need for companionship. The dog came up to the woman and sniffed her with its metallic nostrils, then jumped excitedly and moved deeper into the cave. Making sure the horse was safe inside the cave, she followed the dog. It moved through the corridors, passed the stalagmites and entered a deeper chamber that was not made of rock. It had metal walls, chairs and strange buttons. One wall of the chamber had a long, slender window. When she peered through it, there was the town of Summer and the large spire in the middle that they worshipped. Above the window was another clock that had stopped, like all the others. The dog stood in the middle of the chamber and stared at one of the buttons. The woman tried to pet the mechanical animal but it did not move. She walked around the chamber, trying to learn more from this new environment, and all this time, the dog had not moved. She went over to the button and hovered a finger over it. The dog barked. She pulled back her hand and the dog barked again. She brought the hand back and this time pushed the button. Then the metallic animal got down on the floor, its head slumped between its rusted paws, and it made no sound. But the room around them suddenly lit up. The buttons had bright lights above them, the walls came to life and began humming. And the clock above the window started. All her life, she had never heard anyone speak of how they remembered when clocks still worked, and now she was witnessing it happen. But this clock did not count forward as it was supposed to. It was counting backwards. Counting down. As the numbers above the window approached zero, she thought this was it. This was true time travel. She was going back in time. Back to before this all happened. Then the spire in the middle of Summer grew. Its head split open and from inside it rose a new God. Larger than the one it had emerged from. And the clock kept counting down. 3... 2... 1... 0. In the middle of Summer, their god had risen to tower above them, and it would deliver its judgement. A loud roar made the walls shake as smoke covered the ground. The people came around it and fell to their knees, pleading with it to spare them, but their God did not listen. It gave out a long hiss and the roaring stopped. For a second there was silence. The silence before judgement. Then night became day and where once there was Summer, now there was fire. A pillar of flame that reached towards the sky and formed a mushroom head at the top. The ground shook with the wrath of God and then it was over. The spire of flame lingered a while longer and then it ascended to Heaven and it was no more. And Summer was no more. They had received their God's verdict. Its final Word fell like ash from the sky and settled all over the desert. Then day became night again and the Blue Moon rose over the ashen landscape. Now Summer had become Winter. Time was moving forward again. Tomorrow, she would continue on toward Spring. Quadrant four. Between Nexus and it's tiny harsh blue sun, Delta Centurious Three. Yacob strode around the command chair and turned the large dial marked "Engine Orifice Yaw". Just a hair, until he could hear the pitch in the engine change ever so slightly. A quick flip to the arrival screen showed him that he'd arrive at the rendezvous point at EXACTLY 13:13:13. He grinned and strode back to the cargo hold. Passing the observation port he paused to watch the Comet Selanus as it briefly paralleled his course. It's spectacular bluish tail streamed out behind it for almost 200 km, one of the longest he'd the pleasure of witnessing these last 15 or so years. What luck! He thought it wasn't due for weeks. Maybe he had the date wrong. Or...? He paused. Probably he was lagged. "Off time" from his travels past the Quadrant Four Worm Hole. "Dammit" he cursed. Probably missed the rendezvous. Now I'll have to catch up with the buyer in the next system. More fuel. More cost. He lingered just a moment longer, forgetting his worries. It worked. For a time. "Nothing to be done now." He sighed and knocked on the glass for luck before continuing to the hold. Down the ladder, a slow tip-toeing backup through the data storage aisle and he was there. As the hold doors opened he took a deep breath through his nose... and frowned. The hold was packed with flowers. Poppies to be exact. A sea of the beautiful little red flowers. Even the harsh white lights could not ruin the warm feelings that such a sight evoked. Still. Why did they smell sooo little? Like. Nothing. Nada. He grabbed a watering hose and checked the seasonal control settings. Summertime. They would be ready soon. As if on cue on came the red UV lights. Morning. Gradually they would change to yellow, then back to red, then off. The life of a greenhouse plant. he thought. It changed the color of the place though. Made it even warmer. Both emotionally and physically. Wonderful! Outside, the Comet Selanus changed course suddenly and veered towards the ship. When in was 500 ft away the tail abruptly shut off and the true form of the comet became apparent. It was a small orb shaped craft with an awkward looking oversize airlock. A custom airlock to be sure. It latched onto the larger ships air lock silently. A perfect match. Inside the airlock a skeletal thin humanoid waited. Her name was Sysha, a Dandelon. Tall green and fibrous, they were a rare species. As Yacob often quipped "Feared around the galaxy by everyone who didn't drink poison for breakfast". Which, if you haven't traveled the DC3 system, was really less than you'd think. In the hold music was playing. Loudly. Sysha could hear it thrumming through the shell of her ship even before the air lock was fully pressurized. More FEEL it really, but the cadence was unmistakable. Human music. It took the assassin moments to disable the airlock alarm and soon the lithe creature slipped inside. She glided past the infrared sensors and they remained dormant and unlit. Down the ladder. The tall killer pulled a large metal firearm from somewhere beneath her garments. Pausing she chambered a round with a grinding "Ta-CHKKK". The infrared sensors remained cold. Neither the plant based life form, nor the primitive human pistol gave off a heat signature. The same could not be said of her favorite fission sling. But... The right tool for the job and all. She grinned to herself. Besides. There was something poetic about stealing 12 million credits of poppy plants. Real plants. Not clones. Real Earth poppies! And killing the human with his own ancestor's brutish weapon. The whole thing was just too delicious. Meanwhile...Yacob watered the last of the plants. Satisfied and turning back, he stopped, mouth agape. Sysha's pointed face stared back at him. He looked at the firearm. He knew what it was. With his bio-engineered aperture enhancements, he could even see the bold lettering down the side of the handgun slide, "Desert Eagle". He swallowed. Sysha pointed the gun at his chest, at arms length. It was remarkably heavy, much heavier than an energy weapon. "Hello. Yacob." She twilled. "Sysha. "He replied. Smirking. Then adding. "Can you point that a little over there?" He pointed with his chin. "That will defeat the purpose human." "Human now. Really? After all we shared." "You said you loved me." "No I said LIKE. " "LOVE!" "Like." He added with as much sincerity as he could muster. She pointed the gun at his groin. He put his hands up and pleaded for reason. "Karl misses you." he lied. She huffed. Remembering the viscous old white dog. "Stop it. It won't help." she said then added. "He doesn't like anyone. " "True." "Where is he?" Yacob pointed with his chin and she caught site of the animals back in in the corner. The dog was standing stock still, facing the wall. "What's wrong with him?" "He's just old." Yacob replied. She glanced back at the dog, swung her gun around, and pulled the trigger! Yacob clamped his hands over his ears in a blur. In the small metal room the large handgun might as well have been a bomb. The sound of the explosion was INCREDIBLE! The muzzle flash FANTASTIC! and the ricochets... HEART STOPPING! Sysha dived for cover and was immediately tackled by Yacob. "What'd you do that for?" he screamed over ringing ears. She grinned back. "Lost something you love?" "What? "he looked momentarily shocked. Then he realized she didn't know; and he laughed. "You dumb bitch. Karl's Dead. " "I know. "She grinned. "No. I mean he was stuffed. Dummy." She screamed in frustration but he held her fast. "What am I going to do with you. You're crazy!" he growled. She kissed his neck. Hard. "Marry me.... Or die.... it's your choice really." Dandelons. He thought. He needed time to think his way out of this one. "Maybe." "Promise?" "Maybe I said." "I'll give you one more week." She blurted. He knew it was going to be tough. But he'd do it. He could shake her. Eventually. "Thank you." I'll need every minute of it. He grinned back. Last edited by Aethera; Aug 17th, 2015 at 03:44 PM. |
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August 2015 Competition Entries Topic: It's So Fluffy I Could Die Challenge: dice, children, and an exit sign Winner: The End of the War by arin12 The End of the War by arin12 (999 Words) Devlin's first conscious thought was how nice the breeze felt on his skin. He felt tranquil, well-rested, and generally content, so in lieu of opening his eyes, he treated his alert senses to a wiggle of his toes, a wrinkling of his nose, and the soft touch of his own hand down his bare chest. He frowned, his brow shooting up. Something was wrong. Well, not wrong, perhaps... the sensation was pleasant enough, after all. But something was off. Yes, that's what it was - he'd expected the soft, tingling resistance of the chest hairs he'd sprouted years ago, but his skin now seemed unmarred by such accouterments. Had he shaved in a drunken stupor last night? For that matter, where was the familiar pain of his old knee injury, the one he'd sustained when that ankheg had nearly ripped him apart fifteen summers ago? He opened his eyes, coming to his feet. The landscape was strange and unfamiliar; a sea of fluffy sheep's wool lined the ground as far as the eye could see, with odd looking bluish trees speckled across the field. A singular fiery sun rested against the clouds, warming him, and everything seemed somehow larger than it should be. This was not the place he'd fallen asleep in the night before. He'd been... wait, where had he been? He couldn't remember falling asleep last night. He reached for his chin to stroke his beard, so lost in thought that he failed to notice the smooth, hairless face that greeted his digits. What was the last thing he could remember? The battle. Yes, that's right, there had been a climactic assault. He and his three companions had attempted to assassinate Chancellor Kyndrin before he could sacrifice enough innocents to his dark god to release the fury of the Hells on everyone. Had they failed? No, decidedly not. Hell's floor wouldn't feel soft and ticklish against his bare feet. His bare, small feet. Child's feet. Realization dawned on him. I'm in a child's body, he thought to himself. He held up his hands for inspection. My own body. It had been years since his hands had looked like this, so small and slender, but he definitely still recognized them. A groan came from further afield, snapping Devlin from his thoughts. He was not alone. He scurried over to the source of the noise; another boy, perhaps eleven, with dark hair in a bowl cut, wearing only a pair of wool breeches tied with hemp rope (a quick glance downward confirmed that his own attire was identical). Was this a genuine child, or another adult transformed? Again, his hand was drawn involuntarily to his chin as he tried to match the face in front of him to those he'd been travelling with the last three years. Obviously it wasn't Kyria; not unless whatever magic had regressed him could change genders as well. And Edric was a blond; childrens' hair did sometimes change color as they aged, but always darker, not lighter, right? The other boy's eyes opened, and Devlin's visage soured. The eyes were the window to the soul, and there was no mistaking the gaze peering back at him. "Chancellor Kyndrin," he acknowledged. The awakening warlord jeered. "Do I know you, child?" he asked, contempt dripping from every syllable. But arrogant though his tone was, he was still high and squeaky in pitch, and the sound of his juvenile voice shocked him. He stared long at his own hands. "What... what have you done to me?" he asked, awestruck. Devlin shrugged. "Whatever it is, it's affected me as well," he says simply. Kyndrin came to his feet. "I remember... your mage threw a set of dice, did she not? Muttered an incantation?" He snickered, giving himself a once-over. "I'm guessing she rolled a low number." Again, Devlin's shoulders rose and fell. "It's no magic I've ever heard of... it polymorphed us and plane shifted us simultaneously. Unless... you don't suppose she killed us, do you? Is this the afterlife?" Kyndrin wrinkled his nose. "I should hope not," he responded. "I've heard the washer women speak of furs 'so fluffy they could die', but I never thought the meaning could possibly be literal." The two old adversaries shared a laugh at the thought, the echo of happy childhood spreading throughout the alien landscape. As his laughter was subsiding, Devlin added, "Perhaps you won, and this is what your ritual does!" This set the two of them practically guffawing. "That demon..." Kyndrin coughs out between spasms of hysteria. "He really got me, didn't he? Lord of the Sheep!" Two full minutes, the pair could do nothing but laugh. Finally, however, they settled down, and Devlin, emboldened by the odd rapport they'd just built, asked the question that had been gnawing at him for three years. "Why'd you wanna do that stuff anyway? What'd that town ever do t'you?" "It's nothing they did," Kyndrin explains. "I had Rikken's Fever. Stage four. The demon said that if I completed the ritual I would be cured." He sighed. "He was very compelling. He showed me this vision; two doors, one marked with a sign that said 'Unlimited Power' and another that said 'Final Exit'. When I looked through the exit door... I couldn't face myself, all weak and frail like that." He glanced down at his body. "Guess it's a moot point now, all things considered." Both boys turned their head as another groan was heard; this one was feminine, and easily three hundred yards across the field. "First person to get to her gets to marry her!" Kyndrin yelled, playfully shoving Devlin aside as he sprinted after the sound. "Hey, no fair, you cheated!" Devlin complained, breaking into a happy sprint, the first in over twenty years without a limp. And every footfall brushed against smooth sheep's wool, so fluffy they could die. If they weren't already dead. The End |
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September 2015 Competition Entries Topic: We're All Going to Die Challenge: a bar, a mysterious murder, and a limerick Winner: Deadifice by MrD We're All Going to Die by Anvic (3,294 words) "We are all going to die." Those were the last words that Summer ever spoke to her parents. At the time Summer's mom did her best to dismiss those horrible words. The psychiatrist warned them that in the midst of a panic attack Summer might say things, extreme things. They weren't supposed to be alarmed. Catastrophic speech was just an expression of her highly agitated state. All they needed to do was keep her safe and calm until the panic attack passed. That's what mom told herself over and over until the memory of those words mercifully passed from her mind altogether. Dad remembers them though. He remembers everything. ~~~ The August of Summer's twelfth year of life was blazing hot. The family had just moved from Boston down to Richmond for her dad's job. The massive old house they settled in had long been uninhabited and so was still under renovation. The house was three stories, but the bottom floor, which was a speak-easy back during prohibition, was now a musty old basement. Summer's bedroom was high up on the second floor, and almost none of the air from the woefully under-powered air conditioner made it out the rusty vent above Summer's bed. Fixing the AC was "on the list" of things dad was going to get done. Eventually. Mom and dad's room was also hot, so they threw open their windows and enjoyed the rural night air. Summer, however, couldn't sleep with the windows open. There was too much noise outside. Too much darkness. Too much vast empty space that her brain would fill up without her permission. So those first nights in the new house Summer kept her windows shut tight and her curtains drawn. She slept on top of the covers and tossed and turned in the heat. It was the Friday before the Sunday that Summer said to her parents, "We're all going to die." The family had been in the new house for only a few days, and Summer had barely slept. The move just before the start of school, a new house, a doctors, a new therapist, a new school, the possibility of new teachers and new friends, it was a lot for Summer to deal with. All the sudden changes had sent Summer into an anxiety tailspin. During the day she managed okay. There was a lot of unpacking to do, plenty of physical activity to keep her busy. That was when Summer felt the best. The nagging sense of existential dread felt somehow more distant. The exhausting tension in her neck and in the backs of her arms eased up. Those small, continual swells of panic, light-headedness, and shortness of breath were most easily remedied. She could stop what she was doing, step outside in the shade of the big magnolia in the front yard, and breathe as her therapist taught her until it passed. Daytime was okay, manageable, as long as she didn't have to go near the basement. For some reason, she couldn't even bring herself to look at the narrow white wooden door behind the stairs that led down into the darkness. "It's probably just obsessive thinking" her parents whispered to each other when they thought she couldn't hear. The therapist had warned them about that too. "You can go down there, Summer, if you want," dad had said. "It's safe. It's mostly empty. The space runs all the way back the length of the house. There's an old bar down there and some stools bolted to the floor. They're almost a hundred years old now. Back when alcohol was illegal in the 20s and 30s people would sneak down there and drink and party. It was a big deal." Dad said "party" like he was one of the cool kids. "Look." Dad opened the door and put his hands on Summer's shoulders, but Summer didn't look. Her eyes had been shut tight the entire time he was talking. A damp smell wafted up from below. The rickety wooden stairs disappeared out of sight. The slats in the stairs were wide enough to stick your fingers through, and between those slats, beneath the stairs, was a profound Darkness. Just standing there in front of the white, narrow door made Summer feel like she was standing on a ledge about to fall to her death. She couldn't see the stairs or the darkness, but she knew they were there. Summer tried to imagine beautiful women in flapper dresses talking to handsome men in dark suits and sipping illegal booze, but the images wouldn't come. She felt the Darkness in the basement reaching out to her, stroking her feet and tickling her legs. She wanted to run, but dad was holding her. Her hands started to shake. "Okay, okay," dad said. "It's okay. You don't have to go to the basement. See?" He shut the door and with his arm around her shoulder walked her back into the living room. As soon as the basement door was out of sight, Summer ran outside into the sunlight to breathe. ~~~ Friday night was the hottest night of a sweltering week. During the day Summer managed. She stayed away from the basement door, and she was okay. But at night, lying on her bed in the stuffy heat even well above the basement, Summer suffered in silence. Really suffered, and nothing helped, not even the cocktail of anti-anxiety and anti-depressant pills she had taken every day for more than a year. Summer rolled over on her back to look at the clock. Her face tingled and itched where she had been face down in the pillow. She couldn't see the time. The small family picture Summer kept on her night stand was blocking her view. Summer liked that picture. Mom and dad and Summer all looked happy. Normal. The girl in that picture was pretty, small framed with delicate features. She had brown hair like her mom but kept it cut short, well above her shoulders. She was smiling with lip gloss and white teeth. That was the fake Summer, the ideal Summer, the unreal. The real Summer was sick in the head. Abnormal. With a shaking hand the real Summer pushed the picture out of the way and saw that it was 1:15am. She sighed a gasping sigh. It was coming on. Panic in the night. Had she been asleep and dreaming? Or had she just been in the mush-brain stupor she felt after taking her bedtime dose of pills. Summer wasn't sure. Maybe both. Her brain was spinning now in a million different directions. Her flesh was hot, and her nightshirt was sticky with sweat and clung to her chest. Summer took a few deep, hot breaths and could feel panic welling up in her stomach against her will. She stretched out her arms and legs and said, "Hickory dickory dock. The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, And down he run. Hickory dickory dock." "Sometimes reciting a rhyme or singing a song can help when you feel panic getting out of control," Summer's therapist had told her last year. "Both singing and reciting activate a different part of the brain, a part not responsible for the fight or flight response. Singing and reciting can get your brain working on something else. Let's try it . . . It really does work," she had added after seeing the look of scepticism on Summer's face. "Hickory dickory dock," Summer started again, and the overwhelming feeling of being trapped, of the need to run washed over her, but she refused to sit up in bed. She refused to get up. She knew that would only make it worse. "The mouse ran up the clock." She imagined the little mouse running up the clock. He wasn't real, of course, but neither was the panic she was trying to endure. She was safe. She knew that. The only thing she had to fear was being afraid. She was panicking over feeling panicked. She knew that too. And it would pass. The acute sense of horror and dying wouldn't last, and she would be alive after all. Summer knew all that, but that didn't make the panic any less real. It didn't make the experience any less mind-numbingly terrifying. "The clock struck one, And down he run. Hickory dickory dock." Summer was already starting to feel better. The little mouse was almost home. The panic was passing. Summer grabbed the bottom of her night shirt and flapped it up and down to blow cool air onto her stomach. She took deep breaths. Her hands were still shaking, but her mind started to clear. She remembered. She had been dreaming, dreaming about the basement, but she couldn't remember what. Summer tossed and turned in a fitful uneasy sleep for the rest of the night. ~~~ Saturday night was only a few degrees cooler than Friday. Summer had spent the day outside working and then took a cool shower before bed. Her parents had gone out and bought her a box fan. The fan moved the hot air around the room well enough, but Summer still slept in her skivvies. She wasn't much cooler, but she was a good bit less sticky. That was nice. The clock struck one, and Summer started awake with an unbelievable feeling of panic. Her brain was doing its usual middle-of-the-night gymnastics, but her heart felt like it was going burst out of her chest. She gasped for air like a drowning girl, and her legs were so shaky, she was sure she was going to fall over. Fall over?!? What? Summer wasn't in her bed. Where was she? Summer's eyes cleared and her brain unfogged for just a moment, and she could see that she was standing in the hallway behind the stairs, her hand on the doorknob of the narrow white door that led to the basement. Summer froze in sheer terror. She had never walked in her sleep before. She was out of bed in her underpants. She felt exposed, vulnerable, back on the cliff about to fall. She gasped in more air. There was that door, the narrow door she couldn't look at before. Now she was frozen in a gaping stare. Her hand was on the knob, and she couldn't remove it. The knob was turned, and if she pulled away the door might come open, and everything within her screamed, "Don't let the door come open!" "This is just panic," she told herself. "Catastrophic thinking. Obsessive thoughts," she recited as though it was her personal creed. "Only the fear is real. The danger is not real." Summer closed her eyes. "Hickory dickory dock. The mouse ran up the clock." She began to recite, hoping to get back enough control of herself to let go of the doorknob, to let it turn and latch, then she could let go. "The clock has already struck one. Come down, little mouse," the Darkness from the basement whispered back at her. Summer tried to scream. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. She shook her head violently. No! "Yes," said the voice. "Come to me." Summer felt a piece of the Darkness that Speaks slide out from under the door and begin to snake its way up her leg. Summer didn't remember fainting. She awoke some time later (the clock said 3am when Summer finally went back upstairs). Her head was throbbing, and she was half sitting, half lying in a puddle of her own pee with her head and shoulders against the basement door. Strangely, she felt a little steadier than before. The paralyzing panic had passed at least, and there were no more voices in her head coming from the basement. She had that shaky, fragile feeling she always had after a panic attack and that vague sense that she really was afraid for nothing and that this was all very silly. She was wrong, of course, and Summer didn't look at the basement door again. Just in case. Not wanting to wake anyone and add humiliation to her list of grievances, Summer climbed to her feet as quietly as possible. Her heart was still pounding and her legs were shaking, but her limbs were responding to her again.Using the chair rail to steady herself, Summer stripped out of her clothes and plodded naked through the downstairs to the laundry room where she found clean clothes and dirty towels that she used to clean up the mess. Telling her parents everything was, of course, the smart thing to do, but Summer was tired of being crazy. This was way beyond crazy. Hearing voice. Passing out. This was straight jacket territory, and Summer had no intention of telling anyone about that. Summer tucked the wet clothes and towels down to the bottom of the laundry basket. She'd do laundry in the morning before they started to stink and no one would notice. Hopefully. On her way back up, Summer tiptoed into the bathroom and got two more pills out of the medicine cabinet. She took them with a gulp of water and without remorse and fell into a deep, drug-induced sleep. She didn't wake until noon the next day. ~~~ Summer's parents found the remains of the mess and smelled the dirty laundry long before she awoke. Summer's mom counted her pills and discovered the self-medication. Mom and dad had one of their quiet, serious conversations where they talked about doctors and medicine and home schooling options. Mom cried as she usually did. Dad stared off into space and nodded. When Summer finally dragged herself out of bed with a large knot on her head and a horrible dry-mouthed, hung-over feeling, her parents were ready to talk. After breakfast they all sat out on the back porch and talked. Mom asked about what happened. Dad asked about the medicine. Summer made up some story about sleep-walking and then having a panic attack and that she didn't remember taking the pills. They obviously didn't believe her. Mom said she had made an appointment with the new psychiatrist. Dad talked about the basement again, and how harmless it was. Summer obviously didn't believe him. Mom tried not to cry. Dad stared off into space. Summer took deep breaths. All throughout the day (and mom promised that all the unpacking would be done today) Summer felt a growing sense of doom. Not dread exactly. Doom. She had that feeling of exhaustion that comes with prolonged fear, that feeling that makes you so tired of being afraid of dying that you wish you'd just die and get it over with. Maybe she had finally lost her mind. Her therapist told her that the feeling of losing your mind was common with anxiety, but maybe she really was crazy, and everyone would remember that last night was the night she cracked for good. Or maybe she was going to wake up in the basement tonight, terrified, and she'd discover that something really was down there. The Darkness that had moved in when the spirits of all those flappers had moved out was going to devour her and probably her parents too. Something told Summer that she wasn't crazy. Not that kind of crazy anyway. They were all going to die tonight, and there was nothing she could do except be afraid until it happened. ~~~ Summer had a panic attack during dinner. Her mom gave her a full dose of her anxiety meds and then put her in a cool shower. In a sedated fog Summer got ready for bed. Summer had the presence of mind to put on a pair of pajama shorts under her night shirt. If she was going to die in the basement, she wanted to die with a little dignity. Mom and dad came in to her room to kiss her goodnight after Summer was in the bed, and the meds were still hitting her hard. She was about to drift off. This made her mother very happy. "If you need anything. Anything. Just wake us up," mom said. She didn't say, "I locked up your pills," but Summer knew she had. "Love you, darlin'," dad said. "We're all going to die," Summer said. She didn't say, "I'm not crazy." It wouldn't have done any good. Her parents kissed her and then left. She could hear her mom crying in the hallway, and then Summer drifted off to sleep, resigned to her fate. This time the panic was so dire Summer woke herself up screaming. She opened her eyes, but it didn't help. She was in the middle of the darkest Darkness imaginable. Summer was standing up. Her legs were trembling about to give way. Her feet were wet. This was it. This was the end. There was no relief in the end. There was only terror. Summer tried the only thing she knew to do. "Hickory dickory dock. The mouse ran up the clock." The Darkness moved just a little, and Summer caught a glimpse of the stairs that led up from the basement. She was down there in the basement, and the Darkness crouched under those stairs. Summer willed every cell in her body to move toward the stairs, to run for her life, but all she managed was one shaky step. "Don't go," said the Darkness. "Come to me." The Darkness slid out from under the stairs and showed itself to Summer. In that moment she finally understood. It was all a lie. All if it. Every psychiatrist, every therapist, every positive thing her mom and dad had said, every self-help book, they were all lies. For years Summer had been told that anxiety was only in her head. It wasn't really real. They said she wasn't really in danger. Her brain just acted like she was. They told her that she was really just afraid of being afraid, panicked over the possibility of panic. But those were all lies. The Darkness wasn't in her head. It was real. She was in terrible danger. She was terrified of something terrifying, and there was nothing she could do but be devoured. Her mind broke. Dad heard Summer's screams. He jumped out of the bed and made it to the door to the basement and flipped on the light just in time to see his daughter being pulled beneath the stairs. Her face was twisted up in horrible pain. Her mouth was open, but she made no noise. A rusty nail gouged a deep cut in her side, all the way up to her armpit. Her night shirt was pulled up around her neck by the nail and by the force of being dragged under the stairs. Dad remembers yelling Summer's name and the horrible cracking sound as the Darkness broke her body and squeezed her the rest of the way beneath the stairs. She was gone. Dad rushed into the basement, but the Darkness, now fed, was gone as well. There was no sign of Summer under the stairs. The Darkness and taken her away, every last drop of her. Not even her blood on the nail remained. ~~~ Dad would tell the police that he had heard his daughter's screams in the night but never found her in the house. The police concluded that she ran away. Then they concluded foul play. Mom and dad were suspects for a while, but with no body, the case eventually disappeared into obscurity. It was never technically closed. Dad never told mom what he saw, mostly because he couldn't bring himself to repeat it out loud. Mom, now, is heavily medicated and had to quit work. Dad sold the house and moved them into a town home without a basement. Of Life and Radishes by arin12 (1,098 words) On the fringes of a small planet floating in version G Ninety Three of the Prime Material Planet, there is a small orange planet orbiting a red dwarf star. On this planet is an island, perfectly circular, with a forty mile radius. At the center of this circular island is a large city, and at the center of this city is the Out of Chances Tavern, an establishment of impossible size and construction where the souls of fictional characters from roleplaying games migrate to when said characters have met their true death, their campaign worlds completed or, more often, simply shut down for inactivity (when that happens, entire townships can wind up appearing in the tavern simultaneously). Some would call it poetic justice - most games start in a tavern, and all games, at least from the characters' points of view, end in one. On what passes for a brilliant summer day in this world, a mutated thirteen foot camel sat alone at a bar, sipping a Pinot Grigot and pondering the nature of grenades, when a resounding POP heralded the arrival of another occupant to this everburdened establishment. Even in this room, it had happened dozens of times over the last twenty years, and over the course of that history, the camel had made a game out of how long he could ignore the sound before curiosity demanded that he turn and look. This time he lasted seventeen seconds - a personal record. The new arrival was a gnomish woman, barely over three feet in height, wearing a pastry chef's outfit. That certainly raised the camel's eyebrows. A bar for dead adventurers seldom saw a pastry chef come in. "Wh.. where am I?" the stout woman demanded, glancing around at everything, including him, with no small degree of awe. "Where's Cormac? Theodora?" Recognizing the camel as sentient, she strutted over to him. "Do you understand my words, sir?" she asked, her voice shaky but still cordial. The camel nodded appreciatively, reaching for his cigarettes and putting one in his mouth. "Wow. Manners intact. You must've seen a lot of strange situations before you ended." The gnome frowned. "'Ended'... you mean I've died?" "Ended, died.. semantics, don't you think?" The camel struck a match, bringing it to the cigarette and inhaling deeply. "Care for one?" he offered the gnome. Graciously she accepted, coughing wildly when the camel lit it for her. "Powers, this is far stronger than the pipe Uncle Tormen used to smoke." The camel laughed. "Most of you fantasy types tend to say something along those lines. Pleasures of a modern campaign world." He extends a hoof. "What's your name?" "Belinda," the gnome replied, shaking it. "Belinda Oakbottom." "Pleasure, Belinda." The camel inhaled deeply, blowing three large smoke rings. "I never had a name, in life. A lot of the people I've met here over the years seem to find it funny to call me Joe for some reason, and I suppose it's as good a name as any." Belinda nodded, hopping up onto the neighboring barstool. "Pleased to meet you, Joe. So... what is this place?" "The Out of Chances tavern, dear. This is where we go when those who told our stories have no further use for us." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but couldn't seem to do so, and silently cursed himself for it. Time passed. How much was unimportant, for no one ever aged in this world. The two became fast friends, sharing opinions on a variety of subjects that spanned the divide between their vastly different cultures. Eventually, the topic of their endings came up. "Biggest explosion you could imagine," the camel remarked. His 'life', in his campaign world, had been short - five minutes short - but they were still his five minutes of life, and even telling the story of them for the thousandth time hadn't made the memories any more dull. That was the kick of it - for those five minutes, he bore the great gift of the roleplaying game character, the unlimited potential to become. Become what, he'd never been sure of. More powerful, he supposed. Richer. Fuller. During his brief existence, he had meaning. And he had used that meaning to make a hole in a truck with a grenade launcher, then ride his motorcycle in a random direction which led straight to the police station (of all the bad luck), where he blew himself and two dozen officers to smithereens and made a large crater rather than face capture. Not the most successful tale in the world, but none could deny that he'd made an impact in his short time. [B]"Here's a poem for ya.... There once was a camel named Joe, who thought traffic was going too slow. His grenade launcher fixed it, police had a bit fit, and they told him that he had to go." Joe the Camel laughs hysterically. "Poor Joe, ey?" Belinda shakes her head sadly. "I don't know what traffic is, so I'm not going to say you didn't deserve it, but it seems like a distasteful way to go." "How did you die?" the camel asks. Belinda frowns. "I'm not sure," she admits. The camel nods. "Your world just died, then. That happens a lot." Belinda shook her head. "No... I remember the pain of it, and you said there is no pain when a world collapses." "Mmm... then you must've been murdered. No idea how though?" Belinda takes another drag of her cigarette. "No, no idea. One moment I was in the water, then a sharp pain, now here." The camel snorts. "Hmph. Mysterious." He shrugs. "Ah well, nothing to do but wait here and hope for death." "We can die here, as well?" Belinda asks, more curious than concerned. The camel nods. "Oh yes, we can die here. But it's not the scary thing it was in the other world. Death is rebirth. It's whatever gods are out there taking us and putting us in a new world, to live a new life for them. There are people who've been reborn like that dozens of times. Each time they come back here, it's with new stories of a new life." Belinda grins. "Sounds exciting." The camel nods. "It is exciting. We're all gonna die someday, dear, and when we do it'll be enchanting. I hope we go together." "I have this feeling," Belinda muses, putting her cigarette down and looking out the window. "Oh?" Joe asks. "What feeling? About us going together to the next world?" "Sort of. It's the feeling that we just did." DEADIFICE Welcome to the 'Oasis Skyway Hotel' - seven hundred and forty one feet of concrete and steel thrust into the crystal blue of another Shanghai dawn. Fifty two floors and six hundred and forty nine rooms rising like a pinnacle of rock from an ocean of shambling, shuffling, lurching, dead! My home. My bastion. My prison. My tomb. "The dead are coming!" The call goes up "Grab what you can and up the stairs quick!" I grab my pack, my rations and Goldie's fish bowl, water sloshing as I tuck it under my arm, she sways, safe beneath the waves, partly hidden amongst the plastic fronds - how I envy her. Then we're off, running out the door into the stair well. Crash! Crash! Bang! Bang!, Crash!, Crump! Crash!, Bash! The fire door, half way down the stairs, buckles with a screeek! A mass of writhing arms burst through followed by the grey dead faces with their hollow cheeks and sunken, pinprick, eye's. Up, up, up, the steps I bound, two and three at a time, up to the halfway landing where I pause to look. A low plaintive moan accompanies their efforts as they clamber over each other pushing to get through then they climb the last few steps to the floor we just left. Some go through, others shamble up towards us. I watch silently. Even though the horror left me a long time ago there lingers still a strange fascination, a question that asks repeatedly - What drives them on? What drives them on? A hand clamps on my shoulder making me jump and I'm pulled back. "Get up here boy!" It's Marcus, the Gruff, bearded, thirty something - our self appointed leader. He slams the fire door shut and the moaning abates. A moment of calm. A moment of reflection. Maybe this time they won't come. He stares at me. I stare right back. The seconds tick by. I hear my heart beating and wonder how long it will stay that way. Crack! The first one arrives. Crack! Bang! Crack! Crack! Bang! Bang! Turning away, there's nothing to be said, he climbs the stairs and, brushing past me, heads into our final home - floor 52. The doors usually last about a week - sometimes a little longer, sometimes a little less. The elevators stopped running long ago - no electric, no elevators. Even it they were still working there'd be no where to go. Marcus wheels a sofa out onto the landing and pushes it, clattering , down the stairs and up behind the door. Another line of defence. When he turns and sees me lingering he frowns. "You know the drill boy. Water, Food, Batteries, Anything else!" He counts on his fingers. Sure, I know the drill just like the others. It's been the same routine every week for the last . . . Fifty One floors The numbers on the stairwell doors count down the weeks, count down the days until. . . It's almost been a year. A year since we came to this sanctuary running ahead of the tide of dead. A rag tag bunch of survivors. The lucky ones. Ha! Yes, The lucky ones! But now there are no floors left, only the roof and then. . . We are all going to die Should we give up, throw open the doors and let the dead take us? We could but it's just human nature, I suspect, that drives us on. The in built will to live, to never give up, to cling to the merest shred of hope. I find a place and deposit my kit. I take a moment to crumble a few stale biscuits into the bowl. Goldie comes out of hiding and sucks at the surface. I hear a snort and look up. Rebecca sits in the corner, I didn't see her there in the shadow, she's filing her nails and watching me. "What is it?" I ask "It's a waste of food that's what it is." She points at the bowl with a wagging nail file. "We haven't got enough as it is and you waste it on that. . . thing!" I put the biscuits away and zip the bag then take my stuff and move away. Even now, so close to the end, people want to argue, people want to fight, they want their points to dominate, want to convert others to their way of thinking. Why? What good is it going to do? There's no point in arguing any more?. and that's my point, Ha! I begin the ritual search moving from room to room. Fridges, Taps, Luggage, Store rooms. One by one looking for anything we can use. The rooms are bigger here now we are nearing the top. They're suites rather than just rooms. I pause a moment in one and move to the window pressing my face against the cool glass I look out across the city. Other buildings rise, not as tall as ours, up above the sprawling mass of bodies. I wonder who was there? were there others like us climbing floor on floor week by week. In every direction I look dead cascade from the roof tops, spewing up the stairs wells, out over the parapets and tumbling silently down like some macabre fountains. If there were people there they're gone now. I wipe my breath mist from the window. Are we the last? Maybe in other cities there are other buildings, other people bubbling up, but not here. I move away and continue my search. Back in the main lounge bar I join the others and we pile our stuff into the middle. There doesn't seem as much as there was on the floor below. Marcus sorts and sifts the bounty into piles, eight piles. Marcus, Rebecca, Jon and Elaine, Elspeth, Stephen, his sister Katie and Me. There had been more in the lobby, many more, maybe fifty. We had no leader back then. Some said we should leave, try to get away, others said we should stay and wait for rescue. The arguments had raged back and forth but not for long. Several groups left heading out through the streets avoiding the growing numbers of dead as best they could but where were they going . . . The sea of dead had grown day after day, washing down the streets, bursting into buildings, taking the living, and growing their numbers. We tried to defend the building but were defeated by the truism - 'you can't kill what's already dead'. There were too many ways into the building, too many to barricade them all. We tried, god knows we tried, but the dead never gave up, pounding and smashing, throwing themselves against our defences day after day, night after night, never resting, never tiring, until they broke through. We knew then the only escape was up. and so we climbed. We lost a lot of people in those early floors not all to the dead though, fights, madness, suicide, all were encountered on the climb then Marcus stepped up. He'd been there all along but sometimes it takes a certain moment to flick that switch to make that change. What it was for him only he knows but it saved the rest of us. He got us organized, got a routine. Move up a floor, secure the fire door in the stairwell as we went. scavenge supplies. post guards. wait, wait, wait, for the fire door to break then up the stair to the next floor securing the fire door as we passed and then the same again . . . week in, week out, Month by Month . . . floor after floor. There were books, There were board games, There were all the things men and women do to pass the time but in time they lost their appeal. Now we sit. We wait. We climb. We scavenge. We sit. I take my rations and go back to my place. . . Goldie is dead. . . I stand for a long time watching her lifeless form floating on the surface, a small puncture wound clearly evident in her side. I feel the eye's on me and turn. Rebecca is sitting in the shadows filing her nails. She smiles. I take my things and leaving the bowl and the dead fish I move to one of the rooms and lock the door. Falling back on the bed I stare at the ceiling. What is it with Human instinct? The moment I wake I know something is wrong. How long I've slept I can't tell the room is dark, illuminated only by the pale moon and cast in blue shadows and . . . Silence.. No... A shuffling. . . dragging, shuffling. . . out in the corridor. I roll silently off the bed. Slowly, crawling, I head for the door and listen. My heart pounds deafeningly in my ears and I take moment to let it settle - breathe! Silence. . . I rock back on my knees and put my face in my hands. My skin is clammy and cold. Cold like death. Ha! I laugh. A nightmare! I can't remember the last time I dreamed. Then I hear the moan and my breath catches in my throat. The shuffling starts again, nearer now. Where are the others? There was no shout? I saw Marcus jam the door and barricade it shut. I saw him. Bang! - something hits the door. For a moment I freeze unable to move but with a will and a strength I push my self quietly to my feet I back away, the luxury carpet masking the sound of my movements. Bang! Bang! Is this it? Is this the end? I move to the bathroom and lock the door. There's nowhere left to go. I never considered how it would end but if I had, locked in a toilet wouldn't have been in the running. Then I remember my things - they are in the other room by the bed. Damn! I can't go back. Damn! I sit on the edge of the toilet seat and stare at the wall. The banging has stopped but it means nothing. They may already be in the room. I lean back - my head against the wall and I stare up at the ceiling tiles all puckered with tiny holes. Tiny holes? Tiny vent holes. It's a false ceiling! Standing on the toilet seat and then balancing on the cistern I'm able to push up one of the tiles and peer inside. It's a vast area of musty darkness running above the stud walls. It's littered with dust and odd bits of debris left over from when the hotel was built. Maybe there is a way out. . . If I can get back to the stair well. . . Maybe the others have already gone to the roof. It's easy to see the ceiling tiles will never support my weight but running above them are the wiring ducts. Flat metal trays suspended from the sub floor and carrying the electric, tv and internet cables to each of the rooms. It's not going to be easy but I'm sure I can make it. It's either that or die here. Bang! - The bathroom door! I struggle through the opening bringing tiles down and kicking up clouds of choking dust but finally I manage to get up onto one of the trays. It creaks under my weight and I can feel the metal buckling. I begin to move. It doesn't take as long as I thought it might. The trunking runs directly back towards the dry riser right next to the stairs so within half an hour I'm there. There's no need to take the stairs, I realise, as I can climb up the riser and get onto the roof that way but I have to know what happened to the door. Did they break it down that quickly? I crawl along another section to just above where the stairwell door should be and swinging my self under the metal trunking I carefully lift one of the tiles and move it aside. Oh my! The stairwell is packed with the dead. shuffling, moaning, crawling, clambering over each other. I look down over their heads and can see the door. It hasn't been broken! The barricade has been moved to one side and the door is wide. Who? Why? A knot of dead huddle around one end of the sofa, interested in something. As I watch they suddenly part and up from their midst rises. . . Rebecca Her eyes are glassy white, her pupils black dots, skin hangs from ragged bite marks in her cheeks and on her head but it's definitely her. She looks up and sees me looking back. She opens her mouth and lets out that pitiful moan... With a crack the ceiling support gives way and the ducting drops me crashing through the ceiling tiles. I'm only inches about the heads of the dead swinging from the wires like an ape in a tree. I feel their hands plucking at my clothes but before they can get a grip I'm pulling myself up the wires and back into the safety of the roof space. I look down into the upturned faces. They reach for me but there is nothing they can do. I crawl back to the riser and climb inside. Down or up? Down? I can't go down? There's nothing down there for me. There's nothing down there for anyone. Up then. I climb. The going is easier here as the brackets in the riser act just like ladder rungs and I'm soon at the top. The trunking bends over and disappears through a low hole too small to crawl through but there are doors here. I peer through the vent slits out onto the moonlit roof top. There's no one. There's nothing. Luckily for me the doors are only latched shut and it's easy enough to push against them and bend the latch enough that it pops free. I wait a moment and then step out in to the cool night light. The roof is a mass of piping and ducting, conduits and wire runs, satellite dishes and wireless masts. The parapet is unprotected and the exposure sends a giddy feeling rippling through my bowels. I should find the stair well and secure the door. I clamber over the pipe work and squeeze between two giant fan housings coming out on a relatively clear are of gravelled roof. There's someone here It's Marcus I recognize his heavy canvas cammo jacket and his faded hippy jeans. I snort in relief. "What happened down there? I saw Rebecca, Did you make the call, I was sleeping, I mustn't. . ." Slowly Marcus turns towards me and fixes me with that pin prick stare. He opens his mouth and moans. . His moan is echoed by others and slowly a shambling, stumbling mass of bodies condense out of the shadows. It's too late. As they move towards me led by Marcus I back away, maybe I can get back to the dry riser, but more appear to my left and to my right. Is it Marcus? Is he organizing them as he once organized us. This really is the end Words come then mumbling from my lips. Growing stronger with every syllable. "There once was a man from Shanghai" The first ones reach me and I kick the nearest one in the chest sending it flailing back into those behind. "Who really hoped he could fly" I spin away from a filth nailed hand as it slashes for my face. "With a hop and a shout" I move back climbing over air conditioning ducts and electrical wire runs. "He cried 'let's find out'" I turn, I run, I leap, I fly. . . "but all he achieved was to die. . ." Last edited by Aethera; Nov 1st, 2015 at 10:24 AM. |
#69
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October 2015 Competition Entries Topic: Coming Full Circle Challenge: a mentor, a clock, and a mistake Winner: When Gams Meet by MrD The following was found on parchment, in a sealed tube. That tube was found in an urn, buried in a now long forgotten tomb. There was no name on the crypt, even though it had all of the appointments to lead us to believe that it was for a king, or other person of great importance. We failed to find a coffin, or any remains. The original text was an antiquated dialect of draconic, we have tried our best to translate it:
My name... I have many. The Qou'tk call me the Chromatic. Or at least what they call me can be translated so. The Elves of the Wildwood refuse to utter my name in public lest they fall dead. The humans, they have more names for me, than any of their gods. Yet I am not a god, nor should I aspire to become one. I am but the sole master to all that is unspoken. I have consorted with both angels and devils. I was there when the Powers decided to hold a conclave to determine the destiny of lesser gods, simply because of what I could do. I have decided to write this: my desires, as I have failed to find an apprentice. That might be my only mistake, but it will also be my last. My mentor went through more students than his hourglass did grains of sand. That is until he met me. Perhaps taking me on was his great mistake. For I grew in power far faster than he anticipated. The next several pages are smudged and horribly unintelligible. Some pages contain pictures, but we have for the sake of safety opted against transcribing them. Lest they prove to be mystical in nature and bring their creator back to this world, if such is possible. It should be noted that the original parchment was shipped to Her Majesty's College of the Arcane, and a direct copy, minus the pictures has been forwarded the Department of Eldritch Theurgism at Grosvard, and another copy to the League of Dragons in Brisby. This translation, along with the notes shall be returning with me to the Fundus Arcanus at Rhonesville. ~~Sir Rhuemus Cartville, Esq. Hextate 24, 1038 Time is one thing which the mortals claim to have no control over. Even in the advanced stages of this society, they all seem to be racing the clock. Even the one I have taken as an apprentice is more concerned with bringing children into the world. I know not if thinking that a female would make for a wise choice or not, but it has its benefits. Aside from the obviously physical ones, she enjoys discussing the purpose of the grand scheme. In that she has done wonders in reaffirming that purpose to myself. For it must be understood why most of the higher powers stay out of the affairs of the mortals. Even the elves have opted to let the short lived humans kill themselves off, retreating to the most remote parts of the realm. But yet they still summon me in their own times of need and peril. Or rather because they have forgotten how to best do combat with the humans who are encroaching on their dense forests. They now freely call my name, for I am Ha'vok the Bringer of Despair. Often however I have begun to send my apprentice as an emissary. She has taken the sobriquet Ka'os, and I must say it is well earned. But while we always get what we want, those who call on us don't always anticipate the high cost of our assistance. But that was the first lesson my Master, Rue'n, gave me. Granted we have many tools at our disposal. Ka'os enjoys bringing, her daughters, the sylphs to disrupt shipping. Rue'n preferred to shake the land, and topple buildings. However he was not as particular as I am. He did not care if those folk had been paying proper tribute to the Gods. I however only release my protege and progeny against those who have forgotten where they come from. Currently we have all copies of the text with us as we attempt to regain a path towards civilization. However, the rains seem to have some to these mountains several weeks early. Most of our baggage train was washed away in a flash flood but a few days ago. If we can be blessed by good weather we should be able to make the Plains of Carvalho in three more weeks. However, we should have been on those plains for two weeks already. The porters are growing restless. My own feet have gone gangrene, and I'm truly afraid for my own health. if we can't get away from these rains, I doubt any of us will survive to see the dawn of the next year. ~~Sir Rhuemus Cartville, Esq. Septro 2, 1038 Ka'os is getting old. She is feeling the effects of our life's work. I have not aged all that much. Where she has a full head of grey, I am only now beginning to show a bit of salt and pepper at my temples. She says it gives me a distinguished look. I will have to look for a new apprentice. None of her daughters are willing to work for me. Not that I blame them. However there is one, among the true mortals that has been scrounging around in forgotten places. This individual is not showing any of the proper respect for things so out of his experience. To the point that he has disturbed my rest, and taken this my living existence. Long ago I sealed my energy in a pictographic phylactery. The words in the parchment don't appear to have been scribed with ink, but rather burned. This is a very interesting finding. I haven't had much to do except examine the document, as the whole of my party except myself has succumbed to disease. I have only recently given up on trying to make it to civilization. I haven't the supplies, nor the will to really live anymore. I didn't even give my fellows a proper burial, in accordance with the edicts of the One True God, whose name is lost. I've begun to notice strange things here in the wilds. A shadowy thing seems to be following me. I'm tempted to try to make contact, and see if this Ranguta, this dweller of the wood, can grant me salvation. In the event that I fall into madness, I wish that History remembers me for my better qualities, and not my foppish youth that has lead me on this quest. ~~Sir Rhuemus Cartville, Esq. Octrill 10, 1038 WHEN GAMS MEET by MrD A Double Helix circling Division into two, A cell, Two cells, Their nuclei, It circles in them too. Four then eight then sixteen, Thirty two and sixty four, On and on dividing, Becoming more and more. A heart, A brain, Two arms and legs, A push, A puuuusshhhhh! A cry. ~~~ "It's a boy Martha it's a boy!" "Oh Martin he's beautiful" So much potential right there. The next generation right there. A mind untainted A life unpainted ~~~ Multicoloured blocks! Plastic keys and locks! Things that ping! Clocks that ring! Elephants and penguins, giraffes and bears, Prams, buggies, toddling, No more high chairs! A baby walks A toddler talks ~~~ "I'm sure he said Da! Da! this morning!" "I think you mean Ma! Ma!." "Say Ma Ma!" "No say Da! Da!" "Ma Ma!" "Look look he's trying to say something!" They wait in expectation. A pivotal situation. The first word, To be heard. A revolution, Of evolution, Twirling down through history. What he says in many ways, Will follow him to eternity. "Pen - guin!" ~~~ Pre school, Middle school, High School, University Listen to your mentor to overcome adversity. Make mistakes - apologise, Make mistakes - correct them, Make mistakes but hopefully, Don't make them very often, ~~~ "Don't ever give up son!" "Right dad!" "Life can be tough, Don't ever give up!" "Yeah right dad!" "I know what it's like at you age, I was your age once!" "Daaddd!" Advice! Advice! You don't have to ask twice. There's always a parent who's got some to spare. Whether you like it or not. Best to accept it, Rather than reject it. Or suffer the consequences! ~~~ Get a job Lose it Thought you'd pick and choose it. So much competition stifles your ambition But don't give up Don't give in It's the only way you're going to win Take what you can Make a five year plan Earn some money, put some away Save it for a rainy day or until you. . Meet a girl, Settle down. . . ~~~ "Oh she's lovely dear!" "Mum stop it" "Oh but she is, I think you'll be very happy together!" ~~~ Buy a house, Make a home, Maybe you two can now be alone!!! But six months, Or eight months, One year or two, Sooner or later it will happen to you! ~~~ A Double Helix circling Division into two a cell two cells their nuclei it circles in them too. four then eight then sixteen thirty two and sixty four On and on dividing becoming more and more. A heart A brain Two arms and legs A push A puuuusshhhhh! A cry. ~~~ The circle of life, Is as easy as PI. Last edited by Aethera; Nov 17th, 2015 at 03:58 PM. |
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November 2015 Competition Entries Topic: Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink Challenge: a cork, sand, and sequins Winner: The Firewalker of Dafrara by Captain Devonin |
#71
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December 2015 Competition Entries Topic: It was right here, I swear! Challenge: a key, an elaborate plan, and a chase Winner: Sentimental Reasons by Captain Devonin "Heist Almighty" by MrD Abandoned factories, every town has them, with their broken windows, weed choked paths, rusting fences and crooked signs that warn: Keep Out! Private Property Trespassers will be prosecuted. Without them, where would the villains meet, where would the audacious crimes be planned, where - would our story start? ~~~ Joey No No drew his hands down his face and peered over his fingertips at the group of men gathered around the city map. Minky the Fink, Snappily dressed in his pinstripe suit with his slicked back hair and pencil moustache was undoubtedly the best, smooth talking, double dealing, confidence trickster of his time but, Joey had to face it, it was no longer Minky's time, that time had past. The years hadn't been good to the ageing conman. The sixty a day throat cancer followed by the tracheotomy had turned his silky smooth voice into an almost inaudible whisper. . . . and as for the others? He sighed. All the men before him had seen better days. Stinky Joe Muscles, in his Golds Gym slacks - 'Aint nobody stronger than Stinky Joe Muscles' - if you needed someone to break doors and crack heads he was your man but after the hernia, when the working out stopped, the muscles had wasted and the fat had piled on - There were no more muscles only the stink - Fat and Sweaty. Then there was; Fingers Ferguson - bent over crooked - what was it with this guy oh yeah the rapid onset of rheumatoid arthritis left the world of safes sleeping sound at night. and. . . One eyed jack, in his demob suit - formally owner of two good eyes - had been the best getaway driver on the block but since the golfing accident which left him 'pirate patch' wearing on the left side he'd had no gigs - Some people said under the patch the golf ball was still there, jammed in the socket, staring out with it's little white dimples like some albino bug eye, but no one knew for sure. He still had one eye though, all be it behind half an inch of super thick jar bottom glass. He sighed. "Right! One more time!" He picked up the small wooden car and placed it on the map at the end of main street. "One eyed Jack you drive the car up main street Minky, Stinky and Fingers you're in the back I'll be up front with Jack." He pushed the car along main street to the bottom of century hill the mile long tree lined avenue that ran up to heights and into the bankers quarter. "We drive up the hill and stops out side the bank. Now!" he picked up a second, small blue, car and placed it opposite the bank half a block up. " The cops are always sitting here - like they got nothiing better to do than guard all those rich peoples millions, Minky. . ." The thin ferret faced man pressed the windy hole in his throat shut and croaked something Joey didn't understand. He could never understand the man. No one else seemed to have that problem and he suspected the Minky did it on purpose just for him. He didn't see why - that thing he'd had with Minkys wife hadn't lasted for more than a couple of Month's he'd said sorry and besides he was better off without her anyway. All she did was spend his pension and carry on with other men. ". . .Minky! You'll take this " he reached down under the table and pulled out a cardboard cereal packet with 'Quaker porridge Oats' written above a smiling man in a quaker hat. "and you'll sneak up to the cops car and pour this in their tank! With porridge in their tank they'll be going no where- Ha! Hey what do you guys think of that?" Only blank faces looked back at him. He continued. "Okay, while Minky's doing that - Stinky, Fingers and me will rob da bank - In out, just like Mr Okey Cokey!, We get in the car, we drive down the hill" He spun the little getaway car and pushed it across the map stopping it on the edge of the marina "Then in to the speedboat and - ba da bing - job's a good un!" He pushed the little white boat out to sea. "Any questions?" A podgy fingered hand waved "What is it Stinky?" "Why so Elaborate?" he asked "What?" "Why's the plan so Elaborate?" Joey couldn't believe his ears was the fat smelly guy saying this plan was too elaborate? Oh my word what? "Why's the plan so Elaborate? Elaborate? What are you talking about! We drive up the road, We rob the bank, We drive away! It's simple! It can't be more simple!" The fat man raised a hand "What is it now!" "Why's it so elaborate that's all I'm saying!" Joey ground his teeth "It not elaborate!, shut up!. . .just shut up stinky and put your hand down I don't want to stare at your sweaty pits. . ." An uneasy silence followed. Joey eyeballed each one of them daring them to ask any more stupid questions. Finally he clapped his hands together. "Right everybody got it then - good!" He folded the map and was just turning to put it away when he thought he saw another hand. Surely not! This time it was One Eyed Jack. "Should I keep the engine running while you're in the bank Joey?" Joey stared at him open mouthed. "You are joking aint ya? you are joking with me aint ya Jack?" It was times like these he could feel the comforting bulk of his automatic pistol hanging in it's shoulder holster just under his jacket. Just there. Just in easy reach! "The cost of fuels rocketed up lately - don't you think" Minky croaked something and one eyed jack nodded. "Yeah your probably right I don't doubt you right it probably is them that's pushing up the price" Minky Croaked something again and Jack and Stinky laughed. Joey watched the insane conversation taking place before him. His left eye twitched. It had been doing that a lot lately. "What! What's he say? What's so funny? Jeez! Why can't I ever understand him!" "He says the way oil prices are linked to the world economy and how it drives price fluctuations on a global scale is very elaborate - like your plan!" Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! it would be that easy and there would be no more questions. He pursed his lips and pushed the thought aside. He needed them! How ever bad this got he needed them. . .but after! "Right!! Tomorrow - Nine Fifteen by the marina - don't be late!" ~~~ 9:30 West Mooring Joey No No, Stinky Joe Muscles, Fingers Furguson and Minky the Fink stood shivering in the morning mist that hung in silent sheets over the early morning dockside. "Where the hell is he!" Joey checked his watch. Minky croaked and rasped Stinky nodded. Joey waited to be enlightened but when Stinky remained silent he had to ask. "Well - What is he saying?" "Oh yeah - Sorry Joey - He says he went to the South side - gas is ten cents cheaper down there" A dull barking rumble cut the conversation short and two ethereal beams of light signalled the arrival of the getaway car. The car was old, with a badly finished gold paint-job, rust flaking at the sills, a flame red roof, flame red rear wings and white walls on tread-less tyres. "No!" Joey sighed "What's this?" Jack was leaned from the window. "It's a 1958 Edsel Corsair isn't she a beaut!" He adjusted the wing mirror which snapped off in his hand. With a shrug he tossed it in the back seat "get in!" Jack swept the car out of the docks through the fog and onto main street. A couple of minutes later they were up the hill and approaching the bank. "Right everybody show time remember the plan - stick to it and nothing can go wrong!" Stinky raised a hand. Joey ignored him. "Let's go!" The all got out the car. While Minky crossed the road and wandered inconspicuously up past the cop car the others pulled on their masks and entered the bank. Inside things were going like clockwork. The guards had been disarmed. All the people were on the floor. The teller was stuffing wads of bills into the sports bag. He glanced at his watch, another thirty seconds and they'd be out of there. Outside the clock was about to stop working. Minky tipped the last of the oat meal into the tank, finishing it off with a couple of sharp taps. He screwed up the packet and was about to leave when a large shadow loomed over him. "And what do you think you are doing there Sir?" Minky looked up and met the hard eyed stare of a traffic cop. He held the hole in his neck and croaked. The police office frowned then nodded in realization of the Minky's disability. "I'm sorry sir but I'm afraid I do not understand what you are saying" Minky tried again, wheezing and croaking. The officer tutted. "This is no good sir! Maybe there is another way. . .?" Minky jabbed a finger at the officers notebook tucked. "Ah Yes - you can write it down. very good idea sir" The police man handed him the pad. Minky took the pencil, flipped open the pad and scribbled something. He handed it back but just as the officer was about to take it he let it fall from his hand. "Oops!" the officer exclaimed "let me get that!" he bent to pick it up as he straightened he read "Robbing Bank!" "I'm sorry sir . . " but Minky had gone. The moment he'd dropped the pad he legged it "Oi! hold it right there." The policeman started to give chase. Alarms at the bank began to blare and the other three men came running out the doors, down the steps and to the car just as Minky arrived, they all jumped in! "Hit it!" Joey cried. The car didn't move "Hit it Jack!" Jack was fumbling round by his feet "What you doing!" "Can't find the key!" "Wha!!!" "I needed to pee so I switched her off and went in them bushes over there but when I got back I couldn't find the key thought I might of dropped it down here?!" "Noooo!" Joey could see the police officer out the back window he was running back to his own vehicle his partner coming back form the doughnut van saw what was happening drop what he was carrying and ran to join the other at the police car. "Joey looked round panic wild in his eye's only fifty feet from where they were the top of the hill dipped away and ran steeply for about a mile down century hill to main street "Everyone out and push!" Everyone got out "Not you Jack you need to steer!" "Oh yeah right" Jack got back in Across the road sirens blared. The police car pulled away from the kerb with a screech of wheels, the engine spluttered, lurched and died. Minky laughed a gurgling laugh. The police car door flew open and the officers scrambled out and like Joey and his gang they began to push their car. Robbers on one side. . . Police on the other. . . The chase was on! The Edsel Corsair crested the hill. The pushing men ran to get in. Slowly at first but with gathering speed the car rolled down the hill. It was early so traffic was light giving a clear run right down the hill. "Get as much speed as you can jack we're going to have to coast the whole way there." "Sure thing Joey!" Jack was hunched over the steering wheel peering out the wind shield with his one good eye. Minky croaked "What's he saying!" joey yelled "Says the cops are after us!" Stinky said Joey looked back up the hill the police had crested it and were rolling steadily after them sirens blaring. Propelled only by gravity, both cars accelerated slowly down the hill. The lights at the junction were green and with a rattling shock spring bump they bounced onto main street followed a few moments later by the cops. Now on the level both cars began to slow. Joey slapped his head - Who'd have thought it! The success of his grand getaway plan now rested on which car had the best wheel bearings. Lucky for Joey the only things on the Edsel Corsair which weren't substandard were the 'Magneti Marelli Tapered Roller Wheel Bearings'. With their industry leading ultra low friction coefficient the Corsair maintained it's momentum and soon began to out distance the cops. The cop car rolled to a halt, the doors flung wide, and the men inside leaped out to continue the pursuit on foot. Joey laughed and clapped his hands at the picture of the two doughnut eating law enforcement officers labouring down the road. Finally something is going right. "Almost there Joey!" One eyed Jack called. Up ahead the road continued for another two hundred yards before it turned left to run parallel with the waterfront. Another minute or two and they would be home free, on the boat and on their way out to sea. ~~~ All five men stood on the dock side looking at the empty space between the Pershing 108 Motor Cruiser and the Discovery 55 MkII Coastal Yacht. Joey's face was seasick grey. "Where's the boat Joey?" Jack asked peering into the gap. Joey's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "I don't see the boat Joey." Fingers said "Where'd you put the boat Joey?" "Here!" Joey finally spoke but his voice was a strangled whine "It was right here I swear it was it was right here!" The cops rolled up huffing and puffing guns in hand. "Hands up you guys your under arrest!" When no one moved they peered over the edge at the empty mooring spot. "What's the matter someone steal your boat?" Minky Croaked, Stinky nodded "Yep I said that already!". Joey yelled "WHAT DID HE SAY! WHAT DID YOU SAY!" "Too elaborate!" The Little Wizard of the Dark Void by Wodine Layas stood atop a mountain of books feverishly looking for one in particular. It was bound in leather…well not just any leather. Elven leather. Not special leather made by elves mind you, no, but leather made from the flesh of elves. A ghastly thought to be sure, but it was quite lovely; pale and supple and surprisingly sturdy. Bound with thread made from the mane of a Blood Lion and penned with the blood of Deva. The magic bound within this particular tomb was ancient, even by the standards of the arcane, and so potent that the Green Wizard himself felt it necessary to lock the book away in a long forgotten fortress deep beneath the craggy peaks of Karaz Karabour. Layas’ determination to find this book cost weeks of time and energy spent blasting his way through countless orcs and goblins in the upper levels of the abandoned fortress, only to find the greentide giving way to the ratlings inhabiting the deeper layers of the mountain. Fortunately, while considerably smarter ratlings are not nearly as tenacious as the orcs and goblins and the ratlings fell before Layas in even greater numbers. “All this just for immortality” Layas whispered as he frantically began searching the desk and bookshelf for his most sacred of tomes. I swear it was just here. “Humbert! HUMBERT!” A few seconds pass with no sounds echoing from down the hallway. “Humbert?” The barefooted mage climbed down off the pile of books he was standing on and slowly made his way down the hallway calling out, “Humbert?” “Down here, master.” Standing only three feet three and one eighth inches that was something that Layas was not used to hearing. Looking down Layas saw his servant Humbert crawling along the floor pulling himself forward with his arms because he had no legs beneath his knees. “Humbert, what happened!?” Layas exclaimed as he ran up to his servant. “Forgiveness master, but the bard dispelled the enchantment holding my threading together, and I simply fell apart. I’m sorry to be such a bother.” “Oh you poor thi…wait what bard?” Corinthia Ravenheart slid her onyx skeleton key into yet another door in this labyrinth of doors, hallways, and magical corridors. “Mages, why must they always complicate things.” She whispered to the lock as she heard the magical tumblers click into place. She clutched the bag at her side which contained the stolen book and another wave of nausea washed over her. The damn thing was made of skin. Skin! Of all things, and it was making her sick to her stomach. Not having enough time to properly deal with the flesh golem she ran into earlier, she knew that time was running out before that mad little Halfling would be after her, trying to get his grubby hands on this tome. “Immortality, bah! Who’d want that? Half the fun in life is the urgency of it all.” Corin said half to no one in particular and half to the mysterious book sitting at her side. As Corin slinked down the hallway she kept her eyes and ears open for any signs of other servants or monstrosities that may be lurking about. The Green Wizard’s apprentice had offered her good money to get the tome back and was kind enough to leave a dimension door open for her, but it wouldn’t stay open forever, and if she was going to get out of here she needed to find her way back to it. The magical tower she was in, however, had a shifting blueprint and that made finding her way back a little harder than she had anticipated, fortunately she didn’t need to pick every lock she came to. Coming to another door she inserted the key and pushed the oaken door open and there, hunched over the still crawling remains of the flesh golem was Layas the wretched wizard she was attempting to avoid. Shutting the door quickly and hoping that the random shuffling of rooms would work in her favor just this once she sprinted back the way she came. Layas looked up from Humbert just in time to see a tall slender woman with dark hair make eye contact with him from down the hall then quickly slam the door. “She has my book!” The Halfling wizard took off running after her, “Humbert, find your legs and crawl to the lab, I’ll fix you up after I GET MY BOOK!” The mage lifted his robe at the knee and ran down the corridor, but he was too late. The defensive warding he had inscribed throughout the building had already taken effect and the rooms shifted. “Oh dear, oh dear.” Layas frantically dug through his robes looking for the reagents to counter his own enchantment. Pulling a small silver whistle and a handful of glitterdust from his robe pocket the small wizard chants an incantation and he opens the door just in time to see the bard round a corner in the distance. “COME BACK WITH MY TOME!” The Halfling runs as fast as his little legs can take him trying to catch up to the thief making off with his recipe for immortality. The nerve of some people. He murdered hundreds of orcs and ratlings to get that tome - just to have it stolen! What if he doesn’t remember the components, or the ritual, or the somatics? “Oh gods, no I don’t remember them” Layas said to himself as he began to chatter away trying to refresh his memory. “First take the crystal ball and chant the incantation of Pheramet then anoint with alchemical quicksilver…or was it Dragon’s Blood? Was it the incantation of Pheramet with the quicksilver or the invocation of Surracar with the quicksilver? Oh this was not going to go well without that tome.” Corin was running as fast as she could to avoid the wrath of the Little Wizard of the Dark Void. Corin could do basic tricks, make people see things, make people like her, make items disappear and reappear, preferably in her pockets but the Little Wiz could ripe a woman’s bones out from her body or turn her into something unpleasant. Like a man. She kept running as she rounded a corner she reached into her pocket and tossed a tanglefoot bag. She knew it wouldn’t stop him but it might give her the edge that she needs to get to the dimension door that’ll get her out of this twisted hellscape of a tower. Coming to another one of the damnable portaled doors she pulls out her onyx key and shoves it into the keyhole as she hears ominous chanting behind her, the Little Wiz was going to launch something at her, she could feel it. With a click the door opens and she tumbles through. Layas cursed under his breath as his Flesh to Stone spell flew towards the crafty bard but she disappeared into the portal a moment too soon and his spell arced into the portal and catapulted into some other room of the tower. This defense mechanism is not doing me much good right now! The Little Wiz screamed as he ran after the Bard. Getting to the door before it closed this time he was spared from having to counterspell the effects. Layas catapulted through the portal into the large open air garden at the base of the tower. The smell of the hyacinth filled the air and the lavender blossoms were opening as well. Normally a place to come and enjoy the day Layas could feel his rage building. He wanted that tome. He needed that tome. That tome was the last thing he needed so that he could be immortal. Forever! Keeping his eyes peeled Layas began to peer into the astral, looking for the slight reverberations made my magic and magical items. As he turned his head to the left he was almost blinded by the reverberations he saw in the astral aether. It was a swirling vortex sucking in stands of magical energy as it twisted and turned, vortexing… “DIMENSION DOOR! That’s how she got in!” Layas was already moving preparing to follow that conniving woman and take back what was his. In fact if she just gave it back he’d even let her live. He’d set her on fire first, but he’d let her live. Knowing he would never be able to catch her, he had only one choice left to him. Close the portal and try to stop her. Taking a breath Layas began to pull at the webbing of the Astral Aether, collapsing that dimension door wasn’t going to be easy…oh I see things clearly now, Layas thought as he felt the unmistakable presence of the Green Wizard and his wretched apprentice, but no time to worry about that now. Revenge would have to wait. He saw the woman dive for the portal as he pulled the strings like the strings of a purse. There was a crashing sound like a thunderclap, followed by a sizzling, followed by a thump. Rounding the corner looking to see if the woman was still in the room, Layas gasped when he saw a severed still smoldering boot laying on the cobblestone. Layas let out a cackle, knowing he lost the woman, lost the book, lost to that Green Wizard it didn’t matter because he remembered, he cackled as went over the recipe aloud, “the incantation of Pheramet then anoint with alchemical quicksilver followed by the chant of the Dagon with the Dragon’s Blood concluded with the invocation of Surracar with the quicksilver. HA! Layas jumped with joy, I’ll get you yet, my Green Friend!” Corin screamed with pain as she came out of the swirling vortex landing at the base of an emerald throne. “I…I have the tome.” She mustered, fighting back tears of pain. Holding it out as an offering to the throne the book suddenly ignited in brilliant emerald flames leaving only dust. A booming monotonous voice calls out, “The Tenebrous Tome will harm no others. In time your wounds will heal, but the wounds this book would cause the world would last a thousand lifetimes. Let us hope the world has been spared.” Last edited by Aethera; Jan 15th, 2016 at 04:15 PM. |
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January 2016 Competition Entries Topic: And fire rained down from the heavens... Challenge: a silver noose, something shattering, and a hippopotamus Winner: Shattered Plans by Avner She's Gone by Pendragon (574 words) She's gone. The revelation is earth shattering. It rips through time and space, piercing me in the heart from across the void. It drains me of my strength, my very being quakes at the thought of it. There is nothing I could ever say or do that will change it. She is gone. From deep inside my mind I scratch at the bits of conversations, something that would have let me on to this joke brought about by the cold and unfeeling creature we call existence. There is nothing, no sign no indications, just conjecture. The thought of it makes me want to rip my hair out from the roots in fist fulls, or better yet, just by the threes and fours, enough to be painful and to last longer. Just like I wish every moment with her could have lasted longer. I'm sorry, I'm crying. I don't know how to process this right now. It is like some one ripped into my chest pulled out my heart and squeezed every drop of blood from it and when they were done they punched me in the stomach and kicked me so hard in the balls that they shattered. I know it isn't all that poetic, but I really can't think of a better way to describe this pain. I feel her slipping away. I feel like in every moment I am forgetting something else about her. Was there a freckle over her left eyebrow? Did she like vanilla ice cream more, or was it chocolate? Does it really matter? She's gone. I wish when these things happened there was just some switch that you could throw in your brain that takes all the pain away. All the memories, all the days washed clean of the offending party. Just something to cope. Like, if the powers that be could just send down a microscopic inferno to burn through my neurons, frying all those connections, burning her away. Kind of like those christians say, something about a purifying flame. Then there are the mementos, the things we got together. The TV, I feel her head on my chest whenever I sit down and turn it on. The blue crystal dolphin, mocking me every time I get in the car. This necklace, now the braided silver cuts into my neck like a noose and I just can't bring myself to break loose. I want this to end, part of me just wants to see things go back to the way they were. Yeah, I would take her back. In a heart beat I would, but how would I deal with myself the next day? Would I really be able to forget that she left? No, I can't do it. As much as it hurts I could never let her touch me again, I just couldn't handle it. I would always be guessing. I would always be unsure. When would she do it again. Oh, and that brings up another question, what has she done now that she is gone. Oh, god, who has she done, she wasn't happy with me apparently. She could have walked away into the arms of another man, and then where would that leave me? No, I need to forget. That's why I need this. That's why I need all these, the only warmth my soul will know for a while, forgetting in a glass. Keep them coming until she really is gone. How Prince Adam’s Royal Arena was built. By Alex1983 [1859 words] Lying on his side in his princely bed, Adam looks out from behind the silk bed curtains to the clear starry night which can be seen outside. Slipping away from between his beautiful servant's arms, he leaves her quietly sleeping and walks out through the large ceramic arc into the warm night air of his patio. He had taken to watching the night skies through the telescope his father had given him for his 14th birthday and during the last 6 months, he had spent many nights tracking the movements of the stars and the moon in the sky. But tonight he simply walked up to the edge of the balcony which overlooked the lush royal gardens, letting his mind wander as he gazed up at the sky. His pet white tiger looked over at the handsome young prince and lay it’s head on it’s forearm, watching his master from where he was lying on the patio. Suddenly a flash of light in the sky, and then another and another. He was mesmerized by a beautiful vision as if the whole sky light up in bright flames which showered down over the horizon. It lasted only a minute, but he was as if transported into another world of beautiful celestial light, and stood there silent until dawn. The prince stayed in his bed all the next day, and the next, until word reached the king that a strange melancholy had overtaken his first born son, and that he had become languid and completely passive. The royal doctor was called in and went in to the prince’s chambers to inspect his condition. After examining Adam for several hours, he went back to the king and told him that his son was possessed by a powerful sadness, which had made him lose all interest in this world. "He has seen a vision of such heavenly beauty that it has totally captured his heart, all I managed to hear him say was: and fire rained down from the heavens. I do not have a cure for his condition, although he will probably revert to his normal self after time.", said the learned doctor. After several weeks however, the prince still refused to do anything, and when his combat instructor tried to place a scimitar in his hands, the prince just dropped it to the ground. "Have all the doctors and learned men of the city be summoned to court!", the king ordered. So all the learned men of the city came to the King’s court to try to find a cure. Some of them argued, others discussed, some paced up and down in thought, others spent their time in the library looking through ancient tomes, and still others simply stood and concentrated on the problem at length. After several days and nights contemplating the problem, they concluded that clearly the meteor shower was what had induced this state in the young prince. However, none of them knew what to do. Word spread throughout the kingdom about the prince’s strange condition, and three strangers came who said they could cure the prince. The King announced that whoever could cure the prince would be generously rewarded. But it was made known that if anyone tried and failed, the punishment for his ignorance would be death. First, a woman with a handkerchief tied on her head and large circular gold earrings came to the court. She said she could read aura’s and knew how to cure the prince. So he was brought to court, and with all the king’s men and courtiers watching, she approached the prince and looked into his eyes. She took his pulse, and circled around him as if looking at the air surrounding his figure. She then took out a plum-sized glass ball, hanging from the end of a silver string. She swung the ball gently from side to side in front of the prince, until the prince’s body slightly shifted in position. He looked relaxed, his attention focused on the glass ball. With the prince still staring at her, she then untied the glass ball from the string and said:"See this silver string, it is the shape of your soul. But now your soul is tied in a knot like this…" And she slowly tied the string into a silver noose, while the prince followed the movements of the silver string, mimicking them with his body and arms. She then held the silver noose in front of the princes eyes and suddenly pulled on the ends of the strings, undoing the knot, so that the string was again free and straight hanging between her fingers. The prince however, who had been following the movements of the string with his arms and legs, lay prone on the palace floor, his extremities all tangled up, and his face contorted in a gesture of confusion and pain. "What is this?", muttered the king. "Uhm, Y-your M-majesty,that normally doesn’t happen. Uhm, I mean, the prince is now cured.", stuttered the woman nervously. Everyones eyes were looking at the prince, but he just laid there where he was, rested his head on the ground, closed his eyes, and quietly said, "I don’t feel any better." The King rose and ordered his guards who rushed to obey: "Take her to the dungeons! I don’t want to even hear her mentioned in front of me ever again." On the second day, another man was announced at court. He was introduced as a very wealthy and prosperous merchant, who had travelled very far. Attracted by the king’s promise of a reward, he had come and now he said he had something so wonderful that it would surely cure the prince. So the next day breakfast was prepared in the royal gardens, and the prince was brought down and was seated close to the pond. The merchant anxiously greeted him and seated him down himself, having delicious food brought to him, and making sure he was comfortable in every way. "So, where is it? Where is this wonderful thing you have to show me?" grumbled the prince. "Patience your Majesty, it is here in the pond, in front of you. See? It is a wonderful exotic celestial animal. They call it the hippopotamus!", said the merchant his face beaming with pride. The prince looked and only saw what looked like a gray rock protruding from under the surface of the pond. "I don’t see anything. Is that it? That stone there in the pond?" "But it is not a stone, your Majesty, you’ll see." The Merchant had his servants come, and they approached the pond, and tried to push the hippopotamus out with long sticks, poking it and splashing mud and water all about. But the hippopotamus didn’t budge. The merchant, now nervous, approached the hippo himself, and first tried to lure it out by cajoling it, then started pushing it with one of the sticks, and finally was swearing at it furiously under his breath, trying to force it out of the water. Unfortunately for the merchant, the prince had by now finished eating, and since he was bored, he got up and went back to his room, while the merchant, now soaked and dirty with mud, struck the water furiously with his stick. The next day the third man was announced to the king. He entered and everyone watched him in silence, wondering what he would do. He was smartly dressed, and handsome, and he walked and talked in an interesting and captivating manner. He had a large mirror brought before the prince. The mirror itself was very beautifully decorated. "My prince, look into this magical mirror! It is an ancient mirror, created by an ancient people, and in it you will see your very soul. Look… " The prince approached the mirror and looked into his own reflection, standing still as the man talked slowly. "You can see your real self, look! Look! See the many noble qualities you possess. Look deeper! What you see is more real than your physical body, your majesty, this mirror reveals what our human eyes cannot see. In fact, it your body which is the reflection, the reality is inside the mirror. You are inside the mirror. " The man paused, waited until the prince was entirely focused on the mirror, and then suddenly struck it from behind. The mirror shattered into a thousand of pieces of glass. The prince gave out a short surprised yelp, and fell back as if struck. Everyone was silent, waiting to see what would happen next. The prince looked around, looked at his father, and then said: "I don’t feel any different, what a shame to waste such a beautiful mirror…I am going back to my room." The prince walked off to his chambers, and the king’s guards, took the confused man away to the dungeons. Many weeks went by, and the prince continued as always, he never left his chambers, and refused to see anyone, except his sister. Finally, when the king was desperate, a strange man in a purple cloak came to the court. No one had heard of him before, and he himself hinted that he was not of this world when they asked him where he was from. He told the King: "The prince has been transformed by his vision, and will never be the same again. But, I know a way of returning life to his veins, and he will slowly regain his interest in this world again, and at the same time it will serve to entertain all of you and will be a way of having the prince continue his training for war. Tomorrow when you wake up there will be a surprise waiting for the prince just beyond the royal gardens." The mysterious man in the purple cloak took out a glass box full of ants and set it on the ground, and the ants filed into a neat little row and started marching very quickly towards the gardens. Everyone in the court, including the King, marveled and speculated about what the ants would do. The next day, the prince, who had heard rumors about what the mysterious man had said, walked out onto his patio with curiosity and walked up to the balcony which overlooked the royal gardens. There was a large circular building where the day before there was nothing but an open field. The ants had built it quickly during the night. Below in the royal gardens stood the man in the purple cloak, surrounded by beautiful and exotic dancers and musicians playing wonderful music, and he called to the prince: "Good morning your Majesty! Come to Prince Adam’s Grand Arena! It is my present for you! There is food waiting and even more fabulous dancers and music there already, and then after, you will see brave warriors and all sorts’ of fantastic beasts fighting as you have never seen before!" And that was how the Prince’s Grand Arena was built, and how Prince Adam eventually learned to forget the beautiful vision of the night the fire rained down from the heavens. Reave sees an Old Friend - By Lake (1357 Words) He sat staring at the door, but his mind was still processing the last visitor to his office. The meeting had not gone the way it should have, he needed a new plan. "Gregor!" he shouted for his servant. The contingency plan needed to be started without delay. He moved his right hand to his face, his thumb and middle finger rubbing his eyes, the nub where his index finger had once stood rubbed lightly against his brow. "Yes, Master Reave?" the small man was opening the door as he spoke. Gregor's blue eyes quickly assessed his master’s mood. "Shall I call for Hardell?" "Yes, bring in my old friend." Reave's face contorted into a sneer as he spoke. "Bring me some wine as well." "Yes Master" Gregor clicked his heels together before turning toward the door and leaving as quietly as he had entered. Standing up, Reave moved to the corner of his office, where on a pedestal was the silver noose. He ran his left hand on his neck, feeling where the noose would have cut deep into his skin had he been allowed to fall. He had paid a silversmith dearly to make a replica for himself, a reminder of where he came from. Life had not been easy for him growing up, and the decisions he had made early on with Hardell had led to his near hanging. Without the saving grace of Lord Travour they both would have seen their short lives end that day. Reave had changed his life, but Hardell had only fallen deeper into the life of crime. In the ensuing years they had crossed paths, watching their once great friendship slowly sour into one of bitter rivals. Now thirty some years later, he set course to cross their paths again. --*-- It was his third glass of wine since he had Gregor call for Hardell, but it wasn't dulling his nerves enough for his taste. He could still feel his stomach in his throat, something he had to remove before the meeting. He kept his head down, forcing himself to go over the numbers yet again. The wine didn't help with the numbers, but it was finally calming him. "You're going to hurt your neck bent over papers like that," Hardell's shrill voice cut through his thoughts. Hardell had been admitted into the room, but Reave had missed Gregor announcing him, or even letting the old theif in. Reaves looked up at the intruder and nodded toward the chair in front of him, and went back to looking at his papers in earnest. The difference, was before he was actually reviewing, now he was pretending to. His ploy to level the playing field he felt was already tipped in his opponents favor, he hoped it would work. "Did'ja call me here just to watch you stare at your desk?" Hardell was talking again, but he had sat down, seemingly making himself comfortable in the chair. Looking up from his papers, Reave smiled as he replied "Sorry old friend, just finishing some paperwork, I'm sure you understand." He placed his hands on top of the papers before continuing "Thank you for coming, let me get you something to drink." He looked at the door and called for his butler "Gregor!" Reave, now satisfied that Gregor would be along shortly returned his gaze back to his guest and stood, walking over to the pedestal. Picking up the noose he inspected it carefully, and then set it in Hardells hands. The old criminal, to his credit, seemed to be somewhat nostalgic about the noose and moved it through his hands, feeling the skill of the silversmith as nearly every strand could be felt. Whatever Reave had thought he might gain by playing on their past was quickly lost as Gregor's entry seemed to knock Hardell out of his trance with the noose. "Yes?" was the only word that the servant said upon entering the room. His posture still one of utmost respect though, but the lack of 'Master' was noticed by Reave. Whatever had gotten into Gregor would be dealt with, but for now his focus remained soley on Hardell. "Please bring our guest some wine," then glancing back at his desk, and noting his own wine glass was nearly empty he added "and bring another glass for me as well." As soon as he finished his command, Gregor turned and headed out of the room without a word, leaving the two men alone again. "I remember all too clearly that day," Hardell tossed the noose back to Reaves as he continued. "I came, not because of that day but of the days we once shared before then. But do not be a fool and think I have forgotten the days we've shared since." His tone had begun to sour. Moving to the safety behind his desk, Reave set down the noose, picked up the papers he had just been revieweing and held them out, clearly insinuating that Hardell should stand up to get them. "This is what I asked you here to discuss." Hardell stayed seated and stared at Reave, who continued to hold the papers out. It took Reave nearly a minute to realize that Hardell was not going to grasp the papers, and he set them down at the edge of the desk closest to the criminal and started talking again "This is a contract that I have received to supply the army garrisoned a day’s ride west of our city with Greek Fire. Two months ago, I received half the funds required to supply them. I played my part and after taking my cut of the deal, and purchase the necessary ingredients that then get shipped through a broker to a maker of the substance." "Everything was going according to plan, until last week when I received word," Reave was cut off by Gregor returning to the room with the wine. Gregor, seemed more clumsy than normal, and after providing the drink to Hardell, managed to knock Reave existing wine glass onto the floor shattering. Looking down at it, Reave thought it looked like a million stars had fallen into an ocean of blood as the glass reflected from the light of the candles, twinkling with the irregular light. The servant bent to pick up the larger pieces, then with as many as he could carry stood up and said somewhat mournfully, "I'm sorry" before heading out of the room to get something to clean the mess. Reave took a sip of his wine, before continuing, "I received word that the caravan had been attacked, the guards and crew slaughtered and all of the fire was taken." his body seemed to relax as he spoke. "I met with the Army commander earlier to discuss options, but he is ruthless and demands that I return his money or provide the fire. I need your help to find and take back the Greek fire." Finished with his brief explanation of the situation, Reave took a much larger drink of his wine and waited for Hardell to respond. His old friend sat in contemplation for a moment and then smiled. At least he thought it was a smile, perhaps he had drank too much, things were starting to go blurry. "As luck would have it I know where to find the fire." Hearing the news made him smile, even as drunk as he was. This couldn't be going better for him. "However," Hardell let the word hover in the air for what seemed like ages. Reaves tried to pick up his wine glass, but his arm wasn't listening as it lain limp on his desk. "I will only be able to return this one to you," his old friend procured a small earthenware pot from his satchel. Hardell threw the explosive pot at the ceiling above him. The immediate explosion knocked Reave from his chair onto his back. With his mind turning to mush, and his body unable to respond he had a brief moment of rapture enjoying his impending doom as fire rained down from the heavens onto him. Shattered Plans by Avner 1906 Words Light flickered through the tomb as the burning embers of an eternal torch burned along four large pillars. Light steps of lightly padded feet made their way to the grand pedestal. The thief was dressed in leathers and bound rags as was common for his trade but the keen intellect of an expert shone through his young eyes. Trevan inspected the area with fine detail looking for the usual culprits, tripwires, weight pads and false floors. Those had been the troublesome ones he had come across so far. Occasionally someone would get creative, but those more creative defenses were pretty simple to bypass more often than not. It was hard to top the more tried and true methods of butchering would be trespassers. The thought of it made Trevan flinch a little. His break from routine allowed him to spot the dust on a epitaph at the base of the pedestal. Taking special care to dust it off he read the inscription. His years in such tombs had lead him to the fine conclusion that skipping such data could often mean more trouble than it was worth. Here lies the last known statue of Urlago, god of our people and deliverer of justice. To he who should destroy his icon a grim fate will await. May such a vandal never step foot in this tomb for he shall become the face of that which he destroys. Seems rather ambiguous to me. The rogue thought. Despite the ambiguous warning the rogue had a job to do and knew he could not fall back on his contract. The guild would never forgive him and he couldn’t suffer the loss of pride with such a prominent client. Reaching up toward the pedestal he quickly grabbed the porcelain figure and replaced it with a bag of sand. He waited a brief second to see exactly how the tomb would react to the maneuver, like a predator examining its prey as it took to the hunt. The tomb however remained silent. Trevan knew better than to test his luck and made a break for it. Any moment this place could come tumbling down out of spite. He had heard stories of warning of such things at the guild and didn’t plan to be the demonstrator of the next warning. His escape was frustratingly easy. Aside from avoiding the typical creatures that lurked in such dark places there was nothing of real challenge keeping him from his break toward daylight. While he unstrung his mount from the tree where he anchored him a bad feeling entered his gut. The guild had charged a high price for this artifact, in fact there were very few who were willing to step near the tomb. Legends of its challenge lead through the centuries as a warning from one generation toward the next. Everyone had assumed that it had been loaded with traps around every corner and that only a master thief could penetrate its depths if anyone at all. The ease he had made it through made the thought come to the front of his brain over and over again. Most challenging tomb eh? Most Challenging tomb eh? He couldn’t quite pierce it. There was no way a false story could be the only simple defense for such a place. To last this long simply on legend would be amazing in its own right. There had to be more to it but he just couldn’t sort out what. As he hunkered down for camp that night and sat amid the fires glow he unwrapped the treasure from the cloth in which he had concealed it with care. It was a porcelain figure as he had originally suspected but the detail was overwhelming. It seemed to be made from hundreds of colored fragments all conformed together in the shame of a hippopotamus. An odd creature to devote so much time to making. Looking at it more carefully he deciphered that there was no feasible way he knew to put such small shards together. The bond alone would be near impossible but it held like one solid piece. One thing the thief was sure of was that there was magic to this object. It was the only thing that would explain the price paid and the legend of the tomb. One way or another he intended to be rid of it on the ‘morrow. Trevan thought as he wrapped it up carefully and laid in his bedroll for the night. He arrived at the estate about midday having rode swiftly since the night before. Everything in his gut told him to be rid of the piece once and for all. Lord Bakort was not known for concealing his wealth and the large mansion showed it. Gardens decorated the outside with fountains and high walls defining its unique stature. Trevan smiled as he knew personally that those walls were not enough to keep him out. That was the great thing about the guild, a victim today could be a client tomorrow and vice versa. The anonymity of their relationships often lead to the same piece being stolen on multiple contracts. He always found great humor in such things. Instead of attempting to apprehend a thief the good lords would just continually spend more money on their seedy relationships to outdo the other. It was all one great game. Before he knew it Trevan was being escorted to the main dining room in which he had often met Lord Bakort. The many was increadibly glutonous, so much so that he could easily be confused with a beached for tentacle squid. His arms and legs had rolls upon rolls of lard concealed by light robes that made him look all the more lewd. It grated at the thief’s stomach just to be in his presence. "So you made it after all!" the Lord Bakort greated him. "You sound surprised"Trevan questioned. Something was off. "Well you know the legends, stories I suppose. Now let me see it!" "Payment first, you know the deal." "Of course, of course.” "The large man responded clapping his hands together twice. In an instant a servant came over and brought Trevan a bag of coin. The thief accounted for it all being there and tied it to his belt before reaching into his vest and pulling out the wrapped figurine. He approached Lord Bakort and attempted to hand it over. "No, no not all wrapped up like that! That cloth is filthy, I didn’t pay for a dirty present let me see it!" Struck again by the oddity of what was going on Trevan slowly unwrapped the figurine taking special care as he pulled it out of the cloth and handed it to Lord Bakort. His agile hands moved over to hand the figurine over to Lord Bakort he suddenly realized there were two guards one either side of him. He gave his employer a questioning look. "Just hand it over." Was the response. Attributing it to the glutinous man just wanting his merchandise he did exactly that. He reached over an placed the figurine in the hands of Bakort, or at least he thought he did. Despite the nimbleness of his hands and his great care the object never made it there. In the fastest movement he had ever seen the man make Lord Bakort moved his hand away at the last minute. Reflex took over and quick hands reached out for the fragile piece. It was just as he felt the grip on either arm that it all seemed to finally click for Trevan, just a moment too late. The porcelain hippopotamus when sailing toward the hard ground with nothing to stop it. The protection of its wrappings now shed it shattered into hundreds of pieces right before Trevan’s eyes. Quote:
The most challenging tomb ever… The challenge of the tomb… that was it. It wasn’t pitfalls or tripwires or creepy crawlies in the dark. It was the challenge itself, to whomever should break the statue. To him. Trevan was brought back to the present by a cackling laugh. Lord Bakort was smiling from ear to ear as he watched the fate of Trevan. "You did it! You broke it, didn’t you know the story? You Trevan shall never steal from me again!" he laughed. "Wait… this was all about… revenge?"he asked. "The greatest of the thieves, the only one who can surpass my defenses and take whatever he wills. You reputation precedes you. I just couldn’t resist the opportunity. You should feel the changes now, they don’t take long to come over you from what the story says.”" The squid like man was right. Trevan let out a scream of horror as his body started to turn into grey hue and buldge in places. Surges of transformation coarse through him and with each wave he became a little less human. The pain coarsed through his whole body leading up to his brain. He fell to his knees managing to just barely stay conscious. Clapping his hands once again Bakort had his servants bring out a large mirror. The reflection horrified Trevan. He was no longer human, but he wasn’t a hippo either. He was something between the two. "Lycanthropy??" he asked almost a whisper.[/say] "Exactly! Isn’t it genius?! I mean if it were a wolf or a tiger or something you might have a risk of getting away, but a hippo! I’ll have you in a silver noose at dawn!" Trevan slowly made his way up to a knee. [say“So you intend to hang me?[/SAY] "Well of course, that’s what they do with lycanthropes in these parts! Such a grand plan!" He brought one leg up and put his significant new weight against it releieving the other knee to curl his foot underneath it. Bakort didn’t even notice the crouch. "…and you say I didn’t do MY research." Bakort looked at him confused. "I take it you don’t know much about a hippopotamus?" "Well… well no, I mean their slow."He responded starting to worry where his nemesis was going with the thought. "Yes, they are slow… and strong… and incredibly VICIOUS!!" As if to accent the statement he sprung forward. The guards attempting to grip him were simply shoved aside with his new found strength. The screams of horror that came from Lord Bakort’s estate that evening were legendary. It is said that the dining room the man had often frequented was covered with the blood of obese man and his guards for hire. No one seems to know what really happened that day except for legends from the servants of a man with the face of a hippo. As for Trevan, no one is quite sure what happened to the man, only that legends of a man like hippo seemed to follow his wake, more often leaving the places better than he left it. It is said that the story of Trevan is far from over. Last edited by Aethera; Feb 17th, 2016 at 08:33 PM. |
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February 2016 Competition Entries Topic: Snake in my Boots Challenge: an unbeliever, something fetid, and piracy Winner: The Snake by Zany "Cap'n, can I have a minute?"
Captain Bartholomew Snikket, master of the The Fury, winced at the sound of Eli's voice as the sailor surreptitiously burst into his cabin. Of course it was Eli -- he didn't even need to look up from his charts to know that. Why the hooligan chose the pirate's life was a mystery to all on board, as it was always something with him. And yet, it was always nothing, too. Suppressing an internal groan, he raised his eyes to meet those of the intruder. "If you must, Eli. What can I do for you?" He cleared his throat and stepped forward, seeming to struggle with what he was about to say. The pause was met by Bartholomew's steady unamused gaze, as it always was. The captain's patience was legendary in the pirate community, which many posited was the primary reason for his unprecedented success in the field. By the gods, did he ever need it. "Well, um, you see cap... I'm, uh, I'm not sure how to put this..." Eli rubbed the back of his neck nervously as he spoke, taking a good look at the floorboards in hopes of avoiding Bartholomew's stern gaze. In the end, it came down to a single word, uttered as barely a whisper. "... snake..." For a brief moment, the captain's eyes widened in surprise and confusion, but they quickly turned down into a scowl. "Come again? I didn't quite catch that." "A snake, cap'n," sighed Eli. "A great, nasty snake with a hissing tongue and beady little eyes, and it's in my room below decks." Seeing no immediate reaction, Eli swallowed. "Uh, Sir." Silence. The kind of silence that felt an eternity as one waited for the inevitable, earth-shattering revelation that was sure to follow. Eli wished he could hold his breath for the duration for fear of upsetting the air and causing a cataclysmic break in reality, but in his mind no person's lungs had that capacity. In the end, the quiet was broken as the captain pushed back his chair and calmly stood, eliciting a scream as Eli recoiled in abject terror. "Come with me, Eli." Bartholomew walked around his mahogany desk and unhurriedly made his way to the door, ignoring his sailor, now frozen with his arms and a leg splayed before him as if to fend off another beating from his drunken father. He opened the door and left without a further word. Eli, panting in fear, peered timidly through fingers contorted in painful anticipation. Seeing that his captain was no longer present, he allowed himself to relax for a brief moment, his arms dropping to his side. The brief respite was met with renewed panic, however, when he realised what the captain had said, and he willed his feet to scramble after his superior through the door. When he emerged, Bartholomew was waiting stoically by the ship's railing, gazing out over the ocean with his hands clasped lightly behind his back. As Eli burst out into the open air, the captain didn't even turn to acknowledge him. "Come stand with me, Eli." Eli was hesitant to move forward, but in the end he knew he had no choice. One did not simply ignore a direct order from Captain Bartholomew Snikket. When he was sure Eli had sufficient time to take in the sights, Bartholomew finally spoke. "What do you see?" Confused at the question, Eli squinted and gazed over the railing. "Uhh... Just the ocean, cap. There's a bird over there, I think..." "The ocean, precisely. Do you see land, or any purchase for creatures that would typically reside on it?" He spun around, doing a quick survey of the surrounding waters. "Nothin', cap. We're pretty far out, actually. We won't get to harbour for a week yet, I think." The captain finally turned to his mate. "So how, pray tell, would a snake find it's way onto the ship?" Understanding hit Eli as he suspected a cannonball might, and as his eyes widened from the realization of the captain's purpose it was all he could do to force words past the growing lump in his throat. "Oh, no, cap, I swear it's--" "Enough, Eli," Bartholomew interrupted. "It's always something, with you. By the gods, you must be the laziest man I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. Why did you even want to become a pirate? This is the ghast all over again..." "There was a perfectly good explanation for that actually, but if you just--" "No, Eli. I won't 'just' anything. You're a dirty, rotten liar. In fact, I would posit that there exists none other on land or sea whose lies wax more unclean or more fetid than yours. Franly, I've had just about enough of you and your ridiculous tales." Eli, nearly in tears now, continued to blubber out his sad defence. "No, cap, this is different! I swear on me mum that there's a snake in my cabin! I love me mum. I don't swear on her unless I'm deadly serious, and I'm deadly serious about this. It's a big, nasty snake with black and a bit of green and I tried to stomp on it and it went into my boots under the bunk and I couldn't get it and so I came to get you and oh please don't maroon me!" Frustrated, Bartholomew glanced down at Eli's feet and noticed for the first time that he wasn't wearing any shoes. He let out an exasperated breath and looked the man in the eye once again. "Fine, Eli. Let's go get that snake." The Snake ~ by Zany ~ (1299 words) She focused intently on stitching the inner tongue of her old, brown boots, sensing his inquisitive eyes fixed upon her but ignoring him. They'd been returned to her when she'd first boarded the ship, along with a pile of tattered clothes. She'd pulled out the old, fetid innersoles and scrubbed them until their original color peeked through the grime. Oiling them and sewing the leather where it was torn and frayed. Once the job was completed her hands involuntarily continued their sewing, working the yellow thread through the now supple tongue. First they stitched a shaky 'S', followed by an angry 'N' during which she pricked her finger, drawing a bead of blood and a salty mascara stain down her cheek. She brushed at her face with the back of her hand brusquely and continued with an 'A', 'K' and finally an 'E'. "SNAKE?" She heard over her shoulder. He'd been loitering around watching her ever since she'd first boarded. A young lad, simple and quite sweet if one put aside his crude ship-born habits. "What d'ya sew SNAKE fer?" The aroma of booze and tobacco, common among even the youngest of ship hands, wafted on his breath. She spun around on the empty beer barrel to face him. Perhaps it was time to assert herself a little and put an end to this pesky curiosity. "It's a reminder. Love is a snake, a sneaky, nasty, treacherous viper." With that she spun back around and snipped the thread to finish. Undeterred, he scraped another barrel over and offered a mug of beer. "So are ya gunna share ya sorry tale? Lord knows we pirates love a good yarn." She accepted the beer and stared back down at the boot. "May-haps a problem shared was indeed a problem halved" she mused. "It's not a long tale, nor even an interesting one if truth be told. But since you're so determined to hear, I’ll begin with the 'S'." She could hear other kegs being dragged over as idle crew gathered. With a resigned sigh she began. ~~~~~ Sentimentality. I was just a kid, barely out of my teens with an ambitious naivety. Studying botany, I was going to explore the world and discover new species to help advance the field of medicine. That was just a few weeks ago. Then I met Stephen. Tall, blond, charismatic and adventurous, the perfect gentleman, we shared the dream of a healthier world. It was sunset rendezvous, strawberries and chilled wine, debating philosophy until the wee hours of morning, snuggled together in his old sheepskin coat. It was all too good to be true and so we come to the 'N'. Nefariousness. Quickly the romantic settings changed to dark Inns and Taverns, each one seedier than the last. Conversation drifted from philosophy and saving the world to my interests in botany. Often we were joined by one or more of Stephen's friends, each one more dubious than the last. They all shared an avid interest in my studies, I was flattered I suppose, blinded by love. Stupid. I admit my ego was more than a little swollen by all the attention, I was proud of my knowledge and the opportunity to share with others was a very liberating one. Their questions turned to more exotic plants, their cultivation, development, propagation. Eventually Stephen asked me if I could "borrow" some cuttings from the university so that he might experience firsthand my wonder at the natural world. Of course I agreed, excited to have someone to share my life and my passion with. So we come to the 'A'. I was arrested leaving the university grounds with a variety of plants and seeds. I suppose 'N' could have stood for narcotics as much as for nefarious, or perhaps just naivety. Arrest. So that was that. I was locked away, my ambitions stolen, my world rudely smashed, my dreams crushed. All that remained was an old, unshaven man in the cell next to me, rambling on day and night about the sins of the unbeliever and how all would be spurned at the gates of Heaven and sent down into the depths of Hell. I wonder that he thought Hell might be worse than being confined to listen to his ranting day after day. My situation was desperate and I despondent, without hope. So when the 'K' for kismet came along I leapt like I was on a sinking ship and there were only one space left in the lifeboat. Although it came in a rather unusual form I don't mind saying. Kismet. Brigg's had been delivering my meals since my first day in that cold, dank cell and had never spoken a word, so when the tray holding my slops and stale bread scraped over the gravelly ground I rushed over, my mind filled with only hunger. "Ha!" Before I could reach it the food was jerked away with a croaky chuckle. I looked through the bars at the skinny, wretch of a man who'd delivered my meals for so many days I'd lost count. He was smirking at me, a callous taunt I supposed. "Do ya wanna know how to get outta here, do ya?" Spit flew from his mouth and I could feel it land on my face but his words were so full of hope I didn't care. "Well of course I'd like to know, but how would someone like you know something like that and why would you tell someone like me?" "I know's cause I know and you'd do better not asking missy. But if ya want outta here I can tells you a way, ya just gotta do a lil’ somethin’ for me." "Right, here it comes" I thought, backing away, "the old fool in the next cell was right after all." "No not anythin’ like that!" He spittled, "though I don't mind sayin’ I wouldna say no if'n ya offered." He paused there to give me a grin that revealed a lack of teeth as he eyed me up and down speculatively. "I be wantin’ ya to commit your life to piracy, that's all me love. I gotta crew out there waitin’ to get the ship on t' blue waters but we can-ne go til we got a woman onboard. ‘Tis bad luck ya know, and there ain't no lady round here wantin’ to go a sailin’. ‘Cept for you I thinks since all ya gonna do here is listen to old hairy o’er there rattle on bout God and his Heaven for the resta ya life." Well I’m not even ashamed to admit that I barely gave it a thought. In fact, even though I'd stepped back, if he’d asked from me an indecent favor I'd have offered myself willingly without a blink if it meant a way out. So here we move on to the 'E'. Escape. And there really isn't a great deal more to say, or not much without Captain Brigg’s over there thrashing me for revealing his secrets. But here I am with my life committed to sailing under the big skies rather than locked up in a dingy stone cell. ~~~~~ She looked up to find the crew with their chins on their stomachs snoring away, even the young one had spilt his beer and hung his head. She sighed and swallowed down the last of her beer, pulled on her boot and tied up the laces with a quick twirl of fingers. Feeling the lumpy stitching pressing against her bare ankle, she scowled, put down her mug, stood up and headed for the back of the ship to look out over the open seas. She pushed the needle through the ball of thread. He'd gotten away with it. For now. But that wouldn't last forever. Last edited by Aethera; Mar 15th, 2016 at 07:55 PM. |
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March 2016 Competition Entries Topic: The Great Escape Challenge: a glass eye, twins, and a rhino Winner: Bluebird by Fatgunn Bluebird by Fatgunn [1828 words] Sergeant Avery steps through the Bluebird’s airlock. The boots of his suit make no sound as he inspects the mangled remnants of the interior door. Little more than slag remains of the eight foot tall solid piece of space grade titanium. He nudges the toggle of his log recorder, “Damage to the airlock is inconsistent. Space side the hinges are precision sliced, and the door itself is missing, presumably abandoned into space. Within the ship the door appears to have been subjected to a prolonged blast, as if from a ship’s engines.” As the recording light fades Avery lets out a prolonged sigh and begins trudging inward, through the darkened bulk of the freighter. Along the loading dock several cases are stacked ready for transport. In front of him he sees a doorway labeled Mess Hall. Upon entering he notices that trays of half rotten food sit on the tables. “Case note,” he says into his microphone, “clear signs of decay present amongst foodstuffs in the galley. Suggests that the Bluebird’s carcass may have been floating out here for some time before the incident in the cargo bay. This room isn’t sealed, and lack of oxygen would have had a preservative effect.” Stepping further in, Avery carelessly crushes a desiccated cheeseburger under his heel and heads towards the nearby recreation chamber. Within the spacious room Avery was greeted with a gruesome sight. Cautiously, Avery drew his sidearm, “Case note,” he mutters tersely, “unknown corpse discovered. Stuck to ceiling of rec room via a metal rod impaled through the torso. Suit insignia are congruent with those of the Star Crossed gang. No obvious signs of decay. Believe subject may have been among an illegal salvage crew. As for what could have done him in, I have no clue.” As Avery inspects the mangled body he spots a dim light within the helmet. “Ahh, seems our ceiling decoration had a glass eye,” Avery exclaims, “Not only that but it appears to be one of theoe new spy models the rocket rats use.” Upon attaching the optic lead to his suit’s computer Avery is assaulted by screams from the recording. ... “OH MY GOD DARRYL!”, the recording hissed. “Did you see that thing? It looked like some sort of cyborg rhinoceros!” “Calm down Chet,” Darryl panted, “we managed to lock it behind one of the blast doors, there’s no way it’s getting through.” “What the HELL, do you think a blast door is gonna do. The damn thing tore right through three separate bunk room walls chasing us. If we’re lucky the blast door will slow it down long enough for us to get to the ship and get out of here.” “Chet, I said calm down. If we don’t manage to get enough stuff from here to pay off Eliza we’re done for anyway. I’m your older brother and I say loot the gorram ship, and let’s not get a knife in our backs the second we step into port.” “You’re only older by 10 seconds Darryl, but fine, I don’t wanna deal with Eliza’s goons anymore than you do. The old hag is scary enough on her own, but those two lumbering albinos that she keeps around give me the willies.” ... The recording descends into static. Fiddling with the connection, Avery suddenly stops dead. Through his boot soles a steady series of thumps is growing stronger. Looking up Avery sees a steel clad nightmare. A squat form stands on the far side of the room, between him and the exit. With terror he realizes it is the creature from the recording. The connection takes a moment to dawn as Avery realizes the monster is missing a key rhinoceros feature. It has no horn. Glancing up the grim revelation sets in. The behemoth’s horn is embedded in the corpse hanging above him. He slowly brings his weapon to bear on the brute, praying that his shots will be effective. The creature, sensing Avery’s intent, charges. Avery dives to the side, firing a single blast as he falls. The energy bolt strikes the creature’s flank, causing it to flinch away in pain. Seeing an opportunity Avery barrels towards the mess hall entrance. Plunging through the door he turns and sees the monstrosity regain its bearing and commence its attack. However, Avery’s shot has struck true and there is a pronounced limp in the abominations gait. Quickly crossing the galley, Avery realizes he is still at a disadvantage. Momentum is on the rhino’s side and it has already slammed through the galley door and begun its new advance. The tables only cause it minor hindrance as it rumbles closer. Searching in desperation Avery dives over the food counter and runs towards the kitchen freezer. The young sergeant slams the door closed and retreats to the far wall. The impacts of the beast’s assault are clearly felt through the metal flooring. Slabs of meat are hung throughout the room sized space, food containers are carefully stacked along the walls, but as the hammering continues those near the door begin to fall. A noticeable bulge is forming in the steel door. In a panic Sergeant Avery clambers inside a particular large cow carcass hanging in a rear corner. Somehow, despite the rapid developments of the past few minutes, the scavengers glass eye has remained connected to Avery’s suit computer. As he cowers within the frozen flesh, Avery is subjected the recording of the rhino’s last victims. ... “Did you hear that?” Chet whispered. “No, Chet, for the last time, I did not hear anything, there’s no atmosphere in here!” Darryl returns to the digging through a nearby box. “Okay, let’s gather up this last batch and then we can load the ship and get off this wreck.” “Hey Darryl?” “What” “Don’t you wonder what happened to the people on here? Maybe that thing got em.” Darryl shrugs. “I doubt it. We haven’t seen any bodies. Not to mention everything in the cafeteria was pristine. No overturned tables or anything. If a monster was rampaging through the ship everyone would panic. Nah, most likely there was an issue with the engines or life support and everybody left on the lifeboats.” Chet taps his foot impatiently. “If that’s the case, where did the robo-rhino come from? Huh?” Darryl shakes his head. “It’s probably just some strange security mechanism, to keep out guys like us. Kind of like how Gill kept one of those miniature snake-dogs in his cash box. Remember Weasel’s face when he picked the lock and got bit. It was a week before he could even eat solid food.” “Yeah, didn’t help none that Gill beat him black and blue while he was out cold.” Still chuckling to himself, Chet lifts the nearest box and heads for the doorway. Suddenly an earsplitting screech rings out over the communicator. Darryl quickly turns around and draws his blaster only to be rooted in terror at the sight before him. His brother stands before him, a foot of metal jutting out beside his spine. Filling the doorway behind his sibling’s limp form is the massive hulk they encountered earlier. With a shake of the creature’s head and a thump that resounds through the floor, Chet’s corpse is launched toward the ceiling. The creature inaudibly roars in triumph as its conquest lodges in the ceiling. Blaster forgotten amidst his rage and grief, Darryl charges the beast, screaming his anguish into the vacuum around him. ... With this transmission the eye’s recording finally sizzles and dies. The creature stands in the refrigerator doorway. Its head scans back and forth, searching for Avery. After several moments it seems satisfied that its prey is not within and retreats out the door and heads into the cargo bay to continue its search. In the silence, Avery is left wondering Darryl’s fate. Thinking back on the burn marks he saw in the airlock, the sergeant is pieces together a rough idea of the events preceding his arrival. This Darryl must have been able to elude the creature long enough so that he could return to his ship. In his haste to leave, he must have blasted his engines directly into the airlock, destroying both the door and any loot he and his late brother had gathered. “Now to figure out how I’m going to get out.” Avery climbs out of his meaty shelter and creeps towards the door. Not seeing the beast in the cafeteria he heads towards the cargo bay entrance. “Oh my God,” Avery sighs. The creature is pacing back and forth through the cargo area. “Damn, the exit is right there.” It’s a straight path from his current position to the airlock room. The creature knows where he wants to go. Boxes lie everywhere, but they are too unevenly arranged to allow a stealth approach. Noticing several smashed crates near him, Avery looks up. Just above his head is the gantry system used to move the cargo. Not, only that but the cargo hook that dropped the broken crates is still in place. Slowly he walks back into the galley, then stops. “Case note: Ask for a raise as soon as I get back.” Avery turns and sprints through the galley door. He leaps into the air and grabs the cargo hook. With the thin layer of frost that has built up, and the lack of air resistance, Avery speeds towards the airlock. As Avery soars above the beast’s head he realizes the creature can’t even see him. Distracted by his revelation he fails to see another hook blocking the path. This one is more firmly rooted in place and the collision throws Avery to the ground. He lands painfully upon his right leg. He manages to stand but the crash has alerted the creature and as it turns towards him, Avery begins limping as quickly as he can towards freedom. Clearing the cargo doors and entering the airlock chamber, Avery turns to see the creature hesitating. “Must be programmed not to leave the ship,” Avery mutters as he gestures rudely at the beast. With that gesture the creature’s hesitation disappears and it renews its pursuit. Avery lumbers over to the airlock and prepares to jump toward his waiting ship. However his luck has finally run out and the beast rams him from behind just as he jumps. The pair blast outward from the airlock. The beast doesn’t know how to react to zero gravity and begins flailing madly. This sets it into a spin that dislodges Avery from its body. As the creature floats into space, Sergeant Avery sends a signal to his waiting ship. It slowly maneuvers towards him from around the Bluebird’s massive carapace. Seeing his salvation Avery relaxes. As he passes through the airlock and removes his helmet he speaks aloud, “Computer: Mark this floating deathtrap for reclamation, extremely dangerous, and tell command I’m taking a vacation. I’ve damned well earned it. Take me home.” Black Days By Zany [672 Words] The sun dipped slowly into the quenching ocean, the breath of its passing lapped against the sand, Keifer smiled. Fifty years old, fifty, every single one of them a battle he hadn't even known he'd been fighting. The perfect enemy, the ultimate foe, fifty long years in a war with himself. It started somewhere in childhood, who knew where, who could ever figure out why. Lord knows he'd tried. It'd been one of the conflicts, fought on some lonely hill with a can of super strength beer, him on one side of the line, the world on the other. There must've been a trigger, right? He wasn't born angry, nobody is born angry, something, someone, had made him that way. Who, what, where and why? The circle of questions which imprisoned him, bound him, wounded him and eventually freed him. Like a rhinoceros with a hangover he'd battered his way through his teens, brushing by the thin veil of the law, pushing the world to breaking point. From the moral high ground he surveyed the armies of his enemies, plotted their fall. Hardened to care, distant to the bloody frenzy of the fight he moved the pieces, broke the lines, shattered lives on the claret red fields of hostility before retiring to the bar to celebrate, commiserate, obliterate. Self imposed exile, owed, embittered and lost he'd wandered the world looking for bigger foes, looking to fail, seeking the edge, seeking destruction and reaping havoc. Alone. She'd changed all that. An accident of course, Ha! With a finger on every pawn, a beady glass eye on every barmaid, accidents were bound to happen. So what, another round another ring, just another day in an old, old conflict. She'd breathed her first under his watchful eye, innocent, fresh, bloodied, newborn and helpless. So many years, so many wins, not a single victory, in her a cause was birthed, a sacrifice given, a commitment made. Kiefer reflected on the first star of the night, the virgin in the sky, the glimmer of light. He'd turned his armies, his hardened veterans, formed a defense and begun an advance, for her. For her. Skills learned, talents earned, all moved into alignment, for her. Slicing through the tangled web of society, from degenerate drunk to proud father, husband, dad. He built a castle and made her the princess, set guards and purchased happiness; with every ounce he'd devoted, unknowingly, it's equal he'd received. Love given freely, without self, without need always yields more than is sown. His heart opened, flooded, swept away in the tears of the past, the black dog walked through his dreams, haunted by remembered ghosts, fields of poppies. Battalion turned against battalion, squad against squad, tore at each other, dissension within, anaesthetised by forty percent proof, a tequila sunrise on a dark, dark day. An implosion blasting all apart, broken and defeated, humbled and asking the question, the question, the damned question. Why? Innocent, fresh and helpless, reborn. The biggest battle of his life, the bloodiest conflict of them all, the first ever victory. His surrender. A new challenge ensued, like quicksand it sucked, struggle and drown, fight and be drawn down; cease, desist, accept, and float free. The rhino was the first to go, starved without a fight, fury disarmed by an embrace. The dark dog still lurks, begs at his door on evenings when unwatched for, skulking in the shadows, left unfed but quietly observed. Smaller now, visits less, powerless against vigilance. The ying and yang of being, black and white, good and bad, birthed from the same mother, twins, two sides of the same coin, happiness and depression. No existence for one without the other. Acceptance nurturing balance, equilibrium, serenity. Love. Keifer turns, the sand squishing between his toes small pools forming about his feet, the mote in his eye, a tear of exultation. The flickering fires of home beckon, love, joy, family. Contented he walks toward the light, the only sure way to victory, the only escape. Surrender the fight. Last edited by Aethera; Apr 15th, 2016 at 03:29 PM. |
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April 2016 Competition Entries Topic: Pieces of Time Challenge: laundry, raspberries, and a broken wheel Winner: Shopworn by Rolzup Heavy English – Pieces of Time
There wasn't much time left in the day to reminisce as my mind took me back quite awhile to the days of school. Waking up late as usual and running through the fields and cobblestone roads of New Kennsington to arrive on time; saved by the bell. As the iron bell struck seven, the resounding alacrity of anticipating the day to begin was met in steadfast eagerness. The choice to learn and meet friends that shared the same ideals and bouts of youthful jubilee was a constant theme at our place of education. On this day there was something quite different than the normal day to day studies. Today during lunch break; a time met with friends sharing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, raspberries and granola bars; Mother was always eating nutritional and wanting a healthy life style for me. Today forever changed my life in so many ways. A fond memory that I still carry to this day. Today Joseph brought in a red box that made my heart beat fast and the nervousness of a child eager to open a new present during Christmas. While the anticipation of knowing what exactly was in that box made that day that more special. Joseph showed the red box to Michael and I. The letters spelled out; Dungeons and Dragons Basic Set in bold white lettering. Inside was two booklets and a set of dice. "Fabulous, I thought." The more Joseph went into detail about the game, the more I became intrigued. Joseph even asked me if I wanted to give the dice a roll. "Here, roll the twenty-sided first." I remember I was such a klutz that day. The first dice roll I ever make and it rolled off the table, into my lap and of my pants into a broken wheel of a movable table we had for lunch. So I picked up the die and rolled again and with renewed vigor of ever before, I rolled a thirteen. "Not bad!", Joseph said as I hit the one of the two harpies coming down the road holding my weapon firmly in hand and shield in the other. I remember that monsters even tried to put us to sleep with their soothing voice. Then the bell struck, time for Dungeons and Dragons was over for now. Finishing out the day, I remember running home after school and seeing what was on my chore list for my single Mother when I entered the warm home to see a pile of laundry sitting there waiting to be washed. I dreaded chores around the home. I couldn't keep my mind of a game that used imagination, pen, paper and a set of dice. Later that week, my Grandfather spoiled me and bought for me a basic set of Dungeons and Dragons. I remember coming up with campaigns and characters as we continued to play this game to this day. I don't ever remember what happened to Joseph after we graduated, but Michael and I still keep contact and we are into playing often together. As for me, a game truly inspired by a lot of my friends and classmates that very well helped me achieve memorable memories that very well shaped my life for the better. Julian awoke and wiped the sleep sand from her eyes. Well, that is what mom used to call it at least, it was a sure way to know that the Sandman had made his visit, bringing with him those wonderful dreams. And she indeed had a wonderful dream.
It started with Samuel on the beach, the smell of the salt air tickling deep into her nostrils. The breeze tousling her brown curls carrying the smell of sun block, not quite coconut. The sand was warm on her toes and she could see for miles down the coast in both directions. The waves curled and broke in their haphazard fashion, and the only thing that told her it was a dream was the lack of other people. She was alone, there with Samuel, the goofy smile beaming out of his face as it always was when she looked at him and he noticed. His tan skin and young body was there too, limber and spry, ready to take on the world. He took steps towards her, that silly look on his face changing to something more tinder, gentler, longing tinting his eyes. He leaned in, she did too, and then the world spun, wheeling away and changing completely. In her dream Julian opened her eyes again and she found herself in the laundromat, sitting on the folding counter, two scoops of raspberry sorbet dripping in an old fashioned waffle cone and down her wrist. She grinned and hopped down, looking for Samuel. He had to be around somewhere. The other patron of the laundromat ignored her and her trail of raspberry dribbles, as she hunted her prey. She went around the dryer and the big washers and finally found him, his head inside a dryer, scooping out the last of their socks. Seizing the opportunity with her clean hand she tickled him and shrieked, running away. Samuel jumped and the dull thud of his head against the inside of the drum made Julian giggle and run even faster. It wouldn't be long, he would be on her heels in a moment, just until the wheel broke on the cart and he spilled their clean clothes all over the dusty laundromat floor. She bent down, laughing, dropping her cone into the laundry. It was raspberry stains for months after that, all the whites came out with a pink tinge. Samuel was teased at work when someone caught a glimpse of the pink socks. A twinge in Julian's back brought her to the here and now, letting the sweet dreams, the beautiful pieces of time slip back into the past. The door to her bedroom opened and a woman in scrubs stood there to Julian's surprise, a stranger seeing her in her bed clothes. She went to pull back the covers and looked down at her hands, no longer soft and supple, no longer ruddy with exposure to the sun, instead spotted and skeletal. She felt the weight of them in muscles too weak for what she remembered. "Good morning Mrs. Kenton. I am Heather, how are you today?" the woman said in a sing song voice. Julian's hand reached across the bed where she expected to find Samuel, she was frightened and unsure about what was going on. The bed was too small, and no one was there. Fear gripped her, where was she and where was Samuel? A husky voice issued from her lips, "Samuel. Where is Samuel?" A look of sadness crossed Heather's eyes, and something else, the look of displeasure in having to handle an unpleasant task. Mornings were always the hardest part of the day. All Your Needs by DemoSquid [Word Count ~ 2085] 7:00 am Bing doo do dododo, Bing doo do dododo, Bing- I’m up. Groaning, I let my hand slide off the side table with my phone on it and onto my face. Rubbing my eyes, I blearily stare at my ceiling, looking for some ounce of energy to rouse me from under my comfy covers. Eventually when the snooze on my alarm wears off, I’m up and on two feet. Shower. Dry my hair. Eat burnt toast. Grab my keys. Out the door. Back in the door, forgot my ID. Out the door again, tucking my wrinkled shirt into my black jeans. I sit in my car, sigh, then turned the key in the ignition for the thousandth time. Off to work I go. 8:00 am Ding. Dang. Dong The chime for the automatic door opener was even more annoying when ringing out to an empty store. Still, it was nothing compared to- ”Good day. And. Welcome to. Super Depot. For all your shopping. Needs. I gritted my teeth as the electronic greeting was turned on for the first time that day. Nothing would grant me greater pleasure than to find the man who recorded that slogan and slip my hands around his throat and- ”Jason, you’re late”, came the voice of my boss from his small office next to the customer service desk. I sighed and headed over to his door, trying to rub the rest of the sleep gunk from my eyes. “Sorry, Todd.” I called out to him, The traffic was killer this morning. They blocked off two lanes of traffic and…well, you know, I got here fast as I could.” I finished kind of lamely. ”Well, that’s all well and good, Jason, but I have a store to run.” Todd rolled his chair to the face the doorway of where I now stood. “If I schedule you in at 7:45, you can’t waltz in at”, he checked his computer,”8:03, twenty seven minutes before we open, and expect there not to be consequences for your actions. I need you ready to go as soon as you walk out your front door. Can you do that for me? I sighed and looked through the empty aisles filled with groceries and miscellaneous power tools. I nodded deferentially. ”Good. Now I need you to get to the stock room ASAP. We need help restocking the laundry detergent and Milo can’t do it on his own.” 9:00 am KSHHK~ Associate to aisle seven, cleanup in aisle seven ~KSHHK Aisle seven meant frozen section, which more often than not was a dropped tub of ice cream, so I snagged the mop and a wet floor sign and trudged on over. Passing by the refrigerated section I saw a familiar coat and sneakers huddled at the far end of the aisle. He was a homeless man who came into the store maybe twice a week, wandered around and left. He was basically harmless, usually spending his time staring at the fluorescent lights of the cold cuts cooler. I called him Rocky, since he liked to clench his fists a lot and bop up and down as if he were skipping rope. I headed over to see what he was fiddling with, and to my surprise he had actually grabbed a package of bacon and was frantically trying to open it. ”Hey man, you’ve gotta pay for that first!” I called out to him. Rocky twitched, almost spasmed at the sound of my voice and swung his head toward me. He looked more haggard than usual, his eyes having a glassy sheen to them. He fixed me with a vacant stare, then suddenly shook his head as if coming to his senses. Embarrassed, he let out a stifled sob and booked it towards the door. I sighed, shaking my head. Poor guy I thought, probably jonesin’ real bad for something. I pick up the mangled package of bacon and headed to the back to toss it out. 10:00 am ”…search has ended in the early hours this morning, as the remains of young Cassidy Quinton, have been found. Cassidy, the youngest of four, went missing Friday night…” I caught a fragment of a news report as I walked into the break room to grab an aspirin. Sandra clucked her tongue and sighed. ”That’s so sad. Tsk. She was so young and looked so sweet. Tsk. Oh god, she was taken before her time. I can’t believe what her family must be going through, to lose someone that young. Tsk. That’s so sad. Don’t you think that’s sad, Jason?” she looked at me for a response, but I was halfway through a bottle of water. She turned back towards the TV,”That’s so SAD.” I nodded respectfully, then tossed my empty water bottle into the recycling bin. I had a killer headache, and Sandra’s “tsk-ing” wasn’t going to make it better. Quietly I snuck back to the break room door without so much as another word, leaving Sandra to her news. ”I mean, who would DO that to a poor, sweet, innocent young thing like her? Tsk. It’s just SO…..”. But the door closed before she could finish that thought. 11:00 am ”Come on, ride the bus! It’s a magical adventure for one and all Take a step, onto the bus! Everyone has fun, whether big or smaaaalll!! I was heading past electronics where some small kids were fascinated by the newest sing-a-long educational program. The cheery music mixed with the constant wailing of one unhappy customer was not improving my headache, or my mood. I was stopped short by the feed on the TV’s cutting out, replaced with urgent newsfeed. A chorus of groans rose up from the disappointed children, so I missed the first of what was said, “…riots rising up in major population centers all over the globe, incredibly sudden and with an increasing amount of casualties. It is unsure at this time whether or not an organized group is responsible for these outbreaks, but it is advised that people are to stay inside until the authorities have-“ “PBBBLLLLTTT” One of the kids decided it was time to make their own fun, and let out a huge fart noise with his tongue. The laughter was contagious with the children, despite reprimands from the few adults that were there, and soon the whole crew of toddlers was letting out a cacophony of wet raspberries. I headed back to the stock room to clear my head. I wasn’t too worried about the news report, actually. The report said “major population centers” and we were pretty out of the way as far as towns go. I was more worried about the killer headache I was having. I needed fresh air, and it was almost my lunch break so I decided to clock out a little early. 12:00pm BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG I winced at the explosion of sound reverberating through the car. I slowly opened my eyes and paled as Todd was standing outside the driver's seat window looking pretty pissed. He folded his arms and gave me a look that hinted at me speaking to him without a sheet of glass between us. I slowly, regretfully, rolled my window down. "Where have you been? We've been swamped for over 20 minutes! Why didn't you pick up your phone??" I frowned, mainly because I didn't really know the answer to his question. I remembered getting into my car and driving to the nearby drive-thru, but after that it was kind of blurry... "And for the record, I don't think passing out in your car in the middle of the day, surrounded by trash is very professional. I'm going to have to submit a report." he glared at me, then motioned to the mountain of burger wrappers strewn onto the passenger seat, "Seriously, Jason. Look at where you are right now. It's time to get your life together." He stormed back to the back entrance. I was dumbfounded. I had somehow bought over three dozen burgers, eaten all of them and passed out in my car. I didn't remember ordering that many, or eating them; I would have thought it all to be a practical joke, if my stomach didn't already feel like the Hindenburg about to burst. After cleaning up the mess of papers, I headed back into the now insanely busy Depot. People flooding the aisles, carts deadlocked with each other, yelling and screaming and general pandemonium in the air. In an instant, my headache was back. Great. 1:00 pm RRRRRRRRRRRMMM The ground shook. No, not really. It was more like a huge vibration rattled the inside of my chest, kind of like when the bass gets turned up in a car. Except there wasn't any music. Just a deep rumble from far away. This caused a slight pause in the atmosphere of the store, a brief euphoric break from my now-migraine. But the moment passed, and soon it was Black Friday all over again. I decided to head outside, partly to get away from the crowd, partly to see what had made that noise. I walked over to the lone cart that had been left outside in the crowded parking lot, the crappy one with a broken wheel, as an excuse for when I went back inside. I took a deep breath of fresh air, but I coughed as I inhaled smoke. Bitter, acrid smoke. I looked around for the source and dropped my jaw at the sight of a column of smoke down the street, where the nearest gas station was. Coughing, I bolted back inside. I rushed into Todd’s office "Todd, call 911, there's been an explosion over at the gas station!" Todd frowned at me but looked outside anyways, ”Holy crap!” he practically shouted, his expression immediately melting into a look of surprise. “Okay. Umm. I’m gonna call an ambulance. You can…just…” his speech derailed as he searched for his phone on his cluttered desk. I took the liberty to check on the state of the store. There were still many people in the store, but a lot of them had formed a throng by the exits, looking at the plume of smoke. Nervous chatter seemed to run through the crowd, whispering about stuff on the news: riots or blackouts or terrorists were all the rage recently, and now they had come to our town. I gulped reflexively, trying to swallow the small piece of fear that was starting to blossom in me. 2:00 pm We lost power probably 20 minutes ago and everyone started freaking out. Todd was actually surprisingly calm in all the confusion and herded everyone outside. Store policy is that we close in the event of a power outage lasting longer than an hour, so we’re all playing a waiting game. Some have already left, but there’s a good amount of people waiting around for the power to kick back on. A lot of grumbling and complaining, but nobody’s doing anything about it. I head to my car to lay down for a bit. It’s all I can do, really. ???? ?? I awaken to pain and darkness. Pain from my head prevents me from staying unconscious. Darkness surrounds me; only pin pricks of light dot my vision. It takes me a few minutes to realize the lights are actually stars in the night sky. It eventually dawns on me that I am no longer in my car, and it must be much later than when I napped earlier this afternoon. I look around at my surroundings. I’m in a field. Tall grass shrouds everything below my waist. Which is good, because I’m pretty sure I’m naked, as well. I look around for any hint; any clue as to what happened over what probably had to have been several hours, or heck, anything that can cover my unmentionables. Suddenly the pain in my head flares again and I am paralyzed. Frozen to the spot as my body jerks and contorts uncontrollably. My head snaps up and I see it. The New Moon. The Orb of Darkness. I feel It speak deep within my chest, deep within my heart and soul. RRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMM It calls to Me. Just as it calls to all my Brethren. It wishes for me to feed, like it has all these years. To tear this fragile host body apart and reunite with my Family and Dance and Feed. It whispers to me. You are hungry, Child And I am. Pieces of Time 2856 Words A cloud permeated through the air in the wake of a wheels destruction as it kicked up the remnants of crushed dirt behind it. The throttle of the wheel chimed the chorus of travel as the cart above it crept its way down the road. Two oxen pulled the thing pulling heavily on the thick leather straps that bound them to their harness. Normally oxen would not be ideal for such a long trek but the peddler was transporting something of as much mass as it was of value. A leather blanket covered the contents of the cart. The deep tracks sliding behind it gave a hint to the contents but the canopy otherwise concealed the contents and protect them from harm. The weight however proved to be too much of an obstacle as the cart hit a large divot in the ground and lurched. Suddenly Owen Fain found himself tumbling out of the cart and tucking into a ball doing his best not to subject himself to a crippling injury as he hit the dirt. The contents of the wagon toppled out and the leather harness snapped. A sudden crash from the contents of the toppling cart spooked the oxen as they went running off. A large cloud of dust hand erupted from the road concealing the cart from view as Owen toppled down the nearby hill. A moment later the peddler found himself breathing into the grass underneath him. A quick inspection of his various limbs indicated that his misfortune had not passed on to his bodily functions and he was able to find his feet without much effort. Old weathered hands combed themselves over his pants as he dusted them off. He reached down to grab an old straw hat and smacked it against his leg a few times before returning it to the top of his head. "…no… No No NO!!" he yelled as he climbed his way back up the hill. Looking upon the brown cloud before him he waited patiently for it to settle and for the damage to come into view. A weeping cry came out of the old man as the dust finally settled. Before him stood the cart turned on its side. Large gears bigger then Owen had toppled onto the road as well as two long large steel arms and various other mechanical parts. The old man fell to his knees as his face fell into cupped hands. "No!! Now I will never make it back… " the man cried. Just when he thought all was lost he heard a voice before him. "Elder… what makes you weep so? Has someone wronged you?" Slowly Owen lifted his face from his hands looking up before him. Silhouetted in the fading sunlight was the shadow of a large humanoid figure. As the old peddler wiped his eyes he looked more carefully at the man before him. He was riddled with muscle from head to foot with long brown hair coursing down his shoulders. He did not wear the garb that the Peddler was accustomed to a loin cloth and tribal ties around his arms the only things protecting the man from the elements. "Wronged me?? No I fear I have wronged myself… you see there, do you know what that is? " "That appears to be a cart? Are you a merchant then?" "A merchant no… you see those weren’t wares for market, those are the pieces to a clock. A grand clock as you have ever seen, the greatest of all time. I was to bring these pieces to repair it in the city." "A clock? I have never heard of such a thing "said the Barbarian. "You haven’t, well I suppose not. A clock is a device to tell you the time, those big things with all the edges are gears and those long steel pieces are the arms. They are all on the inside to make it work so that everyone can measure time in the same way." "So you carry with you pieces of time?" The peddler laughed. "Yes, I suppose I do. Well I did, my oxen have run off and there is no way I can reset the cart. I fear I have failed." "Failed? No, I cannot have that. You wish to help the people of the city with these pieces of time? Yes I thought so, then I shall help you. I am Kronos, by what name shall I call you?" "Um… I’m Owen." "Well Owen, stand back. We must set things right." True to his word the large barbarian righted the cart and one by one lifted the large heavy gears and various other pieces of the clock back in the cart. "Thank you Kronos." The merchant said. " But I am afraid that is not enough for I have lost my oxen and I am but an old man, my days of youth long passed. I fear cannot pull the cart." "Then I shall pull it for you!." responded Kronos eager to help. "I could not let you for I am but a poor peddler who has no gold from which to reward you." The peddler patted around for something finding a small folded cloth on him. He unfolded it and saw what was left of his lunch from earlier that day. "All I have are these, raspberries." The barbarian laughed. "Kronos does not value gold, and you can keep your raspberries. You need them more than I. Owen seems like a good man, I shall help you do good and that will be reward enough." The peddler seemed astonished but nodded in agreement as Kronos grabbed the harness and strapped it again to the cart. The barbarian let out a great heave as he began to pull it forward. The wagon let out as squeal as it popped out of the hole and started to lurch down the road. As Kronos pulled the cart Owen walked next to him guiding him down the road. The two walked for miles only taking a break to rest in the evening. Kronos would hunt for the two of them and cook whatever game he had caught over a spit. The two would talk about various things as they got to know each other. After the second day Owen asked a question of the large barbarian that seemed to sit awkwardly with him. "Kronos, you are a fine hunter, and a very helpful companion. I am grateful to have your aid and companionship, but I must know something." "What is it you wish to ask friend Own." "Well, judging from your strength and prowess you are of the stock of one of the southern barbarian tribes. Yet when we crossed paths you were traveling alone, how is that possible? You should be leader of your people not guide to an old man like me." Owen had tried to hide it but there was a certain taint of suspicion in his voice as he questioned the young barbarian. Owen had seen more summers than he could remember and he had spurned his nativity long ago. There was more to this than luck, there was more to Kronos then he let on. "Aye you are wise old man. Kronos comes from a great clan to the south, Clan of the Bear. Or at least Kronos did. As you say I was considered a great warrior among my people and at one point I was expected to one day challenge the chief to rightfully rule the clan, but that was not to be however. " the Barbarian continued as he seemed to stare off in the distance the cart came to a halt. "Darkness falls, let us find game and set camp, then Kronos will tell you the story of his past." When they finally made camp Own found himself sitting on the opposite side of the fire then the barbarian while they shared two large hares that the barbarian had managed to wrangle. Despite Owen’s worry that his traveling companion would be evasive Kronos dove right into his story. He told Owen of the family he had, a young boy who had idolized him as a father and a beautiful wife name Kara whom he had loved with all of his heart. They were his pride and joy and he set out to make a great example to his son of what a great warrior should be. Doing so he traveled on many excursions with his people taking on the most challenging of obstacles and foes. He slayed dragons and trolls, rescued towns from pillaging pirates and ruthless bandits. He even was victorious on the field of war. It was during one such expedition that tragedy struck. Kronos has been off fighting in battle to protect another tribe from an encroaching army when he had left his homestead for longer than usual. Having finally conquered their foes Kronos made his way back to the home of the Clan of the Bear. He was so excited to see his wife and son that he had even brought them great gifts. A beautiful necklace for his wife and a fine sword for his son. When Kronos peaked his head over the crest of the neighboring hill it was the first time he had seen the smoke. Running with all that he had sprinted as fast as he could to the camp of his loved ones. All he found was bones and ash. A tribe of blood thirsty kobolds had come upon the camp in his absence and with all the great warriors off to fight others battles there was no one to protect his people. He found the remains of both his son and wife with teeth marks all over them. It was the first of many days that he would live in regret. Broken hearted and alone Kronos decided that his place was no longer with his clan. He decided to go on a pilgrimage to find a reason to live again. So he now wondered the land looking for purpose, something to help him understand how something so foul could happen to someone who had helped so many. "Despite all that, you still help others? You still help me?" the old man finished with a question. "Of course. I see no other way. An evil like that does not dowse my need to do good, it only reinforces it. Had someone been there to protect my family or had done with those evil creatures beforehand, my family would be alive today." "You are a good man Kronos. I am sorry for your loss." "Do not feel sorry for Kronos, just fix your pieces of time. That will do good like Kronos." with the closing comment the barbarian stood and patted the old man on the back before heading out to take first watch as he did every night. It was the next day in which they finally arrived at the city. wen had not exaterated in his description. In Kronos’ travels he had come across a city or two although he preferred the openness of nature. Despite his distaste for living in such a place a sense of something out of place started to creep through him as he made his way through town. Focusing on pulling the heavy cart he hadn’t paid much attention to what was around him until he finally stopped at the center of town. "What in the…" Kronos called out as the cart came to a lurching halt. "What? What is it?" Owen called from beside the cart as he came racing forward. As he made his way toward the front of the cart he saw Kronos pointing toward the center of the town square. Before them was a large clock tower, the on that the barbarian had assumed they had been traveling to repair. That however was not what had caused him to freeze in fear. Below the clock was a fountain which was in the sculpture of a mermaid and a fish that was blowing water out of its mouth onto the pool below, except that all of the water had stopped in midair. Kronos quickly looked about him and he observed the town was quiet as an empty valley despite all the people who filled the square, each one frozen in place. There was a flower merchant handing a rose to a young girl, a woman carrying her laundry to the tailor for adjustments who was frozen measuring a man with a long piece of string. All types of various merchants were there selling wares, not just them women with children, livestock being pulled through town for various reasons. Kronos put the harness down and started to walk among them till he found himself face to face with a small pigeon stuck in flight. "Owen? What sort of witchcraft is this?" he asked sternly staring strangely at the bird. "Oh right, that! Well I guess I was a little unclear… we aren’t fixing a clock we’re fixing time." "Yes time.. I had a little mishap and time in this town kinda…well I guess I sort of blew it up. I needed all this various pieces and parts to put it back together. You have nooo idea how far a chronostepometer will fly when the wrong spring is sprung, its really quite a mess." The barbarian tensed. Suddenly he was feeling the fool. He had helped this old man bring what the thought were pieces of a clock just to find he was deceived. Rage simmered through his eyes as he stared down the old man. [say]Now Kronos settle down. You just have to help me get these pieces to that clocktower and I can do the rest. Don’t worry, I’m not the bad guy here, in fact I think we can help each other. "And how exactly is that?" Kronos questioned sure that he would not be taken as a fool a second time. "You help me sort this out, restore time to this town, for these people and I can pop you in any place you wish. These people need our help Kronos, just think, they are stuck like this." "Fine, but I am not doing it for you. I am doing it for them." Kronos hurled in anger as he went back to the cart and started to carry the pieces of the clock into the tower. It was mid-afternoon by the time the barbarian had carried up the clock pieces and Owen had gotten to work. Piece by piece he seemed to put one piece after another in its place turning various gears and knobs and such. After about an hour a various adjustments Kronos finally heard the grinding sound of the clock and watched as the gears once again moved and the hand of the clock made its first tic. In an explosion of activity the town cam alive, people hustling and bustling every which way as if they had never missed a step. "How long were they like that?" "About a week. There was a tear in the time from some alchemist doing spells he shouldn't have been and I came to repair it. I missed an adjustment and kablewy!" " So you weren't trying to harm them?" "Oh goodness know, I am a time sprite. We go about fixing all the rips and tears from all those nefarious chrono mages and different threats to tear up the fabric of reality. Its quite fun to help people out in that way. You know... not everyone can see us. You, well you are real special Kronos. If it weren't for your help I fear this town would have been lost. What is it I can do to repay you?" "I already told you there is nothing you can give me that I would want, I did it for the people." "Nothing huh? Well I may not have been able to transport some pieces of time to this tower but I can transport things through time. For example I can transport you to JUST the right moment." "You mean... I could, I could save my wife?" "Precisely." "Do it." "Don't you want to rest first? I mean there really is no rush." "I've waited long enough." "Yes, yes you have. Now the only thing is we can't go rewriting time, a messy thing that is. So when you get back I need you to take your wife and your child away, somewhere you can start over. Make it look like the kobolds won. I need you to come back here next time around. Got it?" "Kronos understands." At his finally agreement the time sprite put his hand on the barbarian's shoulder and cast him back through time. Once Kronos vanished Owen found himself wondering if there ever were any kobolds who attacked the family of Kronos or if it was just them all along. That was how time was, no beginning no end, the grand mystery. Only Kronos would know the truth of it. Now what did I do with those raspberries? he thought. Don't Bite The Hand That Feeds You By Layk - 2528 Words 2:24 PM Lou felt the all too familiar vibration in his pocket. It had become so common place that even when his phone wasn't in his pocket he would feel vibrations on his leg. He was a victim of technology, never realizing how quickly it had taken control of his life. Like an addict he craved to know who had just messaged him, what all important piece of information was waiting out there just for his greedy blue eyes. Eyes that now looked around him, searching for Brad, his supervisor. He was feeling anxious, his left hand was fishing his phone out of his pocket even as his eyes still searched for his opportunity. The phone felt right in his hand, the weight of it, the rubber backing of its fifty dollar military tested case, it rested in his hand like a well-worn glove. Had the case molded to fit to his hand? Had his hand changed to fit to the case? Lou didn't know and didn't care, his only thought was that he needed the information that was nearly within his grasp. Having seen his boss across the office, the cubicle walls had been lowered to inspire a 'team environment', something that somebody far above Brad had read in some book, and implemented without thought or care, the lowered walls had the benefit of allowing Lou to see his boss without standing, he hated the change having preferred the old taller walls, he glanced down at his phone. Toad: Can you pick up something fruity for Mary tonight? The tension surrounding him seemed to dissipate. He had successfully read the message, the addiction was satisfied, for now at least. Sliding his hand with the phone under his desk, he let his well-trained fingers type back a four letter reply. Then slid his phone back into his pocket, and went back to his reports. Lou hated his weekly reports. They always reminded him of how his entire existence was summed up in a few graphs and ultimately into a single line that would be glanced at by some company executive as they collected their bonus, a bonus that was larger than what Lou's entire salary the year before. He had validated that fact last year using the investor’s financial reports; it justified his routinely taking supplies home from work. 3:58 PM The day was nearly over, but those final two minutes seemed to linger out, like watching molasses fill a pan, it was a painful experience. Lou cursed his luck at having to wait until at least four o'clock to shut down. Aside from the lower cube walls they had implemented efficiency software on all the computers. It made notes of when programs were opened and closed, and how that corresponded with the day’s activities. He had learned, the hard way, that shutting down early raised flags in the system that were reported to Brad. Once again his life was rolled up in a tidy report, he had shut down without thought of the specific time for years, but now it was being recorded and reported. There was nothing else for him to do, he'd finished his last work order, and now the waiting game began. He'd tried to think of his plans tonight, but he was anxious enough that it was difficult to do. Instead he found himself staring at the clock on the lower right hand corner of his screen, waiting for it to roll over to the magic number when he could end his week at work and begin his life again. A thought hit Lou, and he quickly clicked the clock once, bringing up the seconds. They were still ticking, however slowly, it hadn't frozen. 5:32 PM The wall of beer in front of him was daunting to say the least. Like so many things in his life it'd changed, and he'd found himself wishing it hadn't. At least with the beer most of it was tasty, but what had been a five minute excursion to the liquor store turned into half an hour looking for something new, it had long ceased to be enjoyable but was another of his addictions. It wasn't an addiction of the beer itself, but rather trying new beer. He even had an app that showed how many beers he had tried, a status update. Like most things it had started off cool, but now he was a slave to the badges. Getting them all the time. His eyes crossed a Tart Raspberry Ale bomber and he was reminded of the text from earlier, and he grabbed the twenty two ounce bottle. "Can I help you find anything?" the skinny bearded worker asked him, his name tag read Brad. There had been a slim chance that Lou would have talked with him before he caught his name, but that was shot then and there. In a different life, that could have been him, showing his superiority to everyone who was, like him, addicted to the craft beer fad. "No, just looking" he answered curtly and went back to his decision, feeling the pressure now to make a choice and get out of here before Brad the beer guy asked him again. Lou could think of nothing worse, he grabbed a four pack of an Imperial Coffee Stout and a six pack of some local India Pale Ale, it was one that he hadn't tried before, and would hopefully earn him a new badge. As he made his way out of the aisle, a death metal looking label caught his eye, he didn't even know what type of beer it was, but the name called him and he grabbed it, his basket now full and the weight of it straining the muscles in his arm and shoulder, he made his way toward the cashier. 6:03 PM Holding a box of beer, with a small dice bag on top of it, both his hands were occupied, but Lou had been in this position before, and he expertly stuck out one finger and hit the doorbell to Toad and Mary's townhouse. The wind outside had picked up and he was hoping they would answer quickly, he was getting chilly and hadn't thought to bring his coat with him tonight. Mary opened the main door, but she was holding a laundry basket and only reached out and moved the handle on the screen door pushing it slightly. Lou acted fast and got his foot in the way before it closed, as she turned away saying "It's only Lou" probably to Toad who was likely in the kitchen. Then turning back to Lou, who was managing to get his body and the box of beer through the door, she spoke "You're early, Lou, Todd is in the Kitchen" and then she disappeared out of his view, but continued talking, but her tone changed as she addressed Toad "Can you come help your friend? He's struggling to get in the door." Lou had finally gotten inside, and was had taken a step onto the carpeted floor when Toad appeared from the kitchen. "What are you doing? Take off your shoes! Mary will kill me!" Toad yelled out as he hurried across the room to get the box of beer from Lou. As Toad approached Lou took a step back, "Uggg, you need to get a leash on your woman Toad." Mary's voice came from the stairway, "You know I can hear you, right?" the sweet tone to her voice hiding some malice that would befall him later. He was going to retort, but a glaring Toad prevented him. Luckily his friend offered to take the beer and free up Lou's hands. "So when is food going to be ready? I'm hungry." Lou asked as he took off his shoes, stepping on the heels and leaving them as they fell in the small entryway. "We'll order pizza when Scott and Darren get here in half an hour." Toad paused as he went around the corner toward the kitchen. Lou began to follow Toad, when his host reappeared without the box and continued "Why're you here so early anyway?" 6:38 PM Lou sat facing the door, waiting for any sound that might emanate from that direction, his stomach grumbling. Darren had shown up just five minutes ago, and Lou hadn't let him even enter the door before asking him what type of Pizza he wanted, and now he was staring at the door waiting for it to open. Waiting for time to pass was becoming the entirety of his day. Scott was sitting across the table, looking over the sheet that Lou had thrust in front of him as soon as he arrived. Darren and Mary were on Lou's right, and Toad on his left. Darren, and the hosts were looking over books and making notes on their own pages. Some idle chatter between everyone else, asking to borrow one book or the other from each other, yet Lou could not be bothered with paying attention. "Looks good to me" Lou was so focused on watching the door, that Scott's words were missed by him completely. It had been four minutes since they ordered the Pizza, and was likely be half an hour before it would show up. Scott, was not so quick to give up on his friend and tried again. "Lou, it looks good to me," he spoke again, waving the paper in front of Lou's longing gaze at the door. "Every week you are starving waiting for the Pizza, why not just bring a snack?" "I don't want to be rude and eat in front of you" Lou spoke with a sneer, but he wished he had done just that. Then he went and grabbed the sheet, looking over it briefly, before asking, "I'm going to make a couple changes. Is that okay?" Seeing a bit of hesitation from Scott, who was playing the role of game master for the first time, he added, "I'll give it back to you to review" 7:58 PM "... the party joins Durn's merchant caravan as they head out of the city." Scott's narration was getting a little bit better, but could still use some work, he had paused and you could see him turning the page, his brow furrowing as he looked confused. "Ah, got it... An hour after being on the road, the road begins to go through a series of blind turns..." Scott paused again, and began rolling dice behind a screen, satisfied with the results, he began shuffling some paper around, before setting a battle map on the table. He started to place the players battle tokens on the map, checking something behind his screen before placing each character, as well as a couple of small paper tokens he was using for Durn and some of the other merchants, but he was continuing to shuffle through papers, looking more frantic. "Um, I forgot the cutout for the wagon, do you have some scissors I can use to make one?" he was looking between Toad and Mary. "I have something even better" Toad got up from the table, and headed toward the stairs, Lou could hear the footfalls clearly going up the stairs and a minute later coming back. When Toad came back, he was holding a small wooden miniature wagon, it looked rather fragile, but he was beaming as he set it down on the table. Nobody, except maybe Toad noticed the frown on Mary's face when he put it on the map. As soon as Toad sat down, Lou grabbed the cart off the map and picked it up to get a closer look at it. "Put that down!" Mary's tone was very authoritative and you could see her getting nervous about Lou holding it. When Lou didn't put it down right away, she pleaded with him. "Come on Lou, can you put down the wagon?" Her eyes drifted toward Toad "Why did you bring that down? It's not for games!" "Oh come on, it fits this game perfectly and nothing is going to happen to it. Right Lou?" "Don't worry about it" Lou retorted as he continued to turn it over, trying to spin the wheels, while leaning back on his chair. BANG The chair seemed to slide out from underneath Lou, the careful balance that he had was lost and he crashed to the ground letting go of the wagon, which crashed hard into the ground. Though not as hard as he did, but hard enough to snap one of the wheels in two. "You idiot! You broke it!" Mary's fury was growing and she stood up, moving around Darren to get closer to both the broken wagon and to the culprit. Lou, sour about falling, and the lack of sympathy he was getting for his own pain, let out a meek "It was junk anyway" as he rolled over to his side so he could stand back up. "Junk? That was not Junk!" Mary bent over to pick up the pieces, then venomously added "If any junk fell just now, it wasn't my cart!" Her barbed comment sent directly at Lou. Lou, still on his side, reached up at her but she backed away and his hand instead grabbed the table cloth, of which he pulled with all his might. The first thing that came over the edge of the table was his own beer bottle, one of the IPA's he had gotten a badge off of, luckily it was empty, falling onto the floor, but somehow not breaking. His papers came next catching the air and floating around the room haphazardly. The cloth had stopped moving, Scott and Darren were holding it down. "Lou! What are you doing?" Lou let go of the cloth as his hand fell to the ground. He got his body into a sitting position, holding his bent knees with his arms, he stared straight ahead. Scott began fixing the table cloth. Toad got up and took Mary into the Kitchen and Darren moved to pick up the miscellaneous papers and the empty beer bottle from the ground. As Darren was picking up the papers something caught his eye and he stood staring at one of Lou's papers. "Really?" Darren’s voice was barely audible, then he looked at Lou and threw the paper at him as he said "This is what you try to pull tonight? Get out of here!" Toad came out of the kitchen looking confused until Darren shoved the sheet in front of him, pointing "Look at those combat feats" Toad, who was to Lou becoming more like Todd and less like his friend Toad, looked disappointedly at his friend, his eyes telling Lou what do to before his mouth gets around to the words. "It's time for you to go Lou" To his credit, and the only time he had done something to worthy of that statement that day, Lou got up, grabbed his jacket and headed towards the door silently. As he was about to walk through the door he heard Todd say "Don't sleight of hand combat feats Lou!" The door jingled when it opened. There'd been an electronic chime when Elliot started, but it had stopped working after only a few days. Elliot had hung some Christmas bells on the inside doorknob as a temporary replacement, but had long since given up on waiting for the Manager to get the chime fixed. It wasn't the sort of thing that the Manager could be bothered with, and besides: Elliot rather liked the sound of the bells.
The man who came through the door, paused, and peered hesitantly around the store was...shabby. No other word for it. Not just his clothing, but the man himself seemed worn. Used. Badly used, at that. Upon seeing Elliot, the shabby man froze. He opened his mouth, started to speak, and then closed it with a snap. Nervously, he licked chapped lips, broke Elliot's gaze, and muttered something to the far corner of the room. Elliot said nothing. They were running low on stock, and although he'd been expecting a delivery, this was clearly a customer. And the customer had to be the first to speak. That was the way things were done, and the Manager had given Elliot strict orders to that effect. Instead of greeting the man, he raised his left eyebrow. He'd spent hours practicing that, staring into the little mirror hanging behind the counter. Little else to do, most days. It annoyed him, when he bothered to think about it, that he still couldn't raise the right eyebrow on its own.. Still muttering, the shabby man turned away and took a step back towards the door. Just a step, and then he stopped and pretend to stare at something old, dusty, and entirely uninteresting on a nearby shelf. Elliot waited. This was typical behavior for a customer. At least this one didn't seem inclined to start shrieking...those people were the worst, and Elliot was nursing a hangover. After a minute, the shabby man turned again, and fixed his eyes on something over Elliot's left shoulder. He cleared his throat, rubbed the back his hand across his mouth, cleared his throat again. "I'm here," the shabby man mumbled, "To...to..." He cleared his throat again, transferred his attention to something over Elliot's right shoulder, and tried again. "I have to...I mean...I want to...no. No. I need to...to buy some time." The last few words came out in a rush, leaving the shabby man pale and shaking. "Right." Elliot agreed. "Yeah. Of course. What kind of time, though? And how many pieces do you need? Hours, minutes, or seconds?" "Years," the shabby man cut him off, "I...I don't know how many, not exactly." Elliot blinked. More of a reaction than he was supposed to show, but…. "Years? Really? That's not gonna be cheap, friend. I mean, not at all." The most Elliot had ever sold before was seven and a half hours, non-concurrent, to a woman who'd had clusters of needles driven into the sockets where her eyes should have been. Elliot shuddered at the thought; he'd seen worse in his time, far worse, but her voice…. "Can you pay?" he asked, desperately trying to drive the memory of that terrible rasping from his mind. (She'd paid with a handful of teeth. Still warm, still wet.) "I know seven names," the shabby man said, "And seven secrets. Seven truths, and seven lies. Seven oaths, seven lives...and seven deaths." "That will suffice," the Manager said, using Elliot's mouth. "That is worth a...respectable amount of time. We do urge restraint, however, in such transactions as these. There are consequences for excess." Elliot hated when the Manager became involved. Numbly, Elliot watched his own hands produce a small box, made from ivory and silver, from nowhere at all. His right hand offered it to the shabby man, who cautiously accepted it. Elliot bit back a groan as his body abruptly became his again, leaving heavily on the counter to keep from falling. Lifting the little box to his lips, the shabby man began whispering to it. He was weeping, oily black tears trickling across his cheeks as he breathed the words. Elliot was the one to look away this time, fighting the urge to put his hands over his ears. This wasn't something that he wanted to overhear. It wouldn't be safe. Wouldn't be healthy. The whispering lasted a few minutes, or a few hours, for an eternity or for no time at all. This was not unusual. Elliot kept himself occupied counting the tiny holes in the water stained ceiling tile overhead. Eight hundred and seventy three. He counted them twice, just to be sure, and then moved on to the next one. Nine hundred and twelve. Elliot was midway through the second recount when the shabby man whispering stopped. Elliot took the box from him carefully, and set it to one side of the counter. It would be gone the next time he glanced in that direction. "Okay," he said, moving around the counter. "All right. Just...one sec." Elliot locked the door, turned the sign, and gestured to a door that hadn't been there when the man came in. "Come on. Let's get it done, right?" The shabby man, wearing an expression composed of equal parts fear and anticipation, nodded again, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks. He trailed mutely behind Elliot as he unlocked the door and swung it silently open, but whispered a curse when he saw what the room contained. The man in in the chair had been old, once. Parts of him still were. Most of him...wasn't. Elliot tried to avoid looking at those parts, although this had become increasingly difficult over the past few weeks He watched Elliot with flat, dead eyes, mouth moving silently. Eliot quickly looked away, ostensibly searching for the knife. It was never where he'd left it, and he suspected that it moved of its own accord when nott being watched. It took a moment for him to find it, embedded to the hilt in one of the tables. A light tug was enough to pull it free, leaving the table surface unmarked. The knife weighed just a little bit less than nothing, blade shaped into curves that the eye refused to follow. Elliot hated it and craved it, and dreamed about the feel of it in his hand far too often for his own comfort. He considered, as he always did, carving off the eighteen minutes that he'd spent with the needle woman. Time, he was certain, that he would be better off without. And, as always, he shrugged the idea away. The Manager surely wouldn't approve of his using the knife so. Elliot held the knife up for the shabby man to see. "How much? To start, I mean." "One year," the shabby man replied Elliot used the knife delicately, letting the curves of the blade shape the cut. The man in the chair exhaled an almost silent scream of mingled pain and relief. The piece sliced free was crystalline and green. It held the sound of a woman's scream, the taste of raspberries, the smell of burning leaves. The shabby man ate it greedily, snap-snap-snap, eyes shining. His temples were grey, the lines on his face etched suddenly deeper. He shook his head. "Not enough. Oh, god, not nearly enough. Give me another piece." Another. Blue foam, breaking glass, blood, cinnamon. The shabby man slurped it down, screamed with frustration, and thrust out his hand for another. Elliot hesitated. "You're sure about…." The shabby man didn't answer He didn't have to. Hurriedly, Elliot made the next cut. A twisted piece of metal, the color of brass. Distant thunder, a bite of a sour apple. Books, old and beginning to rot. When the shabby man swallowed, there was a scar across the palm of his hand, and had been long before he'd walked through the door. "I was there," the shabby man whispered to it, "I fought! But it...it didn't change anything." He stared at Elliot, eyes wild. "It didn't change anything! I need more! I can still fix it, if I have enough time!" Elliot cut. Or perhaps the knife did. It was difficult to know for sure if he was using it, or if it was using him...but either way, the cuts were made. Again and again, carving off ever larger pieces of time. The shabby man devoured each piece eagerly, pathetically certain that this one would be the one that made things...whatever those things were…. right. There was almost nothing left of the man in the chair now, just wisp-thin fragments of an existence. The faint screaming had long since ended, for which Elliot was silently thankful, but the shabby man's wailing had more than taken its place. Elliot had felt a vague curiosity about what the shabby man was trying to accomplish, but knew better than to ask. The Manager had rules about that, as well. But with each piece that he handed the man, his curiosity had withered. It was gone entirely now, replaced by a growing fear that the shabby man would actually tell him. He was bent now, the shabby man, and what little hair he had remaining had gone white. His face and arms were a network of poorly healed scars, his left eye gone missing a few pieces back. There was no longer any hope in his face, just desperation. He shuddered as he swallowed another year, the left side of his face falling into ruin. Falling to one knee, he let out a gasp of pain, and reached out to Elliot for support. Elliot shied back, not wanting the feel the shabby man's touch, a thought somehow even worse than the memory of the needle woman's voice. "Please," the shabby man wheezed, "Please! Just a little more! I'm so close to fixing it!" Elliot looked at him, and then at the now-empty chair. "There's nothing left," he said. "I've given you everything we have, you know? We never got our delivery today, and…." "Please!" Elliot hesitated, unsure of what to do. "I…" he began, "Can give you no more time," the Manager concluded. Elliot's lips curved, as if pulled up by a hook at each corner of his mouth. "You have spent in excess of your credit, Mister Whitman. You were warned, were you not, of the dangers of excess?" Keening, the shabby man collapsed fully to the floor. "And yet? You showed no restraint, Mister Whitman. None whatsoever. Considering the extraordinary nature of your circumstances, it is perhaps understandable. But this is a business, Mister Whitman. Debts must, of necessity, be paid." Elliot's body dropped to a crouch next to the shabby man, who whimpered pitifully in response to the motion. "Normally one hates to traffic in used goods, but the travails you have suffered have given your time a certain piquancy that is favored by our more...specialized customers. I am expecting one such individual shortly, in fact, so I am afraid that our business must now be concluded. I leave you now in the able hands of my assistant: he will ensure that you are well situated before he resumes his customary post." Elliot's hand raised the knife, and his lips murmured its name. It writhed in his hand like a puppy eager to be petted. Elliot dropped it as he lurched to his feet, once again master of his own body. The knife landed silently, leaving a dent in the linoleum floor, and Elliot made no move to pick it up again. "Please," the old man whispered "Please." Elliot, careful not to meet his eyes, made no reply. The shabby old man was heavier than he looked, and it was harder work than Elliot had expected to get him into the chair. He ignored the man's mumbled pleas; he'd had a lot of practice doing that, these past few months. At the doorway Elliot paused for a moment, looking back at the man now occupying the chair. Not so different from the man who'd been there before, just...shabbier. And, for the moment, more complete. Elliot let the door close, leaving no trace of its presence, and sighed. He liked to tell himself that this wasn't the worst job that he'd ever had, but days like this made him question his decision to leave the slaughterhouse. His Pieces of Time by LordGingerKing [1119 Words not including these words] He met her when they were both children. Her, the most annoying person he would ever meet. It was spring, and the morning was brisk. Twelve year old Timothy was busy being a great paladin, defending the forest by his village from invading denizens that ducked behind trees and lurked in every shadow. He held his magic sword (a knobbly stick, but in the mind of the boy, it was definitely a sword) in one hand straight ahead as he sprinted through a field, slaying every imaginary foe he passed. When he was positive anything evil in the field could be slain (and when his young lungs began to protest) he stopped, rolling out onto the ground. He yelped as he flopped down right upon a thorny bramble. He jumped up swinging his stick, not to be defeated by his unseen foe. He quickly gives up the endeavor and his stick (for it was only a stick now) as fat, succulent raspberries that covered the bramble distracted the boy and filled his belly. He had completely dropped his guard when, suddenly, a voice startled him, “What were you doing with that stick, jumping around all over the place? And I saw you jump right on that raspberry bush! Serves you right for being so silly!” The boy jumped up and whirled towards the voice, sneering when he saw it belonged to one of the girls in the village. She stood rather of matter of fact, with crossed arms as she demanded an answer. Her face was scrunched, like when a child tries to emulate the appearance of a chiding adult, but with her pockmarked freckles and mess of red hair, she looked rather comical, and he would have laughed had he not been so flustered. “What would you know, you're only ten,” he huffed, puffing out his scrawny chest as much as he could with his far too large shirt, “and if you must know, I was saving a beautiful princess from orcs so she'll marry me! And it's a sword, not a stick!” (For now that he wasn't distracted, it was surely a sword once more). “I am eleven,” she said, followed by her sticking her tongue out rather rudely, “and no princess would ever want to marry you!” Fifty years later he chuckled, a smile across his face, “But she did.” He fell in love with her when they were adults. Her, the most beautiful girl he had ever met. He had left his village at sixteen, but he was twenty two now, and returning home to family from a yet unfruitful world. Ahead of him, he spotted a woman holding her hair into a stressed bun and assessing a broken wheel on her wagon's bottom, and an empty horse harness at its front. Even from a distance, her bright red hair gave away her identity. He approached and she turned to him, “Stranger, could you care to help? My wheel...it broke, and my horse, she ran off when I unleashed her!” It was a hot summer's day, and the girl looked absolutely distraught from heat and despair. She let her hair fall to her waist as he assessed her, and he began to grin as he realized she was yet to recognize him, and laughed, “Alas, a poor princess stranded on the roadside! If only there were a knight to come and rescue her!” She gave him a curious look, as if he were possibly daft in the head, but then cocked her head and slowly a smile appeared on her face, “Now where would I find a knight? Perhaps busy jumping into raspberry brambles? Look at you, you haven't even got a sword!” “I can find a sword anywhere in these parts!” the boy declared gesturing to the treeline (or his armory as he would have put it), “Why don't you allow me to rescue you? I'll walk you to town, and help you find your horse.” “No princess would ever let a knight like you rescue her, thank you,” she retorted playfully as she started walking towards town, purposefully striding ahead of him independently before falling behind to walk at his side. Forty years later he smiles, giving her a wink, “But she did.” He cherished her as they grew old. Her, the most cherished girl he had ever met. He was thirty two years, now, and had built a home. He chopped wood outside on a block, his pile for the winter growing with each chop. Despite the cool autumn air, he was drenched in sweat from the labor, and as he sat upon his block wiping his brow with the back of his hand, a voice called from the door way of his home. “You foul man,” she called, pulling her straight red hair back into a knot as she cleaned, “what kind of knight makes their wife do laundry like that? Just look at yourself!” “What do you expect from a man who just slayed a thousand orcs?” the man declared, as he hefted his axe from the bladed end and began to wave it about like a sword, “And I'll slay a thousand more to keep you safe, my princess!” He fought his way to her, making her giggle and blush, “and what of your hundred small servants to help you with the laundry?” Her eyes grew wide in mock shock, “A hundred? I believe you've brought me only two! And a third shall be positively enough to help with the laundry I assure you!” She rubbed her laden and round belly with one hand as she added, “though if you keep making such a mess of your clothes, no princess will ever wash them for you!” Thirty years later, he grins, rubbing a hand on his clean shirt, “But she did.” They lived, and they aged, they raised their children. They loved more, and more, and she promised that if he was always such a knight, that no princess would ever leave him. Years later, he mourns, a single tear running down his face, “But she did.” He was fifty two when that cold winter night took her, peacefully, he lush red hair draped over her shoulder as the slept. She looked like a princess, for she was his princess, and though he mourned her he always smiles at the thought of her. His children would visit and they would reminisce upon fond memories of their mother and his princess. He would tell them tales of raspberries, broken wagon wheels, and laundry no princess would ever clean. “You must have really loved her, Pa,” they would always say. “Oh, but I did.” Parsley by CapriciousCalico Word Count: 1723 “..Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme...” Arin sat under the wagon hugging his knees as he watched the downpour of rain from beneath its shelter, the water fell from the grey sky in drops the size of thimbles, pelting the earth and its inhabitants with a merciless assault. People ran hither and throw to escape the rainstorm, mud splattering against shoes and clothing as shops and businesses closed down with a flurry of movement and urgency. Arin himself was coated in the wet dirt from having fallen in it earlier, the wagon he was currently sitting under had crashed into a huge rock in the cobbled road while he had been in the middle of running errand, and it knocked him off his feet and right into the muddy earth nearby. Now with a broken wheel and no aid he was stuck waiting for the deluge to pan out before he could even think about returning home — for it would be home he would be returning to. The job he had been thus sent was promptly ruined by the onset of the rain, and really who was going to accept their wet garments now? The twenty year-old serf dropped his head into his lap in defeat and heaved a hefty sigh. “...Remember me to one who lives there…” The day he had finally been put on laundry duty was the day it decided to rain after six months of blue skies and dry heat. “...She once was a true lover of mine…” Laundry duty was by far the easiest task to perform as an indentured servant to one of the most the rudest shop owners in Sharbert, Gurfwin. He was a gruff, burly fellow hinging around his later years with an attitude and charm of a starving bear. You were lucky if you managed to make it through two whole hours of day labor without hearing a complaint or snarky remark about your person, job well done or no. You could have shined his shoes, made him breakfast, and hustled customers for their dowries worth and the most you could get out of him was the eggs were a little runny and a side-eye glare for good measure. “...Tell her to make me a cambric shirt…” Life as a servant (slave really) to Gurfwin was hell on earth and no one escaped its prison. Except those on laundry duty. On laundry duty you were basically stuck in the washrooms all day, keeping to yourself, and then leaving to go out and deliver the loads to the customers who paid for the trade. Meaning Gurfwin didn’t mind you for a full day and on the next day you were off yonder, out to greet each customer as you handed them their unsoiled undies, away from the dungeon you call home. But having been a newbie to the shop a few months prior, Arin had been forced to do all the menial work the other senior servants didn’t want to do. But eventually everyone gets to be on laundry duty and his day had finally come…only to be washed away by angry clouds. “..Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme...” But what bothered Arin the most was, after months of waiting for rain, enduring a drought unlike any Arin had heard of before, the weather decided to finally straighten up on what has to be the biggest festival in all of Ethendayle, the Scarborough Fair. “Where are you going? To Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Remember me to a bonny lass there for once she was a true lover of mine…” It was the only solace that he had to help support him through the next fifteen years of servitude he had offered up. This joyful, buoyant ceremony of arms and kinsmanship brought to Arin a moment of peace, a small slice of mercy and generosity that he would be in dire lack of during the rest of the normal year. Here at the Scarborough Fair any and everyone was allowed to join in the fun and festivities offered for the holiday. It lasted a week straight, people pouring in from foreign lands just to come here and praise the name of amity, of togetherness. Where old friends reunite, family from all over congregate and a joyous reunion, and where loved ones share a first kiss… Arin touched his fingers to his lips, now chapped from the chill air brought in by the rain, and thought of another time, another place. Earlier years where his dreams and happiness were within sight – within grasp of his hands. He thought back to the very reason he had given up his freedom... “Tell her to make me a cambric shirt Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Without any thread or needle work’d in it And she shall be a true lover of mine” Brown eyes and pale hair with skin kissed by the sun, a boy full of energy and life who had a love for the Scarborough Fair. His name was Sean even though Arin called him “Rasby” after he had discovered Sean had an obsession for raspberries. It was the primary reason for his love of the fair, because here in the province of Sharbert raspberries were considered an exotic fruit and could only be found one day a year; at the festival to end all festivals, which had also became the place where they shared their first kiss. The memory of it tasted just as ripe and juicy as the raspberries his lover enjoyed to eat. It’s a memory Arin keeps deep in his heart to remember in his darkest hours, and it always manages to bring a smile to his face. The fair was their haven, a place where they could go and be together and not have to look over their shoulders in fear of eyes watching them. Waiting to see when the would slip up, because the penalty for their love, a sinful love, was at best a lifetime of servitude and at worst death. But with the Scarborough fair being the center of culture and fun, no one gave much credence to two men standing a little closer than usual, to touching a little more than deemed average for male friends. It was and still is there sanctuary But now it’s the only place they allowed to see each other. “Tell her to wash it in yonder well, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Where water ne'er sprung nor drop of rain fell, And she shall be a true lover of mine.” It happened suddenly in a night. Arin had been asleep in his bed when the door to his small home had been thrown opened, and guards from the royal palace stormed in, waking him and his ailing mother from their slumber and forcefully dragging Arin to meet his prosecutor, the town’s priest, on the steps that entered into the house of God. Sean, son of Edrin of Sharbert had fled. His father had accused him of heresy, somehow having found out about his preference, and reported to the catholic church that his own heir had committed the act of sodomy. The punishment of which was a guaranteed trip straight to the guillotine. Rasby’s own father had sentenced his son to death. Arin had been brought to the church under suspicion of being the other party the heinous act committed, but upon lack of substantial evidence (evidence they somehow managed to conjure in Rasby’s case) the most they were allowed to give him was fifteen years as an indentured servant. Thus far he has only managed to complete three of the allotted years. “Tell her to plough me an acre of land, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Between the sea and the salt sea strand, And she shall be a true lover of mine.” Arin looked up, or as much as he could being crouched under a broken wagon, and saw that the rain had finally let up. Crawling from beneath the temporary shelter, the serf began to inspect the damage done by the rain and saw it was just as he feared. Nothing had been spared from the wrath done at mother nature’s hand, not even the small bits of clothing at the very bottom of the burlap sacks had been saved from becoming soggy wet cloth. This would mean he would have to start all over again, the rest of today and early tomorrow spent on washing and drying the clothes again, and then the next delivering them on a hopeful more sunnier day. Arin sighed inwardly before he began to fix the broken wheel and then making his way back to his daily penitentiary. This meant three days out of the five he was permitted to be with only person he had left in the world after his mother had passed. Because even though Rasby had fled, he always came back on their sacred day. Always. Arin would have to write his dear one a note that he would be late this year, but it would be alright because they both knew waiting would be worth it. “Tell her to plough it with one ram's horn, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. And sow it all over with one peppercorn, And she shall be a true lover of mine.” As the debtor trudged his way back, he sung to himself the last two stanzas of a fabled song. The last lines had a lot of significance to Arin, they reminded him of how he had to collect memories and store them away for better days, to hold onto moments bit by bit in order to find strength to carry on, keeping the all at home in the heart. They were his refuge from a dreary life, tiny instances and flashes he had to himself. They weren’t grand or magnificent by the were meaningful and gave him purpose, his small little pieces of time... “Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. And tie it all up with a tom tit's feather, And she shall be a true lover of mine. Tell her to gather it all in a sack, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. And carry it home on a butterfly's back, And then she shall be a true lover of mine.” A Reason to Smile
“I am so hot, Karist, and thirsty,” Mias spoke through chattering teeth and Karist knew his fellow escapee was in trouble. Karist looked about at their makeshift camp and found the mug they had stolen. He had filled it earlier from the stream and had crushed some ripe raspberries and raspberry leaves into the mug. Calipha had taught him growing up that raspberries were a good means of fighting infections and he feared that Mias was fighting off such an illness. He raised the tonic to the shivering man’s lips and helped him drink. Mias laid back after gulping down the water and seemed to doze off. Karist knew things were not right. Ever since they had fled the prison wagon, and the impending burning at the stake in the fanatical Bishop’s palace, they had been moving as fast as possible away from the roadway. Mias was much larger, older, and stronger than he was. But, two nights ago, while running from an inn where they had taken the mug, some table scraps, and a few items of clothing from a laundry pile that had been left unattended, Mias had done something to the still healing brand on his forearm. Yesterday, it was deep red and Karist tried making a poultrice of some leaves that should have helped, but they had heard a dog barking and were afraid it was someone following after them. He pulled back Mias’ shirt, stolen from another wash line a day after their escape, and the brand used to identify a deserter was an angry red with a line flowing out along the large twists of veins on the man’s arm. He sighed, and could hear Calipha’s voice in his head, “when the red races along the veins, death can come for the wounded.” He had to do something. He tried to focus, like Calipha would have him do or at least try to do, and when he did his first thoughts were of her lying in her bed in the hut she shared with him nearly all of his life. His mind brought up her deeply weathered and lined face, the thick grey long braids and the heavy breathing that was common her last few months. She died there, the cures and what she tried to teach him surpassing their abilities in the end. He shook his head, focus, I need to focus, Mias needs me to focus. Deeper he guided his thoughts, trying to find the memory he was looking for and that he had used in the past. Darkness, then his mind replayed the prisoner wagon with all of his fellow condemned passengers – all branded. Some were scorched with the rune for heretic like himself, others for desertion like Mias, some for more heinous crimes. The lightening of the storm that grew flashed and he could remember the looks of those fellow poor souls. Yet, now he noticed something he didn’t realize before. She was there and she was smiling. He let his mind race after that memory, pulling it forward and holding it where he could really absorb it. She was there - a waif like girl, whitish blonde hair that was tussled, dirty but not caked with dirt, filth and straw like all of the others. She had blue eyes of a type of blue that looked like the deep ice of winter. He saw everyone lurch from one side to the other as the iron and oak cart swayed as the giant wheels tried finding the ruts of the road towards Oppara and its deranged bishop. His mind replayed those last few minutes in the cart and in doing so, he realized she never swayed, never lurched, and at times quietly giggled. When he had caught her eye, she had even winked at him and smiled. Fear and dread had kept him from realizing these things at the time. Then his mind returned to the storm, the thunder growing closer, and the lightening flashing more of a pulsation than a rhythm. The jagged bolts had raced across the night sky and he realized that the rain had stopped as the intensity increased. She had said she was going to end this and when she did, she smiled with the biggest smile he had ever seen. It was not inviting, but rather more devious and she was floating above the filthy straw in the cart. Then the storm intensified and its rhythm was pounding, punctuated by the screams of horses and guards. The girl was glowing and the glow crackled as her hair formed a bright goldish circle about her face. She had looked right at him at that point and said, ”I grow tired of this game, release me from this cage,” she flung her arms wide and lightning flashed and cracked around the cart. Then his mind replayed the memory of the cart flying apart – walls, iron bars, iron cladded roof all of it just flung outward in response to the girls gestures and words. As those pieces went flying, she had risen higher and higher into the air, the lightening dancing about her and then stabbing downward at remains of the Bishop’s guards. She had looked back at him and Mias, they had been separated from some of the more evil types within the cart who had been talking about escaping. Her voice echoed still in his mind. ”You are free, free to find a different path, free to seek revenge, or free to seek places far from this place,” she spit the last word as if it was a foul tasting morsel that had somehow crossed her lips. ”Run from this place, find your own way.” Run they had, past one of the broken wheels that still smoldered, past others too emaciated, too frightened, or too confused to process the storm-waif’s encouragement. They had ran for days. “Uhrhhhggg,” the moan shook Karist from the memory and he looked down at Mias. The veteran’s head was sweating. Focus, you have to focus, his mind told him but the voice was that of Calipha before she was sick. He closed his eyes and searched for the memory. As he did so, a slight breeze caught his face and hair. His mind went to the memory this time without pausing or fleeting to another. There it was, he smiled as he remembered when he first learned the song of healing and the finger motions. As he recalled the melody and ancient words he had been taught, he sang them with a strength that seemed to be pulling the nascent breezes towards him. He opened his eyes, and his fingers flew into contracted motions and waves as he sung aloud the remembered tune. He had done something similar in the cart, but his mind had done it without hesitation and without thinking amidst the panic, sweat and filth of the cart. That had healed both his brand and Mias. Now, this was similar, but at the same time it felt different. The final gesture he made with movements that matched that of the breeze that had found him again. He felt the energy course through him, through his fingers, and through his eyes then it was channeled by his mind into Mias’ forearm and spread outward from there. Mias coughed, shuddered as if catching a chill, and then his eyes went wide with his chest heaving upwards slightly. The red lines pulsated, raised, then retreated, as the brand returned to a color of a newly healed wound. The former soldier opened his eyes and smiled at Karist in relief. At the same time, Karist heard in his mind laughter, the same laughter he had heard the storm-waif make when she flew off into the storm. He lost his focus and as he did so a breeze caressed his temple. Or, it seemed to, he thought. Mias moved onto an elbow and looked up at Karist. He had a puzzled look on his face as his greenish-gray eyes, has overly squared jaw slightly a skewed. ”Have you seen a ghost, Karist, and why am I sleeping midday?” Karist shook off the impression that he had had a bit more help than he realized, the healing song and the breeze was just a coincidence he told himself. ”Well your wound there on the brand went sour, and I couldn’t recall the healing song. I was trying to do anything I could to help.” Karist stood and looked about the makeshift resting spot they had occupied for hours now. His possessions were less than meager consisting of his former prisoner’s tunic that he had fashioned into a knapsack that contained a partial loaf of bread and some old cheese. They would need to find more suitable clothing, food, shelter, and such, he thought to himself. He heard Mias lift himself off the ground and stand. ”What did you do to me, lad? I feel like slept for hours, but am a bit light headed at the same time.” Mias shook himself, rubbed the dark stubble that was forming into a beard on his face, and stretched out his arms like someone waking up from a very long, deep sleep. He was wearing his prison tunic and a pair of breeches that they had stolen from the laundry pile behind that inn. The dark woven breeches had fit about his waist and upper legs, but had to be torn at the knees to be wearable as Mias’ feet and calf muscles were much bigger and longer than the original owners. His size never ceased to surprise Karist as the man’s arm span seemed to be at least two and half paces and double Karist’s. Mias’ hands, arms and legs were more than double Karist’s combined. Mias caught Karist’s stare and snickered. ”Don’t know what to make of you, youngling, but it seems that you have never seen a fighting man before.” Mias took a step towards Karist and slapped him on his upper left arm nearly knocking Karist to the ground. That brought a laugh from Mias and Karist rolled his eyes once he caught his balance. He rubbed his arm and could still feel the impact of Mias’ slap. Mias’ laughter only increased. ”Next time, I may just leave you to the Fates,” Karist said with a broad smile and for a moment he forgot that they were on the run and had been prisoners. He had saved his friend and that was worth smiling about. The attic had a strange scent of history although John would claim it was more the smell of dust and moisture from the roof. Old toys from a time when the house resonated with the sound of little running feet stood quietly among the stacked cardboard boxes, as if they waited to be played with again. The chance of that to ever happen was slimmer than an icicle’s in a forest fire. John was not interested in the toys nor if his grand children wanted to inherit them. He had other things to think about.
The 71 years old John Hammond stood at the threshold of change: He had reached an age where a two-story house was too much to take care of alone. Margaret died fourty years prior. God he missed that woman. No man could ask for a woman like here to care for him or their three children. She was loyal, kind and had an uncharacteristic habit of speaking her mind. But John loved his wife even after a drunk driver sent her in the ground. So much he had never considered of finding another one. Now the children had left their nest and gone on with their own lives. He rarely saw them. Usually when he telephoned them they were busy with their own lives. Sandra, the oldest, worked in marketing at some fancy firm in Delaware and had two daughters, Tiffany and Trisha. James was in the army and had gone to Afghanistan for the second time. God knows why he returns to that Taliban hellhole. And Peter worked at a motor company as a mechanic, had a good wife and two kids. John doesn’t know if they were boys or girls; Peter cut off all connections when he left their childhood home. John could still feel the sting of their last argument in his heart. He can’t remember what it was about and it didn’t matter. It was the sharp words that were thrown through the room, accusations of a father who wasn’t there for them when their mother died. Then Peter slammed the door, never to return again. The storage box felt heavy as John carried it away from its resting place in the attic. His worn hands felt unsure under its weight, despite his knowledge of the box’s contents. The box hadn’t been open for what seemed like ages. It would have been on its spot much longer if it wasn’t because of the bittersweet sentiments. They were photographs from an entire life, those that didn’t warrant a place down below, but also those that carried enough importance not to throw away. Before John retired he worked as a photographer. He had a small shop in Terrance Crossing, a small rural town in Colorado. The area had a great wildlife and the town enjoyed the flow of tourists coming to experience it. Even after digital cameras won out on the traditional, there were a handful of die-hard fans who refused to step into the modern age of ones and zeroes. They either wanted to support John’s shop or believed the pictures the digital photos took didn’t have any soul. Perhaps both. John still used his darkroom until the day he sold off his business and retired. The old black storage box opened to reveal rows upon rows of photographs. Much like insects caught inside amber, pictures were light waves recorded upon paper. They were memories from another time. A better time. John picked up a black and white photo of their house: it was a wooden two-story home a good distance from Terrance Crossing, with a small creek crossing their property. It was Margaret and John’s nest and perfect of raising their children. John could almost smell the clean laundry waving in the wind by the side of the house. It was Margaret’s scent. Now the laundry doesn’t smell of anything and the house is quiet save for an old man trotting about. John could feel the hot tears swell up in the corner of his eyes; although he was surprised he still had tears to shed. He cursed the drunk driver who took his wife’s life. He cursed his own inability to raise his children himself. Even worse he cursed himself for being alone in all of this. In only a few hours the moving van would pull over in front of his house and he would go to an elder home. The house was already sold. John didn’t know who had bought his home. There was no reason to. He had everything arranged by the real estate agent. If only Margaret was here to pick up the pieces of her distraught husband. The picture went down into the storage box again and another was taken up for inspection. It was a picture of his children. Sandra was eight, James six and Peter three, and standing in line facing the camera. They all sported a broad smile, except Peter who was more interested in the raspberry stain on his shirt. It was a hot summer that year and the raspberry bushes in the back yard blossomed like there was no tomorrow. The kids went there to pluck the sweet berries. Peter must have smeared his clothes with a berry with his young, thick uncontrollable fingers. John loved those fingers when he held up his youngest boy to his face. They would always seek out in curiosity, trying to understand why daddy’s beard was all pointy and smooth at the same time. The picture felt ten times heavier in his hand and dragged his heart down with it. It felt like yesterday when he took the picture with his trusty Canon Pellix QL. John carefully placed the picture back among many others and picked up another to study and reminisce. But this picture was not one he could not remember he had taken. Looking back at him was the face of a young man with a curious and thoughtful look in his eyes. As if he was studying the viewer holding the picture. John recognized the man as his younger self. But he couldn’t remember when or why he had taken the picture. John took great pride with his work. He could remember any picture he had taken in his life. This one… He wrecked his mind of how this one could find its way to the storage box. However there was something oddly familiar with the look of his eyes. It dawned on him that he had seen the same eyes before. But the eyes belonged to an older man. John remembered the strange picture that formed in the developing fluids many, many years ago. It was the face of an old man staring back with an inquisitive look. John had concluded it was when he was repairing a camera’s broken wheel that it somehow had opened its shutter and taken a picture. He told himself the odd angle, shaking of the camera and motion blur had made him look old, but the picture was unnaturally sharp to be the case. It shouldn’t even be possible. Was this… the same picture? Of himself getting younger instead of getting older? John looked closer and felt a shiver down the spine. The picture was too perfect, so realistic. As if the picture was a window to the past. ---------- ”Honey?” Margaret went up the latter to the attic. John had been up there for longer than she felt worried. Even the children were asking where he was. He had been acting so strangely ever since he returned home from his job in town. He talked about this strange picture he had developed in his darkroom and then went up in the attic in a hurry. It concerned her how he was acting: she’d never seen him like that before. As she pushed away the heavy trapdoor Margaret peeked up over. She feared she would disturb her husband in whatever he was doing. She didn’t know what it was, but she didn’t want to fall on John’s bad side. ”John?” she called out with a low voice. A short distance from the trapdoor she saw John crouching over the photo storage box with all the pictures that meant something for them, but didn’t have downstairs. He was looking intensely at a photo he had in his hand. There was no reaction from when Margaret called his name. Margaret felt it running down her spine. What was it that took up all his attention? ”John?” she said again louder. John looked up with a confused look upon his face at the sound of his name. He looked at her as if he hadn’t seen her for several years. Then he opened his mouth to say something, but instead raised his hand to touch his face. His fingers caressed his cheek, nose and lastly his hair. Margaret felt something was very wrong. She knew it was when John suddenly said ”God!” John, for God’s sake, tell me what is wrong”, she yelled as her legs almost jumped up on the floor of the attic. John got up as well with glassy eyes. ”Oh Margaret darling!” he said as if she had returned to him after a long voyage. He took a step towards her with his arms out and caught her in an embrace. She was still confused on what was going on, but pulled him tighter into herself. ”Dearest”, she said. ”What is going on?” ”I feel like I’ve woken up from a bad dream”, she said with a husky voice. He was crying. ”Margaret, I‘ve missed you. My life is not worth living without you”. ”Honey, are you alright? Should I call Doctor Baker?” ”No, I’m okay”, he said as he gently pulled away to look into the eyes of his wife. ”I’m just… glad”. ”Well, I believe you”, said Margaret relieved. ”We should get ready for the evening. The Parkers are expecting us for supper, remember?” ”NO!” he shouted and startled Margaret. His fingers dug deeper into her arms. It hurt. He looked back at her with anxious eyes. ”No, please. Let’s stay here. I have a bad feeling about tonight”. Last edited by Aethera; May 18th, 2016 at 10:12 AM. |
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