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May 2016 Competition Entries Topic: Better to Ask Forgiveness than Permission Challenge: an anachronism, cats, and tarot cards Winner: For Whom the Bell Tolls by Davion Everybody Plays the Fool by dukesteel (1183 Words)
Jack hammer is a private detective in New York City. His office is on the 7th floor of the Pennsylvania Hotel just across the street from Madison Square Garden. The 7th floor was a good location for it is close to street level enough to see what’s going on but high enough to give him privacy to conduct business. It is a nice late spring day in Central Park. Jack didn’t have a case so he sat in the grass watching a youth soccer game. His Secretary Kimberly’s daughter was playing in the game. A blob with teams of red and blue plodded from left and right throughout the field. Kimberly’s daughter Lucy scored 4 goals and assisted on 3 others. Jack gave high fives and hugs when Lucy scored. Kimberly took Lucy home to Brooklyn. Jack took a walk in the park for a little while after the game. He bought a 20 ounce Coke and a soft pretzel from a funny street vendor. He liked to people watch observing the various ways New Yorkers interact with each other. Sometimes you get friendly ones who will talk to you about anything mostly current events. The majority just ignore you while they pass by looking at the ground as if to acknowledge you exist will disturb their reality. Jack was used to that working in the city for more than 5 years. Jack saw a man in a medieval jester costume 20 feet away. He pulled out several tennis balls and threw them on the grass. He made some strange hand movements and a glowing energy sparked from his fingers. Suddenly grown men and women chased the balls. Mostly men and some women bounded on the grass on all fours like dogs playing fetch. They scrambled to get the balls back to the jester in suits and skirts totally losing their minds happily retrieving the balls. Others stroked the balls like cats playing with balls of yarn. When the balls were returned, the people effected slowly regained control over themselves. The jester vanished in a puff of smoke leaving a pack of tarot cards. Jack tried to pick up the tarot cards but they vanished when he touched them. He went over to question the people affected. He showed them his PI badge before doing so. Normally he had to do that even if he witnessed the event. They didn’t remember anything which he expected. The Jester was something of an anachronism of a time gone by. Whether he liked it or not, he was on the case. Later that night, Jack and Kimberly had dinner at Lombardi’s Pizza in Little Italy. He liked pepperoni and mushrooms, Kimberly, liked extra cheese and sausage. The compromised on 1 Large pie with pepperoni and sausage. After dinner they had dessert at Rice to Riches a rice pudding place a half block down on the right. Kimberly had a strawberry blueberry flavor while Jack had a chocolate peanut butter similar to Reese Cups. He walked her to the subway where they rode it home. The next day he checked the newsstand for anything about the jester in Central Park yesterday. The story must have missed the cutoff for today’s paper or no reporters were there to write up the action. Though he would have liked some witness information, he didn’t expect it so he got a hot dog at the vendor a few feet away. He walked down the block to get the word on the street. No one heard of the jester or what happened yesterday. The jester showed up and produced a balloon out of thin air. Jack ran after the jester but he disappeared before Jack could get to him. Jack grabbed the balloon before it flew away. The balloon was a brown teddy bear. Attached to the balloon was a message reading “Cats and Dogs fight but Bulls and Bears will bite.” There was also a time on the message. In an old English style commonly seen in Renaissance fairs stated 3:30PM. Jack knew right away what Bulls and Bears referred to but Wall Street was 20 blocks away. The time on his watch displayed 2:30. If he ran to the New York Stock Exchange or NYSE for short, it would take him a half hour at least and he would be dead tired when he got there. A cab is faster but hailing one is near impossible on a busy non prominent street. He did the usual thumb gesture and yell for “Yo Cabbie.” After 7 cabs flew past, he resorted to flashing the PI badge in the face of the next cabbie to stop at the red light. He told the driver to take him to NYSE and further state the urgency of the situation. The cabbie rolled his eyes at Jack but nodded to signify he understood. Jack entered the NYSE trading floor at 3:15. The trading action was super hyper nearing the closing bell. The jester popped in the middle of the trading floor. He made some hand movements and the same magical energy flew from his hands. Suddenly every trader began acting like monkeys at the zoo fighting over territory. The traders behavior escalated to the point of biting at each other and throwing pens like bananas. Jack had to do something fast so he stood in the middle of the chaos. He resisted the urge to thrash at the stock traders like a silverback gorilla rampaging to establish order. He fought off people flying at his as controlled gentle as he could. As he resisted, the jester laughed manically at the crazy scene before him. The more Jack resisted, the weaker the jester’s control became. The jester started straining to maintain control. Jack saw his opportunity to capture the jester. Jack tackled the jester like a linebacker from the Pittsburgh Steelers where Jack grew up. The jester tried to escape but was too weak from controlling the magic. The jester started to make small exploding sounds. Jack dove behind a desk counter to watch the jester explode in a brilliant shower of sparks. The energy collected into a glowing white ball then transformed to a Tarot Card depicting The Fool. A tarot deck appeared on the counter. Jack inserted the card in the deck then went to the shredder to chop the cards in pieces. He gathered the pieces and flushed them in a Men’s room toilet. All the professional men and women asked for forgiveness for their actions. Jack told them they were forgiven but he had no authority to do so. He did however stay to work with NYPD and make a statement that he believed they had no control of their actions at all. He did not mention the jester. Not for his sake but for the poor people affected so they can keep their dignity. Jack gets the strange cases so it was nothing new to him. This case was more unusual than most. Jack went to McSorley’s to have a few beers and rest for the next strange adventure to come. It's Not Better to Ask For Forgiveness Sometimes by Storm (1663 words)
I remember the day like it was any other. I often look back during days when there was time to relax between work, life at home and with the family. It was the day that Tom, Mary and I skipped class on our last day of school. Mary was always the class clown and Tom the black sheep of misfits. What a pair I thought with a smile. Tom and I were always competing for Mary's affection; and Tom and I trying to get that first kiss with Mary. Even though Tom and Mary were closer in friendship than Mary and I, I didn't let that stop me from trying to win her heart. Even though Mary joked a lot about our friendly competition with one another, the last day we were all together, something magical happened that I'm sure none of us will ever forget.As the last bell sounded the day before we all seen one another for the last time, Tom and I were always planning to skip school but I never did. While Mary and Tom played hookey quite often, I was always the straight arrow of the bunch. I faithfully listened to my Father's teachings about doing the right thing and always being a young man of my word. I still blame myself; listening to Dad because Mary liked the bad boy type. I was so far from that stereotype I thought with a devilish grin looking back twenty years ago to that day we left our houses at midnight and made it down to Guzzies Drive-In Theater. Everybody and anybody who was cool went there. Even though most of the hip kid's parents let them use their car and got their license, they made Guzzies a popular hang out of the 50's. Guzzies had a spacious parking lot that was packed with loose gravel, several weather stained movie screens and a busy soda shop. I had never been there before that memorable night and always dreamed of taking Mary there. It wasn't till the last night of the last day of school that Tom stole his parents car out of the driveway and picked up Mary and I, headed for Guzzies. I smiled in recollection as I remember Tom blaring the car horn and Mary screaming wildly in the night. I thought for sure that Dad was going to wake up and redden my bottom with his belt. The cat's didn't even bother to meow or wake as I tippy toed across the creaky wooden floor of my home. Heck, even the door screeched with noise as my heart pounded with thunderous fear. I remember moving swiftly through the living room as Dad snored to the late news as I hopped one either of both feet trying to place my converse all stars on. I can recall it wasn't leaving that got me caught, it was Mary's damn tarot card reading that predicted the truth about that night. Racing down my Father's well gardened lawn, and down the street as Tom raced away on cruise control, I gleefully ran right behind the 57 chevy trying to jump in back of his candy apple red car. Finally out of breath and with renewed vigor, I made it as I lept into the back with Mary in the front seat and Tom taking swigs of whiskey. As Tom turned the corner with blazing speed and one hand on the wheel, Tom turned his head around and handed back me back the bottle of spirits. I remember feeling so alive that night as I chugged the burning liquor that seemed to warm my face and body. As the alcohol rushed to my head, I began to buzz with a chaotic expression of my desires; to be like Tom and finally win Mary's heart. I finally agreed that the time to tell Mary about my feelings at Guzzies needed to happen. I knew that so much time had passed and while a big part of me didn't want to let her know the truth, I felt so much stronger than I ever felt as Tom dodged and weaved through traffic trying to get to the Drive-In. As we arrived, it was Thursday night. Five minutes before midnight and the first showing of the creature of the Black Lagoon began to come on the screen. It was an anachronistic movie from my Father's time that speckled on the stained movie screen in black and white. Showing's of that year movies that had yet to come out. I heard of a few of them; mostly horror movies such as Dracula, War of the Worlds and several other showings that seemed interesting but not at the forefront of my thoughts. As we finally made it through the long procession into the theater, Mary reached over Tom to hand her several quarters for the three of us. Soon the ticket holder bore an expression of distaste as the haughty worker knew we were drinking underage. I remember Mary laughing at him which made it all the more worse. It even made me start to laugh as Tom was the only one that had a stern expression of seriousness on his face. Soon we made it in and Tom parked the car. He trusted me and Mary to fetch some snacks from the soda shop. I was ecstatic with nervousness as butterflies floated in my stomach. It was either that or I couldn't handle my alcohol. Mary was the first out of the car and I a close second. Mary looked so beautiful that night, more than ever. I had to tell her; I just wonder if she even knew. She just had too. I planned on telling her from picking up our food and walking back to Tom's car. Mary wore a white dress with polished black shoes and diamond earrings. I remember the fragrance she wore that I later found out was lavender with honey. She smiled at me and shook my shoulder in friendly bequest. We were quite the whole time coming back with our order. Again my heart raced and finally I spit out a mumbling phrase of words that sounded like, "Mary I really like you a lot!" There, I spit it out but what happened next wasn't what I thought would happen. I really never knew till later what the silence proceeding my expressing guilt had meant. Her eyes did widen a bit but that didn't tell a young boy anything, we were just as gullible as any. Then it happened! Mary planted a soft kiss upon my lips that I never forgot. It was my first kiss ever. The anticipation of my love for her was lost in that moment of time, forever making Mary's tarot reading even more confusing at the time but now twenty years later it all makes sense. Heading back to Tom's parent's car, I devilishly smiled with a wicked grin. There Tommy, now what! as I thought to myself. I had what it took to win Mary's affection but not before Tommy knew something was up. Even more so when Tommy seen the whole kiss. Chasing me down through a clearing of woods, with fist in the air, I sped through brambles and branches that tore my thick grey pants. As dirt collected on my polished Sunday shoes and sweat beaded on my forehead, Tommy wanted to pommel my face in with his meat hooks. Even now I remember his slick back greased hair and his wanna be facial hair that even a cat couldn't lick clean. With Mary behind, the three of us raced through a network of woods. I don't remember how we made it back. All I remember is the sign reading off limits in bold face red lettering. Absconding from Tom, the three of us scaled a rusty fence and made it into another clearing of mud, dirt and gravel. There was a lone home in the distance that all but spelled my doom that night. With Tommy fast approaching, I decided to make my stand there. Entering the delapidated home, the building reminded me of a scary place that was only shown in the movies. Rolling up my sleeves, and grinding my fist in my palm, I waited for Tom. Sure enough he came and with anger in his eyes, we tusseled around like it meant something. With Mary standing over us, yelling at us to stop, finally Tommy had a clear punch and laid into me harder than ever. Tom spoke words that I never thought of saying. F this and F that was all that came from his poorly spoken choice of words. Finally Mary pulled Tom off of me and then Tom spoke more words that I never thought he'd say. "Finally making a man out of you I see, don't worry Mary was waiting for you to make the first move. I just don't like loosing all that much and frankly we were breaking up. She never kissed me like she did you pal and it made me real jealous you see. Now that I got that out of my system, can we still be friends?" "No", I said as I dusted myself off."Mary's my girl now!" My Sunday shoes ruined and my gray pants torn. Although my pride didn't mean it, I still felt guilty for not asking forgiveness. They say it's better to ask for forgiveness but when Mary and I married as childhood friends for twenty years, I always thought it better to ask forgiveness; except in this case. For Whom the Bell Tolls by Davion ~2240 words The tiny bell at the entrance resounded briefly as the door opened. A disheveled man with desperate eyes hurriedly stepped through and closed it behind him. A wisp of snow twirled briefly into the foyer, settling on the wood panel floors to melt moments later as the man turned around to take in his surroundings. He wore a thick tan coat, heavy black boots and well worn blue jeans with a woolen cap drawn tightly over his head. He looked like he had been wearing them for days and hadn't shaved in many more days than that. "Good evening sir.", Delilah said to the man as she took her seat behind the small round table that dominated the main room just beyond the foyer. The table was covered in a red, swirly patterned, table cloth. Atop it was a crystal ball, deck of cards, a box of tissues and an ash tray. The rest of the room was adorned in odd paintings, portraits and a bookshelf with a multitude of books such as the Readers Digest compilations, Encyclopedia Britannica and a silver bound copy of Guinness Book of World Records, circa 1972 that look practically brand new. The man took it all in, taking a step forward and then back again to stomp the wet snow off of his boots. As he did he glanced back out the small gap in the curtain over the door before turning back to glance at Delilah. "Hey.", he said as he fished around in his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and unlocked it. He furiously tapped at the screen and held it up in the air with growing frustration before putting it back in his pocket. "Why don't you have a seat?", Delilah asked, smiling a well practice invitation. It was then that the man finally caught on to where he was and walked over to stand by the lone chair opposite the woman. As he did a half dozen cat heads vanished back into their warm cubby holes from around the room and nearby open doorways, their curiosity sated. "I thought this was a bar.", he said bluntly, a look of some disgust on his face. "Sorry, no, you are at Madaam Dees. I am she and I am here to help you.", Delilah said, motioning to the chair again. "Not interested.", he said, his stance one of agitation. Delilah was well trained in reading people. It was part of her craft. Her insights helped her to draw out the messages she new her clients needed to hear. She never truly had 'the gift' like grandma supposedly did but she knew two things very well that made it look like she did, how to read people and how to con them, although she never called it a con. It was a means to an end that brought her clients comfort and food on her table. "What is your name?", she asked. "Nobody in particular.", he responded, still glancing around the room as if casing the place. He didn't want her services but he sure wasn't leaving to go find a bar in any hurry. Delilah took the opportunity to further scrutinize the man up close, taking note of some very important features she needed to know about him. First, the buldge in his coat pocket and secondly, the slightest hints of red specks on his pants. "Its free.", she said, taking her eyes up to his when he looked back, her heartbeat accelerating briefly before she calmed herself down. So far her thoughts were only assumptions, scary assumptions. "What is?", he asked, his curiosity piqued. "My services. Have a seat and I can tell you your future, free." "Why not? Lets see what kind of bullsh*t you can come up with.", he said rudely as he sat down, flipping the chair around backwards to straddle it, facing her. "Mr. Nobody, how about we start with your hand?", Delilah asked, reaching out to him with hers. He paused and then placed his right hand out onto the table into hers while rolling his eyes. Delilah proceeded to 'read' his palm, tracing through the lines with well practiced ease. It wasn't anything magical, just a series of well defined definitions she had learned to interpret. Whether they came out to be true or not were irrelevant when compared to the shear entertainment value the palm reading could provide. It was the cheapest and easiest service she provided, particularly when free. Delilah tilted her head in confusion, flipping the mans hand over once and then back again. "What?", he asked. Delilah, or rather now, Madaam Dee, had flipped his hand over to confirm something she felt and smelled, the slightest hint of gunpowder residue around the mans thumb, more apparent on the back of his hand, confirming her suspicions that there was indeed a gun in his pocket. The confusion was real though. "Well.. I'd have to guess that you are what… fourty five or so?", she asked. His raised eyebrow showed her guess to be fairly accurate, if not right on. "Well.. This line here…", she said, tracing a long line from the base of his palm up towards the pointer finger, "Says that you will live to almost ninety.. Like around 2016 or so!, quite impressive." Particularly for a man so obviously out of shape and unhealthy, a well worn beer gut dominated the gap in the front of his coat. "What the f.. Just shut the hell up.", he said, flustered. He then reached into his coat and brought out something dark and metallic, setting it on the table, confirming her suspicions. "How about you save your crap for someone else and give me all your money.. In exchange you get to live, else I think you may not survive the evening. How is that for a prediction?", he said, toying with the trigger on the Glock pistol he placed on the table. Delilah was distraught and terrified, her adrenaline kicking in to high gear as she gulped and took a long blink and deep breath to steady herself. "I'm sorry about the age thing. Here, let me give you another type of reading and if you are not satisfied, I will give you all the money I have and wish you a grand evening.", she said, a desperate plan formulating in her mind. Mr. Nobody did not make a move, just stared at her, so she took that as permission, placing the crystal ball on the table between them. She gazed into it, swirling her hands over it as the murky contents stirred. Her mind raced on what she could come up with to talk this man down and get him to leave but as she stared into the globe she felt something strange. Her mind and vision was drawn in and, although blurry at first, she could make out images in the globe! The images became crisp and clear in an instant as her minds eye zoomed in on the globe and she saw a scene play out before her. It was the man, having an argument with a woman. She was crying, bruised and bleeding. He hit her. She screamed at him. He pulled the strange gun out of his pocket and then shot her in the head like she was nothing. He spat on her body and pocketed the gun. The image went dark. A new scene appeared in the globe. This time was of her office, this very room. The man stood there, pointing the gun at her now. She could see the scene from a high perspective, as if it were through the eyes of one of her cats from atop the bookcase. Words were exchanged in the scene but Delilah couldn't hear them. There was a flash of light as the gun fired and the image disappeared. Delilah sat back from the globe, staring at the man in front of her. She was shaken by what she saw but didn’t have any time to try and contemplate the how and why, but knew the images to be real. More real than anything she had ever seen or fabricated before. "What was her name?", Delilah asked. "What? Who?", he said, his eyebrows furling in confusion and anger. "I already know the answer and you know who I am talking about. She was your wife. She didn't have to die you know. Nobody does." "How in bloody hell do you know about that?", he said, standing up slowly from the chair, the gun still low in his hand. "It is what I do. The police are after you too. That is why you ducked in here." She didn't know that fact about the police, it was just a very likely truth. Delilah reached over and grabbed her Tarot deck, shuffling it and spreading it in a wide semi circle across the table. As she did, she palmed one of the cards that she had sitting on the bottom of the deck. It now sat in her lap. "But you ended up in here for a reason, Mr. Nobody.", she said as he glared at her, glancing at the cards. "You are torn from what you have done and you are on the run. A desperate man in need of answers and a way out.", she looked up from the cards at him. "You wanted to future and I gave you the past. For that I am sorry. Let me try one more time… please." Her well practiced smile brought the man back down to his chair. Her truths having disarmed him for the moment. As he sat he brought out his cell phone and laid it on the table, tapping it a few times again. "Why the hell can't I get any service in here?", he demanded. "I'm sorry sir.. I'm not sure what you are talking about.", Delilah said, glancing down at the strange flat black square he put on her table. "But I do know about this…", she said, waving her hands over the cards in front of her. "Hover your right hand over the cards until you feel the one that is calling to you. It will tell your future.", she instructed. "No, I'm tired of your games.", he replied. Delilah took the initiative with a well practices mystical gesture and 'randomly' selected a card anyway, despite his protest. She used her slight of hand to choose a specific one for him as part of her desperate plan. "This is your card. I want you to pick it up and turn it over. It will likely have meaning to you. If you find you don't understand it, I will gladly interpret. Ok?" "Whatever.", he said, reaching out and picking up the card to look at it. He immediately jumped up from the table, a crazed look on his face. He stumbled backwards, dropping the card on the ground. "ON WHAT DAY IN 2016 WILL I DIE?", he shouted at her. "WHAT DAY!?" "I... I don't know.", was all Delilah could answer. It wasn't a perfect science but they guy had decades to go, what did the day matter? "Well F*ck you and your sh*tty cat infested hell hole.", he took aim at her as he stepped back towards the door, his eyes wild. He fired the gun but as he did a cat had ran under his feet tripping him up. The bullet went wide and the man panicked. He stumbled towards the door and flung it open wide, running outside into the cold. Madam Dees foyer was filled with red and blue flashing lights. Outside in the street three cop cars were parked with a multitude of cops standing around in conversation. The cops reacted slowly at first but then pulled their guns on Mr. Nobody. Nearby citizens scattered. "FREEZE. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST.", the cops shouted in mixed, near-unison. Mr. Nobody, in a panic, lifted his gun. He didn't stand a chance. A hail of bullets ripped through his thick tan coat dropping the wife killer to the street to bleed out.. His last thoughts were on the card he had drawn from Madaam Dees. He glanced back then. The sign over the door was that of 'Kelly's Poolhall', just as he thought it was. The door was open and inside he could see the bar, some pool tables and a multitude of people coming up to look out the door upon the scene. "What the….", were his last confused words. Delilah rushed up and closed the door on the gruesome scene, the tiny door bell ringing once again into the now perfectly quiet room. It was then that she noticed the red and blue flashing lights had stopped. She glanced back out the curtain just as the man did when he entered. The street was empty. No police, no lights, no sirens, no dead body. She stood there for a long minute, letting her nerves settle and trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. "Forgive me.", she said quietly, to nobody. She saw him get shot and knew he wasn't going to make it. It was sad really. She made a mental note to brush up on her palm reading, a man dying today instead of fourty four-ish years from now was quite a discrepancy. She shrugged and walked over to pick up the card he had dropped on the floor, flipping it up onto the table to rest beside the others. It was a dark robed skeletal figure with a scythe… the card of death. Last edited by Aethera; Jul 1st, 2016 at 02:24 PM. |
#77
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June 2016 Competition Entries Topic: The Last King Challenge: a frog, a school, and hunting Winner: Happy Hunting by Abel Rain Happy Hunting, by Abel Rain[563 Words] James Emerson was sitting in his high backed wooden chair looking at his life’s work. The walls were covered with awards and grainy 35 mm pictures of bigfoot, giant squids and other photos of the unexplained. He was gazing into a photo of a younger version of himself and a woman happily pouring a plaster cast. Now, his face was worn, he only had a few strands of hair and his eyes hid behind thick glasses. He put the photo on the desk, picked up the cast of a print that was left behind many years ago and began to examine it, as he had many times before. -knock, knock- "Professor?" "Come in." In walked Mara, his protégé. She was usually all smiles and filled with constant wonder, but today she looked sullen. Her bright almond eyes were partially drawn to the floor. "I just heard. I’m so sorry Professor." "How long have you known me?" "Um, eight years, I think." "You can call me James now." The old man stood up and begun to pack his things. "There’s no place for discovery in this world anymore." The student was trying everything she could to hold back her shaky voice. "Where will you go?" "Don’t cry, my dear." As the professor was gently packing, he stopped for a minute, turned and smiled. "Do you remember this paper?" "Yes." Mara replied with a tearful laugh. "That was my first paper, it was about the Loveland sightings. I remember storming out of this very office, because you gave me a C." The old man chuckled. "Yes, the Loveland frogmen." "I thought you hated that paper?" "I did, but, after reading it a week later - I should’ve given you a B." He crossed out the C and with a big black maker he changed her grade, and handed her the paper. You were always my best student." A tear dropped on the paper. "Cheer up, my dear. Can you do me a favor?" The student wiped her face, nodded her head, “Of course, professor” "Can you run these books to the library? And please tell Anne I apologize for not returning them sooner." "Would you like me to bring you some coffee?" "How about some tea. I could use a good cup of tea." James watched as Mara walked out. He waited for a few seconds then put on his explorer vest and his old brown traveling hat. He gently touched the picture on his desk and walked out. The student returned about twenty minutes later. She was unaware that he had left. "Seriously Professor those books were four years overdue. Oh, Anne says you owe her din…" She knew he was gone. Mara put the cup of tea on his desk and picked up a letter he had left. Dear Mara, I am going north to that patch of uncharted territory I had told you about. If bigfoot is really out there that is where I will find him. I want you to have my chair and desk, and ask Anne if she could store my archives for you. You are the brightest student I have ever had and I will never forget everything you have done for this crazy old man. If anyone can convince the department heads to keep us open, it is you. Happy hunting, Professor James Emerson Mara quietly dropped in the professor’s chair. She picked up the plaster cast, smiled and whispered, "good bye professor." The Tree is the Key by dukesteel (1227 words)
Neverwinter castle has been terrorized by a group of flying Kobolds for a week. It is like being pestered by a swarm of flies at a picnic wielding swords to make them an extra nuisance. A hunting party was formed to eliminate them from the region. Duke Flameborn is a dragonborn barbarian. He has been a soldier protecting the castle for 15 years from the age of 15 to now. He recruited 3 of the best archers and 3 of the best warriors to help him take out the Kobolds. He knew where they lived and had a plan to complete the task. The party arrived at the edge of the forest by late afternoon. Duke pointed out 7 Kobolds in the surrounding trees. He ordered the archers to set up as close as they could to the Kobold’s location. Duke and the 3 warriors spread out to different trees occupying the quarry. They shook the trees vigorously causing the Kobolds to react in a disoriented nature. Duke used this to slice up a few of them like cold cuts. The archers pinned some of them with their arrows. The warriors shish kabobed a few of them then chopped them up like sushi. Duke had the leader. He rushed the leader like a raging bear. He pinned the leader’s arms to the forest floor then finished the leader off with a swift hammering head blow. An honorable burial was held for the pesky Kobolds. Pelts were taken to prove the task was completed. The next morning during breakfast, a representative of the Harpers faction approached Duke. He handed Duke a scroll. The scroll read as follows. “I offer you a special quest to restore magic to the fairy forest of Neverwinter. A large ruby will need to be carried to another dimension and placed on a frog statue. The ruby is too heavy for any fairy to place upon the statue. The journey is not a dangerous one but weapons cannot pass into this magical realm. Clues will be given to make it to the statue room. You must be pure of heart to be worthy of the task. Good Luck.” It was signed the Last King of Neverwinter Fairy Forest. Duke packed provisions for a half day journey. He fed and hydrated his horse well. He looked at the scroll once more. When he did, the scroll vanished in a puff of green smoke. A path of fairy fire marked the way to the destination. He secured the ruby in a saddle bag careful to close the flap. He waved and saw the concern from the people as he left the castle. He felt a bit of apprehension too but the unknown always gave him that feeling. The journey took less time than he though so he rested on the forest floor and nourished himself. The first clue appeared in the high branches of the trees. It was written in bright glittery fairy dust with an orange glow that said, “The tree is the key. A door will be what you cannot see.” Duke thought about this for a minute. The nearest tree to his position looked odd like it was fading in and out of reality. Duke walked up to the tree placing his right hand on the trunk applying pressure to see if the tree was actually there. His hand found nothing to support his weight and fell to the ground. He got up and danced a little to shake off the fall. He realized that this was a secret passage. He honored what the scroll said and placed his greatsword on the forest floor along with his shield. Five cheerful fairies floated down to assure him his equipment will be guarded until he finishes the quest. The fairies then made a heart symbol in the air with many little dancing hearts around it showing their appreciation for undertaking the quest. Duke gave them a noble curtsey then passed through the dimensional portal. Duke emerged in a fantastic room resembling the mushroom fields from Allice in Wonderland. He looked around to find many colored mushrooms scattered on the floor. He reached down to feel one of the mushrooms. It felt rough like a plush carpet. Another one felt slick and rubbery like jello. The next mushroom had his second clue written on the truck. “If you wish to fly, find the taste of cherry pie.” He tasted pieces of every color on the floor getting a variety of jelly bean flavors however not cherry pie. He figured it was going to be difficult but the clue didn’t specifically say mushroom. A wall of ivy lined the far end of the room. He walked over and picked a few leaves. He consumed the ivy leaves and began to fly. He was a dragonborn but did not have the ability to fly. He flew near the ceiling of the room careful not to go too high. The portal door revealed itself in the middle of the ceiling. Duke flew through it to the next room. Duke sat in a classroom setting. He remembered his childhood in a school classroom similar to this. The room was much more cramped than he remembered. One of the walls was a blackboard. He tended to be somewhat of a class clown. One time he sneezed and let out a stream of fire breath at the heels of the teacher’s shoes. The teacher danced around the room until her shoes cooled down. He was sent to the back of the room for punishment even though he had no control of what the sneeze made him do. The final clue was written in chalk on the blackboard. “The final room you will look, you must find the right book.” The first thing he did was search the books on the shelves. Those books gave him nothing about a door. The clue was literal this time and he spotted a red book in the far right of the room. When he opened the book, a hand grabbed him and he magically passed into the statue room. The frog statue was green with 4 slots holding 3 gems. The 3 gem slots from left to right were diamond, sapphire, emerald, and the ruby will fit the last slot. Duke reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy ruby. He placed it in the slot completing the quest. The voice of the Fairy King addressed Duke thanking him for completing the task. “Thank you noble warrior. Magic is now restored to the forest and will be vibrant for as long as I live about 400 years. I will now transport you back to Neverwinter castle. You will have your sword and shield equipped when you arrive. The memory of this magical place will remain vivid in your dreams but you must keep this location a secret. The fairies will always aide you whenever you are in danger. Signal when you are ready.” Duke was transported to a tavern inside Neverwinter castle. He sat at the bar and drank a cold glass of mead. He smiled at the great adventure and magical friends a pleasure to know. He thought he saw fairy dust glitter and glow at the corner of the bar. Whatever it was, he will always remember the magical things he saw forever. Due to 300% word limit, this entry does not qualify for the short story competition. ~Aethera
She and Kitrja, her small red and white fox with black booted front legs, had left the pub and the previous town's Sheriff with money in her purse and a new morningstar at her waist. They had stopped for a few additional provisions at the local mercantile and sought directions to the next hamlet some six days away at a good pace she was told. The road out of town allowed her to an occasional glimpse of the tower she had helped cleanse of its vile inhabitants. She shivered when she thought of the spider, the mad goblin mage and the glowing skull. However, the giggling of coins in her purse reminded her that in the end they had not survived, she and Kitrja had, and had been well paid for their efforts. On the third day of their walking along the road, which consisted of something more than a well-used set of wagon ruts, she saw a rising ribbon of smoke rise above the dark green tops of the thick pines and firs of the forest. The wagon trail curved ahead and she lost sight of the smoke ribbon. "Kitrja, run along in the trees, we may be coming upon company and we don't know what they will think of me, let alone me and you." She laughed as the fox rolled its head at her and tilted it at an angle that seemed to indicate a level of disbelief. Srynisha moved along at her regular pace but adjusted her cloak, making sure to have it conceal her morningstar and her kunai. She made sure that her sickle was readily visible as it could help her with anyone familiar with nature and skills. She left her stone bow slung over her shoulder with the taunt string running across her chest creating a line in the emerald green billowing blouse. As she made the turn in the road, she saw the source of the smoke. The road opened up into a rather large clearing of cultivated fields with a larger roughhewn timber two story blockaded farm house and half a dozen smaller houses and out buildings. Between them stood a rather large clay and brick oven with two equally large stacks of split firewood. The roadway passed to the left of the collection of farm buildings with the fields of grains, cabbages, and rows of corn with their budding ears. Srynisha was impressed with both the extent and apparent success of the farm. A dog started barking as she came closer to the farm. She glanced up along the roadway and could not make out where the road continued onward from the farm buildings. She shrugged, but quickly shook off the uncertainty that crossed her face, as a small group of toddlers and five women of various ages turned to look at what was causing the dog to bark. Here we go, just smile and laugh, and this should go just fine, she told herself. She glanced off in both directions and saw a reddish-white streak off in the ferns and branches to her left. She tucked a strand of her curly red hair back into the braid that started above the point of her ear and below the dark black horn that spiraled out from her temple, back along her skull, and above her ear. The spiraled horns, the pointed ears, the color and size of her eyes, and her height were all the legacy of a dalliance that her Sczarni grandmother had had with an unusually handsome, wealthy, and charming patron. For some reason, Srynisha's mother bore no such sign of her grandmother's legacy, but Srynisha's mother had died when she was a toddler and her family clan put up with their "fallen sister." Her Sczarni clan used that name for her when in her teen years, the changes became pronounced. The bright amber eyes changed to what they were now with their purple and amber combination. Her ears changed at the same time that her horns began to protrude from her skull giving her terrible headaches for months. When the wagon caravan arrived at a new village, she was hidden away and no longer allowed to join in the dances and play activities her clan used to reduce the fears of the Sczarni visiting. "Greetings and good day, ladies." The dog had continued to bark, but had one of the ladies in her mid teens standing next to it trying to bring it under control. She heard, but choose to ignore the not so quiet whispers of "tiefling" that based between the ladies that were gathered in the farm yard. She smiled and her slightly larger than normal eyes with their purple irises and amber rings sparkled in the sunlight. The three toddlers continued to run towards her despite the ladies calling to them to leave the traveler alone. All three were dressed in smocks made of scraps of clothing, probably former tunics and dresses of the adults of the farm. All had long hair, albeit of different colors and tussled types. One had tight goldish brown ringlets peppered with bits of chaff, another had dark back hair that fell in straight lines from a center part, while the third had brown hair with a slight wave in it. She smiled as they continued to approach. "Mama, she has horns, I never seen a horned lady before. Why does she have horns, Mama?" The child continued to come towards her, but had her right hand pointed at Srynisha's face while turning her own face back at one of the younger ladies standing near the oven. The woman's eyes went wide and her face showed an obvious level of embarrassment at her daughter's words. She turned back to the oven, pushed into the oven a long handled wooden peel and pulled it out with six loaves of fresh bread from the heat. The other woman helped to stack these fresh loaves with a dozen other loaves. "Mags, you ain't ever seen anyone with horns, well any person, I mean you have seen the cows, and deer, but not no person." The raven haired girl responded with a level of authority that the other, Mags, met with rolled eyes. "I am Aliza, we live here, where you going? why are you on the road? do the horns hurt?" The questions and words poured out of Aliza's mouth fast like water from a pouring picture. She came right up to where Srynisha had come to a stop on the road. She shot out her left hand and emphasized her doing so with her face and eyes. "Srynisha Altholt," she responded as she took the hand and gently shook it while bending down to be on Aliza's level. The other two crowded in on the two of them while their mothers and grandmothers closed in behind them. "I am headed to a village up the way a few days out, and the road is the way to get there. As to these," she tapped each horn with the forefingers on her hands, "well they grew as I grew and they don't hurt me, but I bet if I used them liek one of your cows in the field they could hurt something." She let go of Aliza's hand, and quickly had two others out in front of her face. "Mags is it, the pleasure is mine." Mags' face lit up and let go of Srynisha's hand as she turned to the other girl. "And who would you be, little miss?" The brown haired girl bit her the left side of her lower lip and whispered, "I, I'm called Gala. Srynisha smiled again and looked at Gala, catching the child's down turned eyes with her own. She winked at the shy child and asked, "Well Gala, do you see many travelers this way?" The young girl shook her head no, but was smiling and looking up. "We don't see travelers all that often and ain't ever seen one looking anyt'ing likes you, Miss Sineshra," Mags cut in quickly not seeing both Aliza's and Gala's eyes roll. One of the ladies moved forward making herself known with a soft cough that caught the children's attention. Mags rolled her head back over her shoulder towards the lady and spoke, "Nams, this is Sieshra and she is traveling along the road." This time the smile came without any work as the child continued to change her name with each effort to repeat it. The older woman's face with its smudge spots and worry lines softened at her grandchild's efforts to introduce the visitor. "I am Elena Thornswife, and this is our family's farm Miss. Sorry for the children bothering you on your journey. We just don't get visitors all that often here. Where did you say you were headed, again?" "Very pleased to meet you Elena Thornswife," Srynisha stood up and offered her hand in greeting which Elena took and shook with a polite smile. "I am heded to Reedton and was told back yonder by the town's Sheriff to just follow the road out of town for six days." Elena's face clouded with an obvious concern. The other two joined her and their faces clouded in a similar manner. "I hate to be the one to tell you bad news, traveler, but you took the wrong road out of ***. Reedton lies some six plus days from ***, but to the south of ****, you took the east road and it really only comes here, to Thornshof. Srynisha sighed and frowned. I took the wrong road, well now, that is a challenge. "Elena, so I am at the end of the road then, no where ahead to go instead of Reedton? "Mama, she could work her way on to Bear Lake a few days away, at this point it is closer than Reedton. A dark haired baker interjected. She work a dark green apron over her light blue dress. Elena turned towards her daughter with a nod. The daughter stopped her next sentence and closed her mouth quickly. "Sati, she could, but Thorn and the men haven't gone that way for a few months and the road hasn't been brushed back yet. Miss, that is my oldest, Sati and the other is my son's wife, Airena." Elena nodded at the other young woman wearing a deep red smock covered with a corse brown apron. Both daughters smiled and remained quiet. "I suppose that is an option for you, lass. Not sure how the lake folk will take to one like you though coming their way, not intending to offend mind you." The daughters both looked startled in response to what their mother had said, but to Srynisha she was quite accustomed to such things. "Well, my objective was to explore and see what the road brings me, what would be beyond Bear Lake?" "Well you could ask to be ferried across the lake and follow the river down to Marrick, lots of choices of places to go from Merrick as it is known in these parts for its markets. It would be a trip taking another eight or ten days though." Elena was lost in her thoughts as she mentally laid out a course of travel for Srynisha. "Could I purchase one or two of those loaves from you ladies?" Srynisha broke the older woman's concentration with her question. Elena looked back over at the loaves taking a quick inventory of those that had been pulled from the oven. "I could pay a silver for each of the two loaves if that helps?" Elena's eyes went wide at the over and her face smiled. The offer of silver brought a true smile to the matriarch's face as coin was a way to insure against illness, crop failures, as it could not spoil nor drop in value like bartered goods could in an emergency "For that price surely we can sell you two loaves and I can toss in a bowl from the stew pot as well." Elena nodded at Airena who moved around and behind the oven and came back with a small wooden bowl, two loaves and a small chunk of bread torn from an unseen loaf. Srynisha followed Elena and the others to a large table and bench made out of thick timbers worn smooth by use and time. Once she was seated and eating, the ladies brought similar bowls and chunks of the thick, course bread to the table and joined in eating with their guests. The stew was thick and filled with plump grains, corn and beans with a savory broth. The ladies began talking about the work ahead, the path Srynisha needed to follow, and their prediction for the weather in the days to come. Srynisha listened, nodded and laughed when it was appropriate, but really focused on the food before her. Her long, thin olive skinned fingers working the crust of bread to scrape up broth and stew. The bark of the dog interrupted their eating and Srynisha looked up over her shoulder towards the forest. Kitrja was sitting at the edge of the road and the dog was not happy about this new addition. "Kitrja, there you are, I was wondering where you had gotten yourself off to?" Srynisha got up from the bench and quickly closed the distance to the fox, outpacing the older dog with its hackles up. She made a big show of approaching the fox and when close scratching it behind its ears. She whispered, "be nice, the dog is just doing its job protecting the farm from the likes of us. The fox dropped its jaw in a bit of a smile as Srynisha rubbed between its ears. She and the fox slowly approached the dog still barking, inspite of the Elena and her girls efforts to quiet it. Kitrja slowed and dropped her head as the older dog approached, sniffing and emitting a low growl. Kitrja simply dropped to the ground and rolled over and the older dog seemed both puzzled and relieved. It sniffed about the fox, took a pat on its head from the tiefling, and then lumbered off to relieve itself in the area where Kitrja had first appeared. The children were quick to gather about the fox, petting it and tussling its fur. Srynisha smiled after telling them Kitrja's name and explaining that Kitrja was her traveling companion on the road. They all were able to pronounce the fox's name much easier and the fox absorbed the children's attention as easily as the bread absorbed teh stews broth. Srynisha returned to the table and the conversation about the fox now filled the remainder of the meal. Srynisha explained that the two had been traveling together for months now and had grown rather close. She overlooked the stares at her horns, and the visible weapons, throughout the meal. Years of being stared at made such things common, and stares were not the worse things people could do. As she was finishing her final few bites, she could sense that Elena was getting anxious. Work needed to be done, and the visitor had taken most of the free time that they would have for the afternoon. Living on the margins had left Srynisha with a keen sense of people's reactions and able to read the emotions that crossed their faces. Many times her survival had depended upon just such skills. "A delicious meal, truly a treat on the road," Srynisha's voice was filled with delight and had a pleasant tone to the complement given. She fished her thin fingers into a small coin purse that she wore tied to the belt about her waist. This purse was the one she could loose if confronted and caught off guard. She pulled forth a group of silver coins and three copper ones. She stood and pushed four silver coins across the table at Elena and cupped the coppers into her palm. She tucked the two loaves into her pack and tightened its draw string. "Please no protest, you were more than generous with the stew, the bread, and the hospitality to a traveler on the road. Thanks be to you and yours for your kindness today." Elena rose and started to speak and Srynisha continued, "the meal was delicious and the money can be tucked away for use when demand arises, or when something special needs to be celebrated. I have taken much too much of your time and taken you all away from your tasks. So, please consider it a payment easily made, good lady." Her words brought forth the second genuine smile on Elena's face the lines of age, hard work, and worry accenting the woman's wide smile. Srynisha moved over to the children and Kitrja, who continued to revel in the preening and attention being given to her by the three young girls. "Kitrja, we need to be going and let these get back to their chores. Little misses, thank you for taking care of my friend. Here is something for your troubles. " The worn, tarnished coppers were darker than her fingers, and stood out from the lighter colored skin of the toddlers who took their coin in disbelief and surprise. Each went running back talking in an excited high pitch tone about the horned lady and her fox. Srynisha turned about and saw Elena being surrounded by the three girls, each waving their coppers up at their grandmother. Elena's smile remained as she caught and held Srynisha's eyes. "Mistress Srynisha, may the road be kind to you, the weather gentle, and the path easy to follow. Srynisha smiled, waived, and replied, "Elena Thornswife, you do you farm and kin great honors with your kindness, good day to you and yours as well." She turned her back and began walking away. She could hear the toddlers talking about her horns, asking their mothers and grandmother about when they would get horns, and wailing about how unfair it was that they were not going to ever have them. Srynesah chuckled and her step was quick and light as it followed the overgrown wagon ruts that lead away from the Thorns farm and off into the woods towards Bear Lake. That evening, after a eating some of the bread, some of the travel rations and many handfuls of berries, Srynisha spread out between the thick halves of her woolen blanket. The sky was clear, the temperature cooling, but she snuggled into the blanket and gazed upon the stars above her and the trees. She traced out a few of the constellations she knew and then felt a series of nudges at her back. She turned her head and smiled at Kitrja. "Oh, now that you have had your fill of mice and newts, you want to come take over my blankets?" Kitrja gave a quick yip and nudged her nose back into the blanketed shoulder of the tiefling. Srynisha moved her body, shifted the blankets, and scooped the fox into her arms rolling her furry companion into the warmth of the blanket. In a short while, both were sound a sleep under the starry skies of the forest. When the morning came with the soft light of the sun breaking through the trees, Srynisha and Kitrja both pulled themselves out of the blankets. Both found relief out amongst the trees. Srynisha wandered back and packed up her blanket. She tore off a piece of the course bread and ate it. In the distance, she heard not only the birds of morning singing, but the baritone notes of a frog and the faint sound of running water. Srynisha called to Kitrja, and when the fox popped her head up from between a bank of green ferns, Srynisha called out, "follow along, I am going to find some water, fill the water bag, and spend time gathering the powers to me for the day ahead." Srynisha worked her way towards the sound of the frog and the stream. The fox moved parallel to her as they walked through the forest along what appeared to be a continuation of the road, or rather overgrown trail, toward the sound of water. After some time, the path banked to the left and dropped down into the banks of a fast moving stream. The water raced over rocks and fallen timbers with its dropping from the different heights mixing it with air and the cascading sounds drifted up to Srynisha. She walked to the bend and saw that the trail dropped about eight or more feet to the stream and two large logs that lay across it. She found a clear space, pulled out her blanket and folded it into thick square. She sat down on the folded wool and crossed her legs. She let her breath slow and her mind concentrate upon the falling water and the songs of the birds. She felt the flow of the energy that followed the stream, the swaying of the trees and the buzz of small creatures. As she began to feel the power swirl about her, her mind repeated the words for the spells that she knew. Guidance to help find the right place to strike, walk, or hide. As the spell's power, words and hand movements came back to her mind clearly, she searched the whisps of power and her mind for the other spells she had been taught. They came easier. One to tell if an object was imbued with magic, another to light the darkness. The last was one to cure minor wounds. She breathed deeply as all of the spells became firm in her mind and when she felt that she had enough of the powers about her, she opened her eyes. The path crossed over the two fallen logs, that had been shaved down giving a thick, flat, and it appeared relatively dry crossing over the swift running stream. It climbed up and between trunks of tall pines and firs. Their boughs extending out over the overgrown path that was peppered with tall grass, flowers, and small shrubs. The sun had risen and was shining in the small gap that the trail created. She looked about for Kitrja and eventually saw the white of her chest amongst some ferns and shrubs upstream a few hundred paces. The fox suddenly dropped back into the ferns which shimmied about for a few seconds and suddenly parted when Kitrja's face shot out of the green moving fronds. A long thin mouse tail was hanging from the left side of her jaw. Srynisha shook her head, her stomach growled at the same time as she thought, "well at least one of us had a warm breakfast this morning." She chuckled as the fox looked right at her, dropped its lower jaw and let the its tongue roll about its teeth. She stood, gathered up the folded blanket, rolled it in her cloak as the weather seemed to be warmer than the day before, and cinched everything to her pack. She shouldered that, taking a chunk of the bread from it and holding that with her mouth, as she put her arm and shoulder through her strung stone bow. She adjusted the bowstring to make sure it felt over her collar bone and fell across her breast bone, and then across the dark blue cincher she wore. When she had everything in its right place, she headed down the path, crossed over the wooden log bridge. She stopped at the bridge's edge and a clear pool that was on the upstream side of the crossing. A small school of fingerlings swam out of the center of the pool when she dipped her hand into the water to cup up her first drink. She filled the water bag after taking a few more deep drinks of the cold, clear water. The small fish seemed to be hovering under the logs as occasionally one would dart out to the edge of the pool and then dart back under the bridge. When the water bag was full, she slipped the long cord over her head and the bow in such a manner as to allow the bag to find a comfortable place before she climbed up the stream's bank. Kitrja yipped and jumped out of the ferns and started running ahead of her. Their day of walking was now underway. By mid morning, the sun was warming not only the path, but also Srynisha. At a wide spot, that was more of a small grassed and ferned gap amidst the trees, she took some time to rest, drink from the water bag, and eat another chunk of one of the loaves. She had seen Kitrja wander off to the edge of the meadow on her left. She looked about the meadow and watched the light breeze sway the grasses and flowers in the meadow. Ahead of her lay the path, its condition being a constant - overgrown and at times a bit of a challenge. A butterfly flittered from flower to flower and Srynisha lost her self to the experience of just watching the ephemeral creature go about feeding on the various flowers nectars. Her rest was ended by the distant sound of Kitrja yipping and then barking her warning bark in rapid succession. Srynisha quickly gathered her things, she loaded her bow she had purchased at the mercantile. The merchant had sold her on their hardness and consistent size. She had bought two full pouches of the bullets. Her ears had heard the Kitrja's call off to her left and she zeroed in on a series of trees to follow towards where the barks were coming from. She moved quickly, the underbrush being the ferns and grasses that she had seen for the past few days. The ground was relatively flat, and the forest floor itself consisted of a drier duff of needles, ferns, forest flowers, and small blue berried shrubs. Kitrja barked again, this time a bit louder, and then an ear ringing whinny shattered the tranquility of the forest. Kitrja's bark was overpowered by the sound and Srynisha could not hear the fox as the whinny echoed about the forest. She ran faster towards the direction of the previous barking and the trumpeting whinny of a horse. What has she come across that makes such a racket? She heard a deep growl still off in the distance followed by one of Kitrja's barks of anger. Srynisha ran over ferns and jumped over tree roots the size of her legs extending outward from the trunks of trees larger than twice her torso. Others to either side were nearly twice as large as the firs along the route that she was running. She heard Kitrja growl and bark again, then the sound of the whinny again boomed across the forest it's tone causing Srynisha to flinch as she ran. Up ahead, she could see Kitrja barking and lunging at something that seemed to hover about the fox that kept turning its body and head at the floating creature. She closed the distance and saw a flying horse black horse head with reddish-pink eyes and a dark grey mane that followed down a three foot long tentacle that whipped about as the creature hovered above the fox. Kitrja jumped at the creature and caught its tentacle in its maw. Kitrja bit down on the tentacle and the creature's head snapped about its cheeks ballooned outward then it released another terrible, ear ringing, and hair raising whinny. Srynisha cringed at the sound, but shook her head and took aim at the horse head that was trying to pull itself loose from the fox. Her bullet whistled through the air striking an overgrown wooden panel in the distance. The horse headed creature shook its head and dropped it quickly with its teeth barred at the fox. As it dropped, Kitrja jumped with its tentacle firmly in the fox's bite causing the horse head to whip past the fox and snap at the air. Kitrja's growl could be heard as a muffled rumble and the horse head snapped back and forth like it was being whipped by the fox's movements. Srynisha loaded the stone bow again and took aim at the same time that the creature bellowed out another of the ear splitting whinnies. Both Kitra and Srynisha tensed, but continued with their efforts to defeat the horrid horse thing before them. Srynisha pulled the stone bow to her shoulder and again took her aim. This time the bullet whipped past the fox and tentacled horse head. She cursed under her breath. Kitrja chomped down onto the tentacle in her mouth. Already her maw was stained with a blackish-red blood. The creature convulsed and whispered as it flopped to the ground twitching then went still. Kitrja let loose of its tentacle and shock her jaw and tongue like a child who had bitten into a bitter tasting fruit. Srynisha pulled the water flask around and off her shoulder as the fox growled and sniffed at the lifeless creature. As she approached, Srynisha watched the fox sniff at the horse head and stand on it turning to her with what looked like a celebratory grin. "Well whatever that was, you deserve the credit for beating it, Kit. Well done, little one. " She lifted the flask above the fox and poured some of the liquid into her maw. The fox swallowed a few gulps then let a mouthful dribble out of its mouth washing some of the dead creature's blood away from its fur. Srynisha walked about the thing and while she studied its dead form, she couldn't come across any memory about such a thing. It was something new to her and raised her concerns about the all of the time the two had been traveling without even a concern about what could be in the woods. She dropped to a squat and as she studied the body, she glanced upward, then back at the dark black head. Her head froze and she slowly raised her eyes above the dead body and to something about twenty paces beyond. She tilted her head one way and then the other, her large almond shaped eyes stayed fix as her head shifted its angel of tilt. Kitrja came up beside her and sat down. Soon fox and tiefling were doing the same scan of the forest some distance out. Then Srynisha saw it. Amongst the ferns and tree roots of one tree was a set of straight shapes radiating outward in a sunlike pattern. What she had seen were the metal spokes to a wagon wheel. She fixed her eyes on the metal spokes and the thin rusted iron band that had been the wheel. She followed the tree upward and saw the wooden panel that had moss hanging off of it and ferns across the top. She quickened her pace as her eyes started to make out what she had discovered. Resting in, and in a few cases literally in, several large trees was a dilapidated, moss and fern covered Sczarni wagon. She rushed to it and stopped as she came within a few paces. She walked about the wagon, or what was left of it. Trees were growing up through one of the back wheels, which she had spotted earlier, and also on each side of the falling yoke. The wooden panels had been painted a deep red with hints of gold in the orante carving. This is old, really, really old and masterly crafted. The roof was moss covered, but between the moss and small ferns and flowers that peppered the moss, were the edges of slate. A slate roof, ornate carvings, and master craftsmanship all denoted a Sczarni clan leader. She paused and looked at the wagon's front. The window pain was still in place but was dark black, either paint, age, or an inner wooden screen was covering it from within. Above the driver's seat, she saw an odd band that seemed to have parts broken off as if someone had tried to remove the identifying clan crest that would usually be displayed there. She walked about the other side of the wagon and on this side a tree wider than her torso had grown up and curved around the center side of the shipbed lifting it at an odd angle. Some of the caulking between the planks had come loose and moss hung out from those cracks. Srynisha walked about to the back of the wagon and scanned it. Where the wooden steps had been, there were only the metal supports that now led up to the door. The door was intricately carved planks with iron forged hinges in the shape of leafy vines. There was an iron handle with a key hole filled with moss. Srynisha sighed, "Kitrja, it should be locked if it was being left. I don't know how to pick a lock, never learned that from any of my cousins. She continued to the study the carvings in the planks making up the door. Moss and lichen covered it, but she could make out a caravan of wagons following one like this. Above that, in the middle third of the door, was a carved crown with paint and gilt showing between the moss and lichen. Her eyes went wide at the sight. "Kitrja, this a clan's chieftain, or even a Marking which hasn't existed for a century or two." Above the carved crown was a third panel in the portion of the door that could be opened on its own, allowing the occupant to peer out, or a breezes to float through. It was the face of man with a thin face and long moustache that curled at each end. His eyes had been blue for remnants of the paint could still be seen. On one side was a carved open hand with a tailed heart carved into the center. To the other side of the face was set of cards with a Sczarni dagger lying on top with its carved blade pointed at the ground. The point had broken off and the remnants of an arrow was sticking into the carving. As she stepped closer to the door and put her foot on the metal step grate, she heard Kitrja growl and bark. A rattling sound came from off to her left and then the clinking sound of hollow bone hitting bone. She turned in time to see a skeleton reassemble from parts scattered about the rear of the wagon. She turned and untied the slip knot that held it place. Her hand seized the polished oak and unwrapped the cording that kept the chain and ball in place. The counter weight affixed to the bottom of the oak was made out of a shined bronze shaped like a dragon's tail. with the handle being carved to look like the scales of a dragon's body. A bronze dragon's head, it's mouth sculpted to include it breathing fire, secured the haft to the burnished steel chain and its matching ball. She swung the ball in small circles and stepped towards the nearly assembled human skeleton. As she closed for combat, Kitrja lunged at the skeleton’s leg, but the skeleton’s own movements pulled it out of the fox's reach. Srynisha watched as the forest floor began to shake below the creature's feet and a rusted, tip broke gladius shot up into the creature's left hand as its skull twisted into place and turned to stare at the tiefling. Srynisha whipped the morningstar's ball at the dirt stained rib bones of the creature. But, the skeleton shifted its body and let the ball swing past it, then lunged with the rusted blade at Srynisha. With a shift of her shoulder and a twist on the balls of her feet, she watched that broken blade slash past her face. Kitra circled about the two growling and barking. Srynisha twirled the ball about in a quick circle two times and whipped it at the hollowed eyed skull. The steel ball smashed down into the mandible and continued carrying the ball and chain through the spine, and ribs. The creature flew apart scattering bones about where it had previously been standing. Kitrja barked and whipped her tail about as she lunged at an arm bone and pulled it away with a growl. The gladius tumbled away from the fox and its prize. Srynisha caught her breath and then leaned down to grab the gladius. The antique sword had an odd shape to its pommel and Srynisha grabbed it with her fingers. When she did so, she heard a click and the pommel came loose from the sword. She pulled it away and found a key welded to the pommel in such a way as to allow the key to hold the sword's blade in place. A grin swept across her face and she turned back and looked at the wagon's door. She took the key and tried it into the door's key hole after pulling out the moss. The key fit but seemed to stick. She rattled it about and pulled it out. It was coated with moss and dirt. She tried it again and it she could feel it start to turn, then stop. She took out the water flask and squirted some of the water into a sharp stream into the key hole. Dirty water bubbled out of the lock plate and flowed amongst the carving of the wagon caravan. She tried the key again, and this time it turned and there was an audible click above the key hold. She pulled on the door handle, but it didn't move. Then she tried pulling on the upper portion of the door and it cracked a bit. Her grin became a wide smile and she worked her long tapered fingers into the space and pulled against the door that eventually gave way and opened up. She closed her eyes, leaned into the opening, and opened them. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she could see the entire interior of the wagon. She saw small receiving space with a door some six feet in front of her. There was a large, carved chair with swirled carving gilded in what appeared to be gold leaf. On the sides of the receiving room were benches with folding hinges running along the outer edges. She smiled as she remembered her grandmother's wagon having similar benches that could be opened up to create a large sleeping area. As the memory of her and her grandmother sleeping on such a bed flooded her mind, a burst of power shot out from the gilded chair and struck her in the head, chest then flowed over her. She heard Kitrja yelp in surprise, but all she could do was look about wildly for the source of what was now a blue glowing shimmer that had immoblizied her and had all of her hairs standing on end. Then she saw them. Bones, a skull, and a heart and leaves coronet lay about the back portions of the gilded throne. "Not of my clan, not of my blood, but some of your blood is of The Blood, who enters and asks for an audience with I, Adiazen, Marking of the Forested Hearts, Clan Lord of the Open Hearts Clan?" She heard the voice in the center of her head, and as she heard the words she had the image of a tall, thin well dress Sczarni man looking like the carving standing before her. However, her eyes didn't see any, she just had the image of the well dressed Marking clearly in front of her. "You are not my guard, but you have his key, who are you, I do not have much time." "Srynisha Altholt, Marking," she bowed her head and opened her hands in a motion that raised them slight as she turned her palms up and stretched them outward. "My mother was Dinah, daughter of Syrzia the wife of Erdrias all of the Broken Coin Clan. I did not mean to cause you harm, but Kitrja was attacked by a horse headed screeching thing and then I saw the spoke amongst the trees." The blue shimmer sent a tendril outward into the forest and quickly returned, but the glow was less and Srynisha felt some minor movement. "It was a Sagari, or rather a magical construct I put in place to protect my resting place. I need to tell you more, but have little time. Listen, Srynisha Altholt, for this is my story. I was Marking of seven clans and I ruled fairly sharing in the work and wealth of the clans. But, my sister's sons were not happy that I would not grant the special favor and extra shares in the distribution of our earned and acquired gold." There was a chuckle in her mind when he had said acquired and Srynisha smiled knowing how such gold had been obtained. "They set up an ambush of my wagon, killed nearly all of my guards, but I was able to fight back with magic and escape with the help of my guard. However, we fled into these woods on the road less used and managed to hide ourselves. Yet, both of us were wounded and the arrows were tipped in poison. I managed to slow the venom's effect long enough to ward this wagon, and bind my guardsman to protect the wagon from any who tried to enter without permission. Then I closed the door, locked and closed all of the doors, and began the long sleep waiting to end this journey and join the next with my ancestors and clan. There are some things of value here, for I was Marking after all, but whether you can find them and whether the wagon will yield them all to you, I know not. " She felt her hair drop back about her ears and shoulders, the bright blue fading quickly as the image in her mind shimmered and then reappeared, but fainter than before. "Here I have waited to be found, to be remembered, and to be respected. Regardless of your other blood, you are of The Blood, and I pass my name, my story on to you. Take it, share it with your clan's leaders, and remember me Srynisha Altholt. Remember the Last true Marking of the Forested Hearts." The figure in her mind raised his right hand in greeting and salute. He bowed his head and his image shimmered and faded. The blue mist pulled away from her, circled about the coronet, and then flowed across a rectangular panel to the right of the right leg of the throne. Then the blue light splashed across the the entire interior of the receiving room then all went black. Srynisha blinked a few times and slowly her ability to see in the dark room returned. Kitrja jumped up beside her and in doing so pushed her forward. She took a moment and then with a series of quick finger movements and words whispered at the same time, she filled the receiving room with light. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust and take in the musty smelling room. Decaying fine cloth, what looked like cushions and tapestries could be seen now in the room. All mimicked the carvings of the door. She could see another lock plate where the blue light had outlined the rectangle below and to the side of the throne's seat. She also could see all of the Marking's bones. Behind the throne was another lock plate set in a heart surrounded by leaves. She could make out the line of a tall thin door and realized that that was probably the personal quarters of the Marking. It was not much larger than the receiving room and the wagon itself was not too different for the common wagons of her clan's members. She stepped back, took off her pack, and dropped her stone bow outside the back of the wagon, and took down one of the tapestries with the hearts and leaves finding it still had that still had some strength to its woven fabric. Using it as a container, she carefully gathered the cream colored bones and skull of Marking Adiazen onto it. She placed the coronet on his throne and carefully carried the bones outside. Kitrja followed her and sat back on her haunches when Srynisha stopped at the base of the tree that had grown up through the back wheel. The tiefling set tapestry with its contents of bones down, and walked back to the broken gladius. She spent the next hour digging out two circular holes to a depth above her knees. Then, she walked back into the receiving room and found a cushion that she thought might have been the one that the Marking would have sat upon, placed it into the hole closest to the back of the Wagon. Then she began arranging the collected bones in the tapestry in an order from the many bones of the feet at the bottom of the pile to the placing of the skull on the top. She then laid the tapestry over the bones and filled the hole back up with the freshly dug dirt from that hole. She had thought of including the crown, but the Marking had ordered her to share his story with her clan, the crown would prove her words to be true, and some within her clan could use it to divine more about who the Marking was, who his kin were, and who his bloodline flowed through today. It would then be taken to one of the Varisian Great Gatherings to be enshrined in a Wagon of Remembering She took the time, and Kitrja helped, to gather the bones of the skeleton she had defeated and to bury them in a similar manner. When both graves were filled in, she stepped back and spoke aloud. "Marking Adiazen, Marking of the Forested Hearts, Clan Lord of the Open Hearts Clan, I, Srynisha Altholt give you leave to journey away from this world and into the next. Join the caravan of your ancestors, join the caravan and the wagons of your family, walk amongst the forests there with them all. May your guardsman join you, and may you both find peace and comfort in the Great Journey home." Tears filled her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, hitting the forest floor. Kitrja let out a soft set of whimpers that mixed with the evening songs of the birds of the trees. A breeze flittered across her face, twirled above each of the freshly dug and tampered graves, and Srynisha had the fixed image of two men in the prime of their lives standing there at the graves, they nodded at her and clasped hands with each other in friendship then turned and walked off through the wagon fading away in the evening light. In the silence that followed, she heard two distinct pings from within the wagon. She looked at Kitrja, whose eyes were staring at the rear of the wagon. The fox turned its head back at her and its amber eyes locked with hers almost as if the fox was asking if she had heard the same sounds too. Both of them carefully walked back to the back of the wagon. The light was gone, and so Srynisha cast the spell again filling the receiving room. In the bright light, she could see that the crown had been hung on the top right finale of the throne and that the lock plate behind the throne had turned ninety degrees. Another lock plate was also visible on the left side of the throne opposite of the one that had already been highlighted. Srynisha used the key to open the two lower locks first. In the space that Adiazen had highlighted, she found two tombs wrapped in an oiled and waxed canvas that has sealed itself over time. She carefully used her kunai's blade to work the folded cloth apart and then open. One of the tomes was ornately bound with tarnished black silver bindings in the shape of leaves and hearts. The equally tarnished hook clasp that was used to hold the ornately carved covers together took some pressure to force open. The front cover had a wagon caravan carved in a center medallion and about that foxes hunting birds, trees and vines, and birds flying in the sky. She opened it and the writing was of a style that was different than what she was familiar with. Flipping through the neatly written pages, some with sketches, some with gilded lettering, she gained a sense and feeling that this was history of the Marking and the seven associated clans. She fought back a tear, and whispered, "They will see this, read it and remember you and yours Marking Adiazen, I promise." Something moved to her right and she shot a quick glance in that direction at the same time that Kitrja did. The crown rocked back and forth on the throne's finale. Both she and Kitrja caught each other's eyes and their heads tilted in unison. The second tome was only partially written in. It was thin, narrow and no where near as large. She looked at it for a while and then sit it aside on the throne. She turned to the second, newly appearing lock plate. She opened it easily with the same key and found a black and green leather bag about two hand widths wide with a silver threaded draw string. The pouch appeared to be empty and there was nothing else inside the cabinet. She closed the door, locking it, and then held the pouch in her hand. She shook her head, uncertain why anyone would go to such lengths to hide an empty pouch. She pulled open the draw string and pulled back the pouches' mouth. Inside were two rings, a dozen gold pieces of styles she had never seen before, and three dozen silver coins. When she reached her hand into the pouch to pull out the rings, her hand and forearm seemed to vanish inside. She pulled the rings out and sat the open pouch on the throne seat. It seemed to have mass to it. She looked at each of the rings. One was obviously the signet of the Marking as its gold and jewels replicated the carved signs that she now knew to be the Marking's and his individual clan's symbols. The other ring was smaller, simpler in style and much more graceful. It was platinum, or so she thought, and it was a combination of worked leaves and hearts. She looked at it, and the crown, and saw that both were rather similar in style and make. She slipped it onto her right ring finger and held out her hand to admire it. As she did so, she saw the ring adjust to her finger, and the crown wobbled again. Kitrja yipped and she chuckled. Finally, she stood and tried the lock in the lock hole in the richly carved lock plate behind the throne itself. She recast her light spell, this time touching the throne. The lock easily turned. But nothing happened. She looked at the door, at the throne, and then pushed against the seat of the throne, and it moved backwards. She did it again, and the throne and door swung back into the room. She had to climb over the throne to stand inside, but she found a sleeping bench, a wardrobe, a desk with parchments, a golden signet that she grabbed, and a small, nicely worked dagger similar to that carved on the outside of the wagon. The wardrobe held cloaks and clothes that were musty with age. The various cubbies in the desks held trinkets, copper coins, a looking glass, and other such things. These others could find if the came to reclaim the wagon and its contents. Above the sleeping bench was a cubby with a finely woven silver mesh bag about the size of her hand with her fingers extended. She picked it up, and turned it in her hands. There was a clasp that held the draw string tight that was in the shape of a large "A". She squeezed it, pulling the bag open and looked inside. She gasped, and her sound brought Kitrja running into that part of the wagon. It was a set of fortune cards, she recognized the shape. But these were exquisitely worked on thick parchment with gilded edges. She held them out in front of her and debated about whether they should be passed on to the Sczarni elders or kept. She really wanted to keep them as she would never find anything as wonderful as these. She sighed, and when she did, she heard the drop of metal hitting wood. She turned her head back behind her and noticed that the crown was sitting back on the seat. She frowned, looked back at the cards, and sighed again. Metal struck wood, hard. Kitrja yelped at persistent sound. She whipped her head about and the crown was turned upside down. "Marking are you trying to tell me to take them or..." and before she could finish the question, the crown flipped itself over and reset itself properly upon the seat of the throne. She and Kitrja shot each other a glance and both nodded their heads in affirmative to the question that they shared. Yes, each had seen what the other had just seen. Srynisha put the cards back into their beautiful mesh bag. She climbed back over the throne, while Kitra scooted underneath it, and then pulled the throne back into its rightful place in the receiving room. She looked at the bag, and noticed that the crown was surrounding it. Well I don't see how that will fit in there, she thought to herself. She picked it up and felt a tug on it towards the bag. Her purple and amber eyes darted about, and then she chuckled. She opened the black and green leather bag and then tried pushing the larger grown into it. She gasped as the crown slid in easily with what appeared to be room to spare. She could see it, the signet, and the coins. She shrugged, and then she looked at the silver mesh bag and the fortune cards contained inside. She tried pushing that bag into the other and it too went in with room to spare. She drew the bag closed and picked it up only to see an empty leather bag with a silver cloth chord. Panic struck and she quickly pulled open the bag and peered inside. There were all of her items. She laughed and heard Kitrja panting next to her. "The Marking was good to us Kitrja, very good to us. This will make caring things so much easier." She turned and looked about the reception room. She took down the two remaining tapestries, each a cloth version of the carved door panels, rolled them carefully, and watched with delight as the slipped easily into the black and green bag. She closed the door, and then jumped down from the door step. With the key, she locked the door and said a small prayer asking that the wagon be kept safe from harm. She turned about and realized it was now dusk. Kitrja was already sprawled out underneath the wagon, finding a perfect little den space. Srynisha fished out her blanket and crawled in beside the sleeping fox. Slumber found her quickly and her dreams were filled with memories of her grandmother and their clan's traveling caravan. Genre: Any Original Fiction Topic: The Last King (Any Interpretation or Rephrasal Valid) Challenge: Somewhere in your story include: a frog, a school, and hunting SAGARI - http://www.d20pfsrd.com/bestiary/mon...rations/sagari Last edited by Aethera; Jul 16th, 2016 at 03:17 PM. |
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July 2016 Competition Entries Topic: Crime Doesn't Pay Challenge: a layover, loneliness, and child's play Winner: CRIME Doesn't Pay by DemoSquid Shadow on the Wall (1018 Words) Jack Hammer sat at his desk working on the computer. The latest compensation proposal was on the screen pertaining to his involvement in the Jester case. He expected to be well taken care of for saving the city of New York extensive amounts of damage. The strange behavior displayed in Central Park and Wall Street alone could have caused the good people of New York extreme embarrassment. His lawyer will make sure the city understands that. It was a hot July day in New York. Jack could hear sounds of children playing in the street outside his window. He sat at his office desk playing Bookworm while eating a ham, turkey and bacon on wheat. He drank some of his Caribbean Passion smoothie from Jamba Juice pondering a nice word to play. The progress meter blinked its Morse Code message of loneliness when a distraught beautiful lady walked in the room. He offered her a Coke from the fridge before she told her story. She accepted the offer and took a seat in front of the desk. She laid the case out for Jack like an old school detective show used to do. She said a man mugged her and took her purse. The man then slipped into the shadows and disappeared. She further explained that the man was actually a shadow himself and blended into the shadows cast on the wall. The new information intrigued him not because he heard versions of the story many times before but something in her tearful delivery made him believe her. He shook her hand and took the case. Jack took the lady down to McSorley’s to have a sandwich while he investigated the case. He told her he will be back in a few hours so she should eat something and use the ladies room. Jack knew the staff well and said they will treat her very nice. Jack went to the scene of the crime. He saw a dark figure lurking at the corner of the wall. The figure slowly slunk toward an unsuspecting woman waiting for a taxi to become available. She moved to get in the taxi when the shadow man reached out from the wall like fingers trying to grab her purse. Jack witnessed the shadow man and shouted to get the woman’s attention. She quickly got in the cab just in time before her purse could be taken. The shadow fell back to the wall and disappeared leaving only natural cast shadows upon it now. Jack went to the precinct covering this part of Manhattan. He requested to talk with the beat cop assigned to the wall in question. It was a mixed pair a man and a woman. The male didn’t catch the mugging but his partner did. She said she rushed to bring the mugger down like a linebacker but she ran out of room before the shadow man disappeared from the wall. Jack told her his plan to catch the shadow man. It was going to require a great deal of teamwork and they needed to trust him on this matter. He pitched his plan to the precinct captain. He gave Jack a look like he was some nut trying to pull a stunt. Jack thought he would get a response like this though it disappointed him that the captain didn’t believe him. It was a fairly light crime day so he found plenty cops to help him. They will get shared credit for the collar and the captain will respect them much more for their effort. Time Square was bustling with activity at 7pm. Jack walked to a prime spot where the shadow man could steal a lot of purses and wallets. He directed the flood lights to be set up around his position. When several tourists joined him on the benches he needed a few more to stand near the benches to set up the trap. Some passing traffic made it the perfect time to spring the trap. The shadow man showed up on cue assessing the situation. Jack held a fake wallet out in the open. A pick pocket tried to make an easy score but Jack gave him a look mean enough to crumble a gargoyle. The pick pocket ran away like a rabbit from a farmer’s pitch pork. The shadow man reached out his dark ethereal fingers to a lady next to him. Jack jumped off the bench and went to the center of the benches. Just when the dark fingers were inches away from reaching a purse, he gave the order to flood the area. The area suddenly was flooded with light covering the whole block. The shadow man had nowhere to hide. He stood out like a black spot on a white washed fence. The shadow man continued to be slammed with light. The overload exposure broke his concealment spell and he materialized into reality as a young Irish man. Jack ran and slammed the man on the street. A red purse slid out from under him and Jack secured it. The Irish man was arrested and taken away for his crimes. Jack muttered something sarcastic to the effect "crime doesn't pay fool. Reflect on that in jail." The cops thanked Jack for the collar and said they will return the favor sometime. Jack said to come to McSorley’s anytime and they will have a few rounds. Jack returned to McSorley’s and gave the lady back her purse. She showed her appreciation by hugging him and offering to pay him substantially. He respectfully declined the offer but would accept her friendship and any monetary offer she wished to spread out over time since a private detective didn’t get paid well. He walked with her to cab and paid for the fare to take her home. He went back in the bar and had a pint of light. It was well deserved after the battle over light in all its forms. The beer tasted fantastic. Kids still played in the street dodging cars while throwing a nerf football from sidewalk to sidewalk. Horns blared at each close brush with oncoming traffic. Jack continued to drink his beer and unwind from the case. “No.”
“Garret, please.” “Absolutely not.” “Garret, just-“ “Nope!” “Garret, for God’s sake just listen! This program could really help you! It’s done wonders for so many with a past like yours.” “Eva, babe, this is the most moronic, stupidest thing I’ve seen in my entire life. And believe me, that’s saying a lot. “ “Well, you have to start somewhere!” “Not here. I refuse to be a part of this circus-” “Garret, no other program will take you with your history. You need to do this, you said so yourself.” A pause. “I…I just don’t know if I can.” Another pause. “Do it for me? For us?” “…Fine.” ------------- “H-h-hello everyone. Welcome to SVA: Super V-villains Anonymous.” The thin man addressed the crowd of half a dozen people nervously, shifting not so subtly back and forth on his feet. Garret sighed and crossed his arms. Already this was turning out to be a gong show. There’s no way this guy is in charge of all these crooks, he thought, He’s nothing but a bag of piss waiting to be popped. It was true of course; the thin, balding, middle-aged man standing within the circle of chairs looked like he might take off at a run at any moment. Sweat had already stained the armpits of his white button-up shirt, and his fingers were at his throat, constantly adjusting his wrinkled tie at the knot. His frightened eyes flitted from face to unimpressed face before continuing. “I’m Buh-Bradley, and I’m your um…suh-sponser. I’d like to thank you all for j-j-joining us tonight.” Bradley spoke robotically as he read from his cue cards, “There are some new faces among us, so let’s g-give them a warm…”he flipped to the next card. “welcome.” He smiled weakly and scanned the circle to look straight at Garret. Garret gave a small nod to the half-hearted applause that followed. Taking a seat, Bradley spoke directly to the new-comer, “Garret is joining us for the first time as well as…um…oh, I guess he’s not here…” looking around the room. “Sorry I’m late!” an exasperated voice rang out as an overweight man in a sweatshirt and slacks jogged into the room. He paused, taking several wheezing breaths before plunking himself down on one of the chairs in the circle. He raised a finger, begging for a pause as if he were to continue his explanation, “Layover(pant) in Seattle. (pant) Got delayed. Had to (gulp) run as quick as I (pant) could”. “Well, it seems everyone is here.” Bradley produced a few stray napkins from his pocket protector and dabbed his forehead. “With that, I suppose we should…um….begin?” he looked around, at his unresponsive audience, as if unsure whether or not he had offended someone. “Who would like to go first?“ As usual in rooms filled with strangers, a minute that stretched into eternity passed. A hairy dark-skinned hand rose itself from the crowd, “I’ll go.” A large black man stood and addressed the room. “Hello. I’m Martin.” “Hello, Martin” “Most of you may not recognize me. I used to be the villain known as Wolf-Beast.” Some murmurs of acknowledgement scattered through the crowd. “Yeah, that thing. Anyways, I’ve been free from the villain gig for about 5 years now. (applause) Thanks. I’ve always told myself that it was never me. I never asked for these powers, but when I had them, I never wanted them to leave. It’s easy to fall prey to the power-trip. So much of my life was out of control, and I thought I could finally take it back with this. But after so much blood spilled I finally realized only then that my life was the most out of control. I wanted to get back on the right path…for my daughter, and her family.” He smiled, “This group is my first step. Glad it's finally got off the ground.” Applause broke out, a little more fervently now that the ice was broken. Another hand went up almost immediately. Standing was a gray-haired Korean man wearing a loose polo and slacks. “Hello, I am Richard” “Hello Richard” “Thank you. I am villain free since 93!” he exclaimed, pausing for laughter which never came. “Ahem, I mean, I am villain free for over twenty years now, something I am very proud of.” (Applause) “Thank you, thank you. I was big in the 80’s as the daredevil known as Ricky Rocket. I actually didn’t come up with the name. My friend thought it up, I staged bank heists and robberies all throughout the city and my getaway vehicle was a single seat torpedo that I had custom made.” He chuckled, “Looking back now, it was really dangerous, but no one could catch me. I got bored eventually, so one night I purposefully slowed down to give them hope. That’s when I slammed into the pillar of the Golden Gate Bridge. Fell into a coma, woke up with the most handsome man standing over me. Pretty much straightened out after that. I served my sentence, and got released a few months early on good behaviour and I started seeing Sean. At first I thought what was missing from my life was the excitement of not getting caught, but it turns out I just needed the right person to keep the loneliness at bay. There’s certainly never been a dull moment with us! We’ve been married seven months!” He wiggled the wedding band on his finger. “This group is amazing, it’s helped me come to terms with my past and allowed me to focus on my future.” Beaming, Richard sat down to the applause that followed. “I’ll go next!” the late man exclaimed, jumping to his feet, and knocking the foldout chair over with his butt. Embarrassed, he righted it, flashing the tiniest bit of trouser crack to Garret. Garret merely pursed his lips into a thin line and exhaled through his nose. So far it’s just been goody-goodies talking about their feelings. This was a total waste of time… “Hi I’m Speedfreak” “…Hello Sp-“ “NO! Sorry, no, I’m Aaron.” “Hello Aaron.” “I USED to be Speedfreak, but, well, I stopped once I gained…this.” He gestured to his body, clearly not the streamlined body of a runner. “I guess my metabolism isn’t as fast as the rest of me. I don’t mind though. I like how it reminds me of what I wanna be, ya know? Someone ordinary, or, ya know, someone NOT in jail.” The rest of the group chuckled at that. Aaron smiled, “So, yeah, I’ve been outta the villain business for about 2 years, and actually started up my own shop back home. Can’t wait to get myself in a good space again.” He made sure the chair was fully underneath him before sitting down. “Well, s-since we’ve had one of the new-comers go, why don’t we see the… other one?” Bradley nervously smiled over to Garret, who had sunk fairly low in his seat out of boredom. Garret’s gaze shifted between the men in the room, all looking at him expectantly. He sighed and stood up slowly. “Hey. Garret.” “Hello Garret” He winced. It sounded twice as corny when directed at him. “Yeah… um…this is my first time at one of these things. So, I guess I just talk?” He saw the small group nod at him, murmuring assent. “Great.” He paused, somewhat at a loss for words. “Do it for me? For us?” He sighed. “I’ve been “villain-free” for about a year now. Maybe less. I like to round up, so it’s probably more like 10 months and one week. I dunno.” He began to fidget. Was he always this nervous when public speaking? “Um…well, I guess there’s no point in hiding it. I used to be the guy they called Overload.” There was a hushed silence. The one that fell every time. It made him cringe even more than his introduction. “I’m not…look…I’m trying to get better, ok? I am better. I’ve got a job, a roof over my head, and I’m not in jail, so that’s pretty good, I think. I’ve done some **** I’m not proud of, and a lot of people would probably rather see me dead right now, but I’m working to make up for it. My girlfriend mentioned this place and said to give it a go, so I figured, what the hell. I wouldn’t even be here if not for her so…” he trailed off, thinking. “I wouldn’t even be here, if it weren’t for her.” He looked over at Martin, whose face had softened and gave an encouraging nod. Garret gulped and held out his hand. An arc of lightning leaped off his thumb and connected to his index finger before spreading around to all of the digits on his hand. “When I was doing…the villain thing, it felt like being a kid again. Except you were the king of the castle, the one who was “It”, the kid with all the power. The bully. If I wanted to plunge the city into darkness for a month, no problem. Child’s play. I lived in an age where I manipulated the one thing humans needed to survive: Electricity. Society was my puppet, and I liked it like that. For a bit.” He closed his hand, cutting off the circuit. “There was this hero. Protocol. He was this cyborg. Made it his mission to put me behind bars. I was raiding Mid-Town’s generator when he stepped in to stop me. We fought for a bit before I took a couple of the workers hostage. I blasted the roof so I could make my escape, and brought it down on top of Protocol, only I missed, and it went flying towards the workers. Protocol jumped in the way…he gave everything just for a couple strangers. Kinda made me think about what the hell I was doing this all for. Made me feel pretty ****ing stupid. But that was the old me. The new me’s way better than that.” The silence permeated the hall, but it was a different silence than before. Understanding, compassion, and empathy filled the eyes of all the reformed villains that stood around Garret. Bradley was even crying. Although his tears looked to be more from some heartburn he was having than the breakthrough Garret was having. “Hurts…” “Bradley? Brad? You ok?” asked Richard. “Oh god. Oh God! I’m so sorry everyone!!” Bradley struggled and clawed at his shirt and tie, ripping them off him. Underneath his clothing was a strange apparatus bolted to his skin, metallic and menacing looking, with a timer counting down. “He said he’d kill my family! I’m so sorry!!!” Garret looked closer, the timer was already at 4….3…. “Everyone behind me!” Garret screamed as the device lit up the room. Then there was only darkness. ---------- “Calls himself Doctor Judgment. A vigilante who specializes in taking down anyone with a criminal record. His identity isn’t known to the public, but from his M.O. it seems he has dirt on just about everyone. He usually picks one target and plans the perfect deathtrap. Guess when he found out there was a super-villain support group, he couldn’t resist.” The detective looked down at the stretchers filled with the various group members before returning his gaze to the crumbling wreckage of the meeting hall. He turned back towards Garret, who had an arm in a sling and bandage around his head. “You're pretty lucky, champ. Guess he didn’t account for whatever the hell you did to protect these guys.” “An electro-magnetic repulsor shield.” Garret replied. “Yeah, one of those.” The detective took a pack of gum out and popped a piece into his mouth. He chewed a bit before giving a snort. “If this makes the Internet it’ll probably say somethin’ like ‘Villain Turns Hero’ or some other bull**** like that.” “Great. Look, I just wanna know one thing. Is the government gonna get involved in all this?” “Not likely” “Why not?” “Well they’ve got a system worked out that your little organization that arranged this little pow-wow is not officially affliated with the government.” Garret breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t feel much like dealing with the government after all that had happened. He rubbed his bandage absent-mindedly before speaking up again, “Hey Detective, I don’t know if this actually might be the right time, but who’s gonna pay for all the…damages?” “Well, that’s the funny thing” he looked through his notebook, “the Centre for Rehabilitation and Integration of Mankind’s Enemies has a specific insurance package that makes them eligible for compensation against Super Villain attacks. Doesn’t say anything about third-party vigilantes. Looks like C.R.I.M.E. doesn’t pay a thing.” “Fan-****ing-tastic.” Again, Artemis glanced at the Hamilton wrist watch while eating his sauerbraten lunch. It was comfort food and a salve to his frustration with having to just wait. He sipped the cool, sweet Auslese that happened to be from a small village near his Uncle's estate. He took another bite while checking his watch. The Gasthof he was eating at was near the boarding dock for the S.S. Hamburg of the Hamburg-Amerika line, but a crew delay dashed his hopes of boarding early.
Danzig was not what he expected; in fact none of Germany had been, other than his Uncle's estate. When the chance was offered arose to travel to Germany as part of Goodyear's delegation, he jumped at the opportunity to tour the Luftschiffbau-Zeppelin factory and see the newest airship under construction. The delegation would be part of the American business attendees at the Olympic summer games in Berlin. It was too good of an opportunity and he even agreed to pay for his return trip if he could spend an additional week in Germany on "family business." There were a few raised eye brows, but when he explained that his great uncle was a former Baron and German officer in a WWI balloon corps, the Company agreed to his suggestion. They had traveled by ocean liner to Le Havre and then by train to the Zeppelin factory. The hangars were massive. The Hindenburg was much larger than the familiar Los Angeles. The Hindenburg class was the newest line of Luftschiffbau Zeppelin's airships. The keel to the Graf Zeppelin II had been laid prior to their arrival and duraluminium rings were rising into place. Everything was larger than life - the hangars, the coordination of the workers, and the airships themselves. The delegation had the privilege to ride to Berlin aboard the Hindenburg. They debarked outside of Berlin prior to the Olympic opening ceremonies. He shook his head as he ate. Opening ceremonies were more like a glorified worship session of the Reichschancellor-Fuhrer Adolf Hitler by those fortunate enough to obtain tickets to the precisely controlled ceremony with its torch lighting ceremony. The new ceremony was the culmination of a relay involving thousands of runners carrying the Krupp made torches from Greece to Berlin. Every aspect of the games were controlled, but for the competitions themselves, by the German government and Hitler's Nazi party. The releasing of hundreds of pigeons that were the fired upon by the cannons sent a shiver down Artemis’ spine. He reached for the Auslese to chase the bad taste from his mouth. His fork speared the mound of butter covered spaetzel. Two bites later and his mind was back in Philadelphia, before the war, in the brownstone near the corner of Brandywine and North 37th Street. “Arty, esst du, liebchen,” his mother’s language was that of her birth, common amongst the adults in the neighborhood. Artemis memory was when his mother was young and full of light, something that vanished when his father had died of the Spanish flu ten years later. She slid him a plate of spaetzel slathered in butter with a touch of nutmeg. He loved her spaetzel, none of the other mothers made it like she did. Nor did this Gasthof, but it was close. The area under the table was his and his sister's fortress, where brightly colored tin wind-up toys, books and such could be played out of their mother's way. Yet, they could peek out and see what she was doing in the kitchen. He smiled as his memories took him back to a time of simple pleasures, child's play, and a mother's treat. His mother died five years ago. His was married now, raising children, and living in Bryn Mawr. They saw each other once a month with him bringing wine, flowers, and small candies to his niece and nephew. But for his Uncle Willi, they were the only family he had. On this trip, he visited the Isenberg. The place was a combination of imagination, fantasy and recollection after years of stories by his parents. Uncle Willy was his mother's great uncle, the younger brother of her father and a fifth cousin of his father. So his visit was the fulfillment of a dream. The keep was built in the 1300s atop a small knoll a few miles from the train station. It was east of Frankfurt, with the train stop outside a small village made famous by the Brothers Grimm whose father had served there as a government official. A remarkable vehicle was waiting for him, and the ride brought him into the keep's courtyard. There waiting for him was his Uncle Willi with the stance of an officer and gentlemen of the Landgrave's court despite being eighty-two. The two greeted each other with hugs and slaps on the back. Artemis had only a few short days to spend there, but it was the best four days of the entire trip. His eyes still watered when he recalled the salute he had received from his Uncle when he left for the rail station. His trip to Danzig was via Berlin with a change of trains in the Hauptbahnhof Anhalter. He had a small amount of time to walk about the station's platform and marvel at the aerodynamic design of the steam engine pulling the lavish train cars. He wasn't certain that his seat was for what he had purchased, or whether his Uncle's connections had something to do with his luxurious accommodations. He read the newspapers, watched the scenery pass by, ate in the beautiful dining car, and chatted with various travelers in the observation car. Eighteen hours later, with a stop in Poznan, he arrived in Gdansk or Danzig as learned it. A porter helped him find a driver to take him to the Gasthof where he had spent the past two nights waiting to board the ship back to New York. He had walked the City's streets and the red banners with the black swastikas were everywhere; nearly as prevalent as the uniformed police. The few times he was stopped his passport combined with his German managed to get waived along. Yet, this world port was not the free city that he recalled reading about in college. It was obvious that the League's ability to ensure Danzig's citizens their freedom against the press of Hitler's allies was collapsing. He saw anti-Semitic graffiti whitewashed on buildings, police constantly demanding papers from citizens, and beatings of those who were slow to comply. He finished his meal, set his silverware on the beautifully enameled plate, and paid his bill ensuring a fair tip was included. After settling his lodging bill, the proprietor kindly agreed to let him leave his trunks there until he could board the steam liner. He looked at his wristwatch and then walked to the terminal building. The old building was filled with people and he approached one of the booths for the Hamburg-Amerika lines. He was told that he would have another hour or so before he could board, but was given the four thick labels to mark his trunks. He had to pay for the additional luggage, but didn't hesitate. Artemis took the time to fill out the tags and then turned to walk back to the Gasthof to find a driver to bring him and his trunks back. However, in amongst the swarm of people, he had gotten turned about and found himself near boarding lines for the steerage passengers. He stood back watching the lines of people clutching their carpet or leather bags. He could hear conversations in German, Polish, Yiddish, and other languages all nervous, all excited. His study of the lines was broken by a wailing off to his right where the line was nearing the gang plank into the waiting ship. He shuffled amongst the people not in line and found a place where he could see the source for the wailing, sobbing and shouting. He leaned against a closed counter watching the scene unfold. A very elderly man was pulling against the two young men holding him back. They wore uniforms that were too crisp, too clean, and too new. A third man, heavy set, uniformed, and wearing a swastika on his left arm, shouted at the elderly man. His younger family members were trying to explain and translate what the elder saying. Artemis watched and when one of the uniformed officers glanced his way, he looked down and acted like he was reading the travel notice posted at the counter. He shifted along to another vantage point to continue watching what was happening. The heavy set official had in his hands a well decorated, tasseled velvet bundle with two gold tipped finales. In a continued mixture of shouting mixing orders and insults, the official shouted that he was confiscating the item as an antique subject to customs inspection. When the old man began wailing in protest, one of the younger men punched him in the stomach and let him fall to the ground. The younger woman screamed and rushed to the elderly man crumpled on the wooden decking of the docks. The other young man ordered them all to proceed into the ship. When the woman, the elderly man, and a younger man started gathering their possessions strewn about on various tables, the officials began shouting in German for them to hurry up and quite delaying. One of the officials raised a polished night stick threatening to beat the travelers if they did not hurry along. Artemis could feel his stomach turn. He looked away only to catch the other official assessing the velvet bundle with its gold embroidery and gold threaded tassels. With obvious disdain, the man took the bundle and tossed it into an open trunk that was filled with silverware, gold and silver candelabra, and menorah. The bundle filled the trunk, and the man slammed the lid down and shouted for a porter to remove it and a few others. Artemis' jaw clenched. A young man with a dolly loaded up the closed trunk and three others. He moved back into the flow of the people and followed the porter from a distance. When the porter had made a series of turns and moved further and further away from the steam liner, Artemis' mind raced as he started to develop a plan. The young porter shimmied the stack of trunks next to a dozen other plain metal grey trunks. The porter then hurried back he way he had come. Artemis waited until the porter was long gone and looked about. Seeing no other officials, he moved towards the stack of trunks and leaned against the four that had just been discarded. He scanned the crowds looking for someone wearing the livery of the Hamburg line. His eyes caught a 20 something man with black, curly hair and a thick moustache rushing towards the docks, and frantically trying to tie a dark work apron about himself. Artemis smiled. "Hey, you there. Can you help me?" Artemis used English as it was not as common a language in this part of the terminal. A few folks looked up at him, including the rushing porter. "Yes, you there in the apron, can you help me with these, I seem to have gotten lost." The man stopped, scowled, and rolled his eyes. "Sir, I am Markos, how can I help you?" Markos spoke English with a thick accent that seemed to oddly mix Slavic and German tones. Artemis shifted his walking stick to his left hand and extended his right hand . The act noticeably surprised Markos who tentatively took the hand and shook it. "Artemis Richter, traveling home to America and somehow the young lad with the dolly got called away leaving me here with these four trunks. See here are my tags, and my ticket for the Hamburg, but they keep delaying when I can get aboard. Not sure this is how first class should be treated, but I am rather new to this whole travel abroad." Markos glanced at the papers, but really focused his dark brown eyes on Artemis and then on the trunks he was leaning against. Markos straightened himself and looked about, then leaned closer towards Artemis. "Sir, are you sure these are your trunks? They seem to be very similar to these others?" Artemis fished his ticket back into his inner jacket pocket and at the same time pulled out a set Reichmarks he had not exchanged for the local currency. He palmed them to Markos, "Oh, I am certain that my papers are in order for these trunks, you would agree, yes? I will be thanking the Purser for your help when I get settled." Markos smiled as he deftly took the four bills. "Yes, all seems in order, I could get these aboard. Of course, you must explain mebeing late, yes?" Markos winked. Artemis smiled in agreement. "Good, good, now let me find dolly." Markos stepped into an unmarked door, returning in a few short moments with a large wood and steel dolly. They quickly worked the stack of four trunks onto the dolly and found a ramp slanting upwards to a different section of the terminal. Markos expertly handled the dolly while Artemis managed to walk along clearing space in the crowd with the tapping of his walking stick and strategically placing it to open a path. Artemis had lost track of where they were in the terminal, but finally they came to a mound of trunks off all types being loaded onto slide that slipped them into the ship’s hold. Markos waived at another man, who had frowned when he saw the two with the trunks. In harsh tones, the other man started asking questions and Markos answered politely pointing at Richter. Artemis caught "American" a few times, and then smiled and spoke up. "I grabbed Markos to help me, got lost in the crowds, and then the young boy I had paid to help me ran off. Markos was so helpful, truly cannot wait to tell the Captain at dinner how helpful he and his friends here have been." The other man's mouth dropped opened and he didn’t say anything else. "They are tagged and such, if they could be taken to my room, or be where I could call for them when I board that would be wonderful." Artemis pulled a silver five mark coin from his pocket and handed it to the speechless man. "For your time and troubles, I know his being gone could be a problem, but I hope this will help, and then the good word to the Captain of course." The man nodded and sheepishly smiled as the coin vanished. "Now, Markos, please show me back to where I am supposed to be, that would be fine right?" The other man nodded in uncertain agreement as Markos quickly took Richter's right hand and steered him back into the crowds. Artemis looked over his shoulder and saw two of the trunks traveling down into the ship. "Markos, I need to find the Purser's office, as I seem to have dropped my luggage tags somewhere and I cannot find them. Could you be so kind as to help me?" "But of course, Markos can easily help you. You must explain me helping you, but easy for you, yes?" The man's English was good, but the accent was terrible. His delight in participating in some type of ruse, however, was easy for Artemis to read. Laughing, the two eventually found their way back to the street. When Artemis left the Purser's Office, he had four new tags for his actual trunks and permission to have Markos await his return. Artemis flagged down a driver and rattled off the name of the Gasthof where his luggage awaited. When he arrived there, he claimed his four trunks. With the driver, they quickly loaded them into the vehicle. Rushing back to the terminal, they found Markos was leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette, and scanning the crowd. He smiled as he put out the cigarette, slipping the unsmoked portion into his apron pocket. The three unloaded the new trunk, tagged them, and Markos deftly worked between the throng of people. Artemis gave another silver coin to the driver, thanked him, and then rushed after Markos. With purpose, the two repeated their earlier dance amongst the crowds, but this time they arrived in a set of posh corridors and halls. When they got to a uniformed customs agent, Artemis addressed the man in German explaining how he had pressed the poor man with his bags into service. He continued to explain his being on traveling for Goodyear and without any servants. The customs agent rolled his eyes, glanced at Artemis' passport, tickets, and luggage with an uncaring shrug. Markos nodded at one of the porters, and Artemis' trunks were making their way into the ship. A few days later, Artemis set about trying to find Markos. Artemis had to ask two different people, but the second nodded and assured him that Markos would soon find him in the observation galley. "Mister Richter, you called for Markos?" Artemis turned and smiled. "Oh Markos, thank you, the Captain has heard me talk of how helpful you have been, I just didn't know who to call. I need my trunks, well if I could walk with you, I can explain my concerns." The other passengers had followed the conversation and then shrugged disinterested and returned to their distractions of cards, gossip, and cigars. As they walked the corridors, Artemis explained his plan. Markos' face broke out in a wide, bright smile. Many times along the corridors, Markos had to explain to anyone curious why Artemis was with him in those corridors. While Artemis waited in a seemingly deserted corridor, Markos found the four trunks. Markos led with a dolly their way into steerage’s common areas which was filled with masses huddled in large groups. Artemis looked at the various crowds of people. Not seeing who he wanted to find, he continued to move about until he saw the elderly man and his family. The old man's face was ashen, his eyes red from continual crying, and body hunched over. Artemis approached with Markos wheeling the four identical metal trunks behind him. Artemis addressed the older man in German, quietly, "Herrn Rabbi, ich heisse Artemis Richter ...there seems to have been a mix up in bags, I cannot explain it, but somehow these four trunks were labeled as mine. Yet, I think they belong to you?" The old man looked puzzled and confused. Markos and Artemis pulled down the top trunk, having ensured that it was the trunk Artemis wanted on top, and placed it before the old man. The old man's hands shook as he worked the latches and lifted the trunk's lid with a great deal of apprehension. Then his eyes went wide and a squeal of delight emitted from the man's sore and hoarse throat. He started speaking and his voice started to attract others about him. When the old man pulled the Torah scroll from the trunk, the small group gathered sharing his delight. "I hope that I have found the rightful owners of these, Rabbi?" Artemis asked with a grin. The old man, now bounding with joy, started talking quickly. Artemis simply smiled, shook his head in disagreement, and responded, "Crime never pays when committed against one of God's own." It took some time, but eventually Markos led Artemis back to his own room and his own trunks filled with family relics, books, and antiques. The S.S. Hamburg cut through the cold, dark waters of the North Atlantic. Last edited by Aethera; Sep 1st, 2016 at 02:54 PM. |
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August 2016 Competition Entries Topic: The Darkest Night Challenge: a book, a boat, and a pack of dogs Winner: Darkest Night by MrD Shadows at Sea by Fatgunn [1207 Words] Midnight, July 17, 1722. Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea. “Captain!”, a shout rings out above the roar of the storm. A man steps out of the cabin and onto the balcony overlooking the main decks. He stands tall and firm against the hurricane winds blowing around him, his weathered face unflinching as the icy rain sluices from his storm gray hair. “The bilge pumps can’t keep up with all this water Cap’n,” the first mate fervently yells. The captain’s eyes gleam as he grimaces into the sky. He doesn’t raise his voice, yet his words are heard clearly by every man on deck. “Well, my boy, you and the others best grab some buckets and get to hauling. We got cargo to get to port and I ain’t gonna be stopped by no piss-ant rain shower” Dumbstruck the sailors all looked on as the captain goes back into his cabin and slamms the door. The first mate, Samuel, recovers first and yells to others, “You heard the Cap’n, any man I catch without a bucket will be thrown overboard to feed the sharks. The men hastily set to work. Samuel spares a final glance towards the captain’s cabin door as he grabs a bucket and heads below. Slamming the door behind him the captain stomps over to the large chest he keeps strapped beside his bed. Ever wary he looks around for prying eyes before pulling a large key from beneath his coat. Carefully he slides the key into the lock and opens the chest. He withdraws from the chest a small silver knife and a large book. He carefully lays these upon the large table in the center of the room. With a sigh, he walks over to one of the windows and opens it. Wind now rushing about the cabin, the captain walks back over to the table and grabs the knife. As he touches the blade to the flesh of his palm the book’s pages suddenly flap madly and then settle, firmly, on a blank page. Despite the callouses and scars already present, the knife bites quickly and cleanly through the skin of the captain’s hand. As blood begins trickling from the cut, the captain presses it to the paper. He begins chanting, silently at first, and increasing in volume with each successive repetition. “Ole Davie Jones can have me bones But not till me time has come. Until that day, I’ll live my way Getting pissed on wine and rum!” As the chants build to a crescendo the wind within the cabin suddenly stops. The captain’s chanting ceases, and he removes his hand from the page. A bloody hand print covers the once pristine paper. Over a few seconds the hand print darkens and the and smoke curls up and drifts out the open window, where it is whisked away by the gale outside. A new yell sounds from outside the cabin. “Captain! You need to see this!” Hurriedly the captain replaces the book and knife in the chest and rushes to the door. He opens it to see Samuel with his hand raised as though to knock. “Captain,” Samuel says, “It seems we have gotten some respite from the storm.” Looking up, the captain sees the moon and stars shining brightly. In the distance, lightning still dances amongst the thunderheads. Turning to his first mate, the captain smiles. “Samuel, ensure that all the cargo is secure and dry, then arrange a gift for the boys. Dig out some of the rum Cookie keeps behind the biscuits and….” The words die in his throat as a shadow creeps across the face of the moon. The darkness spreads across the heavens engulfing each and every star until the sky is an ebon ceiling upon the world. Suddenly, a howl rips across the darkened waters. Every man not awestruck by the abyssal sky, freezes in primal terror. Each sailor looks to the man next to him, hoping that maybe he’s the only one who heard it, that maybe, just maybe, he is only going insane. For even insanity would be preferable to the confirmation that that howl was real. There are no wolves upon the ocean. A light blooms in the darkness. The captain looks to starboard and sees flames on the water, advancing towards the ship. The haunting howl sounds again. The captain yells to his crew, “FULL SAIL! Get this cow moving!” Nobody moves. The captain yells again, “Did you yellow bellies not hear me? I said MOVE!” Still, every sailor remains motionless. Turning to Samuel, the captain realizes his mistake. His first mate stands frozen, his expression lock into one of pure terror, and behind him stands a man clothed in shadow and fire. The man smiles at the captain, his eyes glowing like coals. “Captain, Jacob was it, long time no see.” His voice rumbles forth like landslide. “How have you been? Enjoying your end of our agreement?” Another howl sounds out from the waves. The captain’s eyes narrow and he sets his jaw. “Now you listen here Scratch. This was not part of our deal. Call off your dogs and release my crew.” The shadow man shakes his head, “Ah my dearest captain, stop being naive. You know as well as I that when we made that contract you were told to be wary of how you used my power. A ship full of souls has escaped my grasp due to your meddling this night.” A shadowed hand gestures off to starboard. “My hounds are still a ways off. I intend to collect the souls you’ve lost me. However, I shall give you some choices. Either I take your crew, or I take you.” Trembling, the captain glances around at his ship. Even as hardened as he is, the thought of willingly sacrificing his crew makes him sick. And yet, he does not want to give himself over to the hounds either. There must be a way to save himself and his crew. That rumbling voice interrupts his thoughts, “My pets are fast approaching captain. Stop playing games and make your decision.” Inspiration. A game, that’s it! “Demon, I challenge you. You win and you can have me, and my crew. Lose and we all go free, but you can have your power back. Either way you win.” “And what game would you have us play, captain?” “Dice. I keep a set of six in my pocket. We each roll three and the one with the highest total is the victor.” The captain reaches into his coat and retrieves the dice, holding them out to the shadow. “Very well,” the creature rumbles as he takes three. “Let us get this over with.” The captain leans down and tosses his dice towards his cabin door. They clatter along the deck, each impact sounding like the rattle of bones. Finally they stop. Two fives and a four, for a grand total of fourteen. The captain’s hopes rise, he feels he has a chance. The shadow grins and tosses his dice. The first two stop quickly, a six and a three. The final die finishes rolling. Six pips shine up from its weathered surface. A howl erupts from the deck, followed by screaming. Darkest Night by MrD Water dripped and to it's beat the count was made. "One Hundred, Two Hundred, Three Hundred. . ." A darkened room - dank with the smell of decay. "Four Hundred, Five Hundred. . ." Two men flickered by candle light, shadow-cast about a rough wood table. ". . . it is all here" The golden shimmer, dragged into a leather pouch, slipped from view. ". . . and the book?" "and - the book." From black cloak folds the one man pulled - leather bound, leather brown - a book, 'The book', and placing it on the table pushed it forward into the wobbling pool of light. The hand retreated a span to rest upon the oak wood. An old hand, a withered and wrinkled hand, a hand ancient and brittle - brittle as the pages of 'The book'. The figures on the leather binding were both exquisitely tooled and grotesquely alive - creatures spilled from a fevered mind writhed across it's cover dancing in the candle shadow, leaping out and shuddering in the yellow flame light. A new hand. A young hand. A hand that had seen few tens of Summers struck down the writhing shadows and fell upon the book. Quicker than a snake the old shot forward and clasped the young. "A word. . ." The young hand paused. ". . .of warning!" Water dripped and to its beat the seconds shuddered by. "Statera iusta et daemonia - The Devils scales will balance Demetrios. If the book is not returned before a night is passed - he will know" The young hand pulled away roughly and the old drew back. "Spare me your warnings old man I will return the book in plenty of time. I did not make a pact with your master, he holds no sway over me, but here. . ." The book was raised ". . . Here lie the names of those who have and with it a fortune I will make!" "As you will Demitrius but regardless the warning remains - The scales will balance." The young man stood. The candle doused. Only darkness remained. ~~~~ A grand house. A grand house in a dark city. A nameless city. A city of wealth, built on corruption, built on the corpses of the poor and unwary, built by one man - Duke Nikopopolus Andronimous. Moonlight raked the buildings sides, spilling down into the narrow alley, spilling down onto - the book. A hand from the shadows turns the pages, searching for a name. A finger traces. Pages turn, finger traces and then it stops. It taps. It taps on the name. The name of a man. The man in the house. The house in the nameless city. The house of Nikopopolus Andronimous. And by the name an hour glass, an hour glass with little sand left to run until the debt must be repaid. A figure crosses into moonlight and disappears in shadow before the servants door. A knock - rattat! ratatattat! Silence. . . The sound of steps approaching, a latch thrown back, the door opens a crack and candle light spills out. "It is time Galenus, does your master sleep?" "Fitfully" A head nods, the door opens wide and the alley figure slides through. "Where?" A finger points. "Up the stair, end of the hall." ~~~ Nikopopolus wasn't sleeping, he hadn't slept for many nights - time was running out. Time was running out for his empire. Time was running out for his life. Time was running out for his soul. He sat up sharply staring into the dark. "Who's there?" his heart was starting from his chest it could not be time already? "Galenus is that you?" Something moved darker than darkness a shard of black, a curl of black, a whisp, and a whisper - a hooded figure moved. "No - It is I!" "Demetrios!" relief gasped, the man stood, clutching the silken sheet to him "Do you have it? Do you have the book?" "Aye" "And my name? Has it been removed" "Ha!" the laugh was ice cold "You think me a fool. First the payment then the name!" The fat fingers held the sheet nervously. "Yes indeed, yes the payment - A third I think we said - I have the papers right here!" donning gown the duke sloughed over to the great, ornate, alabaster desk. Steel was struck and oil burned. Light bloomed in the darkness. The hooded man moved to its edge. "I think you'll find the deal was for a half." "A half! no no no It was a third. A third of my empire not a half!" he shuffled papers nervously. The dark man turned without a word. "No wait!" The man stopped. "Ah yes I remember now it was a half. You are correct. I am so forgetful here see" He laid the papers across the desk and taking ink and quill signed each in turn - One half of shipping, One half of rent, One half of retail, One half of production, One half of gaming, One half of law enforcement. . . One half of everything. Demetrios reached for the papers. The papers drew back. "The name!" The outstretched hand clenched and unclenched then with a thud the book landed on the table. The figures writhed in the lamp light. The hand reached out again but still the papers were withheld. The duke watched the book. He watched the figures dance. He looked at Demetrios. "No! The deal was for the name not the book" The papers crinkled noisily in the dark. Demetrios growled his annoyance. "You have the book give me the papers or it will not be the Devil that ends you life" but to his surprise the duke held firm - a quaver in his voice. "No, I cannot remove the name myself. You must do it for me!" Demetrios growled again he didn't understand but tired of the conversation he stepped into the light and removed his hood for the first time - golden hair fell about his shoulders framing a strong and youthful face. "Very well!". He opened the book and flicked quickly to the page. The page with the name Nikopopolus Andronimous, The hour glass was all but empty. "Quickly now!" the duke urged handing the young man an ink eraser. Sweat pricked the dukes brow his cheeks flushed with blood. Demetrios grabbed the eraser and scrubbed roughly at the page. The name began to fade and in a matter of moments was gone. "There" he closed the book. "Now the papers!". The duke smiled the tension of a moment before vanished. "Yes - the papers. Here you go my young friend!" He extended a hand. Demetrios was suddenly cautious the change in the dukes demeanour gave him the distinct feeling something was amiss. He took the papers from the duke - the signatures were all correct, the words conveyed one half of everything to him. He frowned in puzzlement. "Some wine. To celebrate!" The duke seemed happier than he should? Of course his pact with the devil had been annulled but still he'd lost half his empire and men like Nikopopolus Andronimous did not give things away lightly. He looked at the wine the man was pouring - poisoned no doubt. Demetrios smiled, a thin hard line, "No I think not! I have what I came for. I shall celebrate when I am far from here!" "As you wish" the fat man raised his goblet and drank deep. Demetrios turned to go. back into the darkness back into the night. . . A voice called "Aren't you forgetting something!" Demetrios paused then slowly turned the fat man still stood goblet in hand a fat wet smile on his lips. He gestured to the table where the book still lay - Fool! what was I thinking. The book still needs to be returned. Stalking back Demetrios took the book angrily and slipped it in his cloak. ~~~ Outside the night had cooled. The moon had slipped behind thin cloud through which a faint vault of stars could be glimpsed. The deed was done. He was now half owner of everything in the city. He only need return the book. . . No sooner had he thought the thought than the streets about him and the sky above him melted from view. "What?" ~~~ A dais, a black dais, a dais in the pits of hell. The dais sat amidst a sea of flames, the sky boiled like molten rock and on the dais Demetrios stood. The fire burned. The sky boiled. The air shimmered and a figure appeared. An old cowled figure appeared and approached. "Mephistopheles! What is the meaning of this. The night is not over. I am returning the book!" The cowled figure stopped, it's head shook slowly. "Did you get what you wanted Demetrios. Did the book serve you well?" "Aye! I got what I wanted sure enough, here is the book! I am returning it before a night is passed our agreement is concluded." He drew it from his cloak and held it out. "Ah yes, our agreement is indeed concluded but there is still a debt to pay!" "A debt? What debt?" "Statera iusta et daemonia - do you forget so easily? The Devils scales will balance. All debts must be repaid. I thought I made that clear? The debts in the book must be repaid, the scales must balance" "But I. . ." Demetrios choked and looked down at the book in his hand. Quickly he flicked to the page where the Dukes name had been. There was the hourglass - empty and there in the blank space was a name, his name! "No . . .!" "Did the duke not tell you? To erase a name from the book is to take ownership of the debt. Ah, I see he neglected to mention this fact. A wily old devil that one. . . A wily old devil!" ~~~ In a grand house. A grand house in a dark city. A grand house in a dark, nameless, city. A city of wealth, built on corruption, built on the corpses of the poor and unwary, One man - Duke Nikopopolus Andronimous - slept like a child. A Kibbling by Whimsky A special call is sent out by radio to all available officers on this August morning. “Police official detective needed, man at Monterey Dock claims his partner was eaten by dogs during transport job”. What followed was a significant silence. “Yes Sir, detective Davies here, I’m a few miles away, I’ll be there in a Jiff.” Davies, a young police detective, is late to respond in hopes that someone else would take charge. He has been on cases before but not here in California, the cases here are a step up from the ones in his hometown back in Washington. Here they’re either bigger, more dangerous, or more tricky. He mentally prepares himself as he drives to the scene and parks among the other police cars. He’s sure to grab his notebook, pen, and badge before he greets the other cops to get any important developments. The victim is a man named a Peter Ward, his partner a Mr. Martin Mathews. They’ve been hired to transport the children of a famous German Shepherd show dog named Brute. They set sail two days ago from South California with Newport, Oregon being the drop off. The location of the crime, the boat, is arguably the size of a tugboat however the deck is a little wider. It’s multi-hulled and anchored very close to shore. The vessel is badly lit as all onboard lights are off and the only thing lighting it happened to be the lamps from the dock. The dogs are caged on the bow in front of the cabins and have been covered with a tarp. The accident took place in the cage and there’s only fragments of clothing, torn skin and blood. He’s warned that the scene would be repulsive. Davies asks some of the men to search the coast for anyone who may have seen anything. After his transaction with the officer he approaches the survivor Mr. Mathews. His first thoughts of the case leads him to believe that this is no accident. “Untrained or not” he thinks to himself “it’s unlikely that dogs would just attack. There has to be some evidence that this was planned. Drugs to put the man asleep or something to anger to dogs or perhaps they were secretly trained?” Davies quickly assess the man as if he had the ability to judge if he is innocent or not. The man fit a ‘fisherman’ persona quite well, has a bit of weight to him and even came equipped with an eyepatch. Mathews had a genuine face of fear with his eyes wide open as if he hasn’t slept in days, his mouth sealed shut and his heavy breathing through his nose. “The scene either traumatized the man or he’s an excellent actor” the detective thought to himself. “Sir, I’m in charge of the investigation here and I’ll need your help to explain to me the events that transpired up until now.” He says as if he has rehearsed it many times as he opens up his notebook to a clean page. He takes a glance at his watch scratches August 25th 1950 01:00 on the page and eyes the man as if it was his queue. The man opens his mouth to catch a few breaths and relaxes himself enough to speak. “Those damn dogs ate him” He cries pointing to the front of the boat. “So I’ve heard” the detective replies in a sarcastic tone. “But I need to know what lead up to that.” “Oh yes, of course… “ He stabilizes himself ”Peter and I have been sailing to deliver these dogs for two days now? This morning we we’re both smoking in the bridge up top for a while. Then he mentions that he forgot to feed the dog’s dinner last night and he gets up to do just that. After a minute or two I hear a yell for help and the rattling of the cage and the dogs barking and growling. When I get up to help him the lights cut off. As you could guess I can’t find out why so they’re still out. I may know my way around a boat, but with power I may as well be a Sea Bass going up-stream. But I still manage to get to cages but I fear I was too late I couldn’t hear him yelling anymore just the ripping and growling from the dogs. So I went right back up to the bridge and anchored at the nearest lit dock I could find which happened to be this one. Once I saw the accident in the light I thought it be best to call the police.” He points to telephone box at the end of the dock. “It has been the longest darkest bloodiest night, I just want it to end.” Davies takes his time struggling to remember the story as he continues to write long after the man finishes. Meanwhile, Martin has his eyes on a car driving down the empty road that parks itself among the police cars. Unlike the black and white police cars, it’s a black Pontiac Chiefton. The door opens to reveal a man in a long black almost suede looking material jacket. The mysterious man approaches the scene passing the other officers as if he belonged. “Ruff morning detective Davies?” The man said with a smile. The young officer closed his book as a reaction and slowly lifted up his face to eye the stranger. “Who are you and how do you know my name?” “Relax” He said calmingly as he tapped just above his breast. “Your badge,I also heard you reply over the radio. And I’m sorry let me introduce myself. I’m private detective Dick Castle. I occasionally work with the police on strange cases. You can ask your chief O’Brien, he’ll remember me.” He extends an arm for a handshake. Davies responds coldly. “You can take a look but don’t get in my way. Mister Martin would you show us around your barge and recount what happened for us again?” “Not at all officer follow me and watch your step.” Castle stops the man for a second and what looks like fishing wire hanging from his belt loop. He takes the second to untangle it, observes it and puts it in a small bag and hands it to Davies. “Looks like you were caught. Sorry, continue.” Continuing on, the pack walked to the end of the dock and stepped onto the boat. It’s pretty large to be manned by just two people. The front deck is very sizable, the cages only take up a small fraction of the space. There’s a total of three cabins above them lays the bridge. Castle stops to observe the dogs under the tarp. There’s 8 German Shepherds laying down in a sizable puddle of blood with torn cloth everywhere and even a pair of shoes. They all look bloated and they’re teeth vary from yellow, white and red. After taking a quick look at the scene he motions Davies over. “Where’s the body?” Castle asks concerned that something’s amiss. “You’re looking at it, that's his clothes torn and bloodied, over there you can see his shoes. The dogs ate him whole.” “What’s the story with the dogs?” Castle raising his voice so Martin can be included to the conversation again. “They’re being transferred to a trainer, they’re a litter from a famous show dog.” Stated Martin. “They must be worth quite a bit, it would be a loss for the police to have to put them down.” Castle responded and Davies takes note of the remark. “Can we see where you last saw him, the bridge?” asked Davies. “Sure the steps are in the back.” Martin leads the group passed a set of cabins to a set of metal stairs. The Bridge consisted of two chairs and a slanted table with a steering wheel, a few gauges and levers. “I was sitting on the opposite side and he was closer to the door.” “And when he yelled for help the moment you jumped up the lights went out?” “Yessir.” “Interesting” the young detective gets on his knees pulling out a flashlight to observe the bottom of the console. “Interesting Indeed, it looks as if the wire was not only melted but cut! You wouldn’t know anything about his now would you Mr. Martin?” “Is the wire pulled towards you or away from you?” asked Castle. “Towards” “You also said something about it being melted, does it look recent? Are there traces on the floor?” “Yes, but again why would it matter?” Davies stands up and gives him a questioning eye. “Doesn’t sound like an accident does it?” Castle said as if he were a teacher giving a student a hint. Now assured of his thoughts Davies steps out of the bridge to the top of the steps and motions the police to get ready leaving the two alone for a moment. “I’m worried about those dogs.” Castle says gloomily. “I’m not, never transporting them again.” “Your partner did he pick up the dogs to bring to the boat?” “Yeah, we’re behind schedule, not that it matters now.” “Did you hear any splashes during the accident?” “No, the water was calm and I even stopped the boat.” “I wouldn’t worry about this whole situation, we’ll have it cleared up real soon.” He puts his arm around him reassuringly. Davies steps back in asking Martin to follow him back to the cars. Castle lags behind and takes a few moments to glance over the cabins before catching up. “Sir, we’re placing you under arrest for the suspected murder of Peter Ward” Davies says proudly as he handcuffs the man. “You’ve got it wrong, I didn’t do nothing” he rebuttals however doesn’t fight back. Castle steps up and asks “May I ask how you came to this decision detective?” “Sure thing detective” saying detective as if he doubted his abilities for missing the obvious. “This man drugged Peter in the night. I’m sure we can find some drug or trace aboard that causes sleep. I’m pretty sure that’s why the dogs are asleep as well. The lights being the second clue. Since they’re so close to the coast someone could see the murder. So he disabled the lights by cutting it right before feeding the dogs. He decided this was the best way to get rid of the body and not be suspicious since it wouldn’t look like his fault as opposed to tossing the body in water. Then he tried making himself seem even less suspicious by calling the cops as soon as it happened. I don’t know why he did it but it seems he needed Mr. Ward dead. I think he was planning to sell the show dogs. What tipped me off was the eyepatch. I wonder if you know this detective but the eyes take several hours to adjust to low light conditions. One could be prepared for a sudden darkness by wearing an eyepatch over one eye then removing it. I bet this man has one for such purpose.” He says as flips over the man’s eyepatch. It however only made Davies look like a fool because the man’s eye obviously had no purpose as it was sewn shut. Castle broke the silence by leaning back and howling into the sky. The dogs replied with their own howl back. “Those dogs don’t sound drugged to me either” Castle casually mentioned further embarrassing Davies. “He could have been stabbed and the eyepatch doesn’t really matter. The fact remains that the wire was cut. Where’s your deduction detective?” Davies says mockingly protecting his pride. “It was setup, the real victim here is Mr. Mathews.” Castle responds confidently. “You must be joking, do you have any evidence to prove laughable suggestion?” “Take a look at that bag I gave you earlier with the wire I pulled from Matthew's pants.” “The fishing line?” “Yes, but it’s not fishing line. Take a closer look” Davies opens the bag pulling out the string and it only takes a second to realize it’s metallic. “Piano wire, pretty strong, pretty strange to have tied to you on a boat. Am I right detective?” Castle says mocking Davies ‘detective’ comment from earlier. “I believe the wire that happened to be cut on the bridge was melted beforehand and had a notch. Some time in the night as they were smoking Peter tied the wire to Martin’s pants and the wire. When Martin stood up it popped the electrical wire causing the lights to go out. When Peter was out before he called for help he most likely gave the dogs some of his clothes, shoes and a large chunk of meat. Probably a dead pig or something. Then he shook the cages, called for help and hid. The reason he’s faking his own death must be because these aren’t the pups of the famous show dog. Martin also told me that Peter was in charge of picking up the dogs to bring to the boat. I deduct, that he took the dogs somewhere else with the plan being to sell them at a later date. Then rounded up a bunch of german shepherds knowing that they’d be put down by the police for killing someone. This way the owner wouldn’t find out that they weren’t the show dogs. To further back this idea if you would take a look at the dogs. You can find out a lot about a dog by their teeth. Notice the different color teeth. These dogs are either different ages or haven’t been fed the same food. Either way it’s hard to think that they have grown up together. Anyways Martin here says he didn’t hear any splash after he got up. That would mean he’s somewhere on the boat.” “You’re trying to make me believe that not only didn’t he get eaten. He’s alive hiding on the boat? You’ve lost it, but I’ll humor you. You have 5 minutes to find him.” Davies turns over his culprit to another cop as he follows the detective back on the ship. Castle follows the perimeter of the boat sure to check every box and compartment. His next destination is the kitchen cabin. Every cabinet is checked and the cushions to the seat pulled out. Lastly he heads to the back and glances into one of the cabins that looks to be a bedroom. Davies stands in the doorway informing him he has two minutes left. Castle checks the closet, in a trunk, and finally under the bed where there was only a bible. “Don’t you think it’s odd to leave a book on the floor of a boat?” “Are you giving up?” Davies said victoriously. “Not quite” He goes to grab the book but it seemed to be stuck to the ground. “People do strange things with bibles sometimes don’t you think?” He opens it to the last few pages. “How well do you know the bible detective? Think you can you recite Matthew 28:6 for me?” “You’re the one with the bible in front of you.” “He is not here, for he has risen as he said.” Castle recites as he gets up with his hand in the bible. “Come see the place he lay” He pulls with his hand on a handle in the back of the book that has been hollowed out. This pulls up a section of the floor boards revealing a lightly dressed man with no shoes. “Peter I presume?” [Afterwards] The case ended with Mr. Mathews set free, Peter’s confession which led to finding the real show dogs, and the homes of the dogs on the ship. All of Castle’s deductions turned out to be correct and Peter was charged with grand theft. Castle left during the paperwork, meaning Davies never got the chance to thank or apologize to the private detective but they would meet again soon enough. Last edited by Aethera; Oct 1st, 2016 at 02:30 PM. |
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September 2016 Competition Entries Topic: Cruel and Unusual Challenge: an angel, garbage, and eternity No entries. So sad. October 2016 Competition Entries Topic: Fortune, like the moon, waxes and wanes. Challenge: a labyrinth, an elephant, and a piano Winner: Muriel's Amazing Adventure by ADancingKitty (c/o Ion2Atom) [2,940 Words] I live in a world a little different than yours. Princesses get locked up in towers by evil witches. Princes get turned into frogs, although people rescue them, and everybody lives happily ever after. But some people are forgotten. Who cares about farm boys and poor merchants? Who notices all the beggars on the street? It was only poor people who didn't get the chance to earn a reputation. It had been that way for a long time until King Edward the III ascended to the throne. He passed a law saying that all young people would be given an Adventure at the age of 12, and soon earned the title “King Edward the Fair.” Most people liked the Adventures. A way to get a job easily. A way to make new friends and discover new things. A way to inspire people to open new businesses and make more jobs. It solved lots of problems, but created some too. You see young people were needed around the house. Who would do the chores? Some people never came back from their Adventure. People care more about royalty than poor people. And why not? This is where my story begins. There is a girl named Muriel Jonas. She is the daughter of a poor shepherd. Her father wasn't doing too well in business since Muriel's mother had died from viper bite when she was five. She and her father were devastated, when it happened. Muriel's mother was the breadwinner of the family. With not much food to eat, Muriel's family was slowly crumbling. After six years of helping around the house, she decided to do her part, and find work. The castle had the most jobs, and most likely to get an occupation there. When the day finally came to leave, the streets were crowded with bustling people. She walked along the gravely path, stones crunching underneath her feat, to the castle. Muriel was nervous, but her father needed her. When Muriel reached the door of the castle, it was guarded by two soldiers in red uniforms. “Halt!” one commanded. “What is you purpose?” asked the other. They were business like. “I wish to get a job in the castle,” Muriel answered. The doors creaked open. “Go straight down the hall and take a left, to the first door you see,” the second guard directed. She thanked him, and hurried off into the entrance hall. Muriel walked in to the room. It was filled with servants. The servant Muriel guessed as the head maid walked towards her. “Do you want to find work?” she asked in a brisk tone. “Yes ma'am,” she responded. “I was hoping to be a maid,” Muriel added quickly. “How old are you?” “11, ma'am.” “You are expected here tomorrow morning. You work from 6:00am to 9:00pm.” “You mean I got the job?” Muriel asked excitedly. The maid shot her a look. “Ma'am,” Muriel added, wiping the smile off her face. A smile threatened to crack on the maid's lips. “You remind me of my little sister,” the maid said, amused, seeming lost in her thoughts. “You're in luck, you got the job,” The maid added as Muriel opened her mouth to speak again. Muriel soon found out a that the head maid's name was Martha. She showed Muriel to the servants quarter's, and Muriel started work. One day while Muriel was cleaning a musty room, she heard the king and his adviser walking past. What would you do? Muriel eavesdropped. “We need to start having slaves.” the king said. “WHAT?! Why?” the adviser exclaimed shocked. “We need to set an example. Poor people who have never had jobs, including young people over the age of ten, will be enrolled in work at the castle. Consider it a way to give people jobs. Everyone will get fed, just not paid.” the king responded. Muriel was surprised to hear a note of cruelty in his voice, and she could tell the adviser was too. “Your Majesty, are you all right?” the adviser asked tentatively “Perfectly fine, thank you.” the king answered curtly. The voices faded down the hall. A dust bunny fell on Muriel's head. She got out her duster and started dusting, shocked at what she had just heard. On my third week of work, late at night, Martha told Muriel to go clean the king's crown chamber, after her piano lesson. On the way there, the guard, who were usually there, was gone. In their place was a stable boy. “I'm covering for the guard because he had a, um... incident,” the stable boy explained, seeing the confused look on Muriel's face. He seemed friendly enough. Lugging her broom behind her, Muriel opened the door. She looked inside the glass case, expecting to see the crown on it's plush velvet cushion, but the king's crown wasn't there! Suddenly the stable boy came rushing in. He pulled out the crown. “Everybody will think it was you.” he said with a nasty grin on his face. Muriel stared horrified, as he shoved the crown in her hands. “Ongula,” the stable boy chanted. Muriel tried dropping the crown, but it stuck to her hands. “Guards!” the stable boy shouted. The guards came running in. Muriel felt her mouth move against her will. “Ascula,” Muriel whispered. The crown disappeared with a pop. The only thing Muriel remembered about that night was Martha's disappointed face, and that she got fired. Muriel did not go to prison, because she hadn't had her Adventure yet. She packed her bags and went home that very night. Her father had a heart attack, hearing what Muriel had done. She felt heartbroken that her father died thinking she was guilty. Next thing Muriel knew, she was starving on the streets, trying to save her money for when she really needed it. People on the streets scurried away from her. She watched the king's soldiers go into everybody's house searching for the crown, unable to keep the guilt of having soldiers everywhere out of her mind. Suddenly Muriel's birthday rolled around. She was to be assigned an Adventure today. People with criminal records, always got the most dangerous adventures, but she went to the castle anyways. The guards snarled at her as Muriel passed. A maid hurried by, not daring to take a glance at her. When she passed the servant's quarters, Martha came out. “Do you want to-” her voice trailed off and she hurried away. Muriel felt more ignored,than she had in a long time. She went to the Adventure room, but there was a long line. When it was finally her turn, she got assigned, to the labyrinth, and got a map. Muriel was forlorn. The labyrinth was a old maze built by the king's grandfather. One time the king decided to go through it with his faithful, smart elephants, that could understand the human language, to put a treasure in the middle. He liked the elephants because, they had a gentle nature. He succeeded in putting the treasure in the middle, but his elephants died and he went mad. Without any food or water he starved inside it. Many people have been on this Adventure, but unable to navigate, never came back. Muriel brought a couple balls of yarn, with her, which she bought in the store with the last of her money. The ball of yarn was to find her way out of the labyrinth. The labyrinth wasn't that far from town. She walked through the entrance, pulling the map out of her bag. She realized the map was a map of how to get to the labyrinth, and she tossed it on the ground angrily. It was no use now. Muriel got out a ball of yarn, and and walked forward, her heart beating as fast as a butterfly's wings beat. Muriel kept on walking, the ball of yarn rolling behind me. Left, right, right, left. As a musty scent reached her nose, she couldn't believe her eyes. Standing before her was an elephant! It wasn't translucent, so she figured it must be alive. It took her yarn ball in it's trunk. “”You can't take that!” Muriel protested nervously. He dropped the yarn ball. Muriel took out another yarn ball, and handed it to him. “Nobody ever plays with you do they?” she asked. The elephant looked at her. “No they don't,” Muriel answered her own question. “Do you want to come along with me?” She asked cautiously. The elephant nodded it's head excitedly. “I'm going to name you Peanut,” Muriel said. The elephant looked at her again. “It's the best I can think of,” she apologized. “Do you know how to get to the middle?” she asked. The elephant abruptly charged off, towards the rest of the stony maze. “Wait for me!” she hollered. As Peanut and Muriel rushed to the middle, of the labyrinth, they met a ghost elephant. He was blocking both ways forward. Muriel hadn't brought any ghost protective gear, but to her surprise Peanut ran forward and embraced him. After along hug, and confusion they broke apart. The ghost elephant nodded a greeting to Muriel and stepped aside. There was a closet on the right and a tunnel on the left. She checked the chamber to see, a long wooden table. On it lay piano notes. Muriel put it in her bag for safe keeping. She strode out of the chamber, with Peanut and down the stone pathway. “What are the piano notes for?” Muriel asked Peanut. The elephant just shrugged. Left, right, right, left. Finally they stopped at another chamber. There was another pathway, one continuing forward, and one on the other side of the dark and musty hall. Muriel looked at Peanut. He looked at her. He pointed his trunk at the chamber. They went inside. The room flooded with light, temporarily blinding Muriel. Inside lay a polished piece of furniture, that looked centuries old. It had a satin seat, laying in front of it. It was a piano. “It took you long enough. Do you know how long I had to wait here?” Muriel spun around Before her stood the stable boy. He had a red glow around him. “Well you're here now. I'm honestly surprised you made it.” the stable boy said grinning, before muttering some nonsense under his breath, that Muriel couldn't quite understand. Muriel tried moving her mouth to respond, but it did not work. He had paralyzed her. “I was surprised you fell for my trap, but my servant was right. You were the easiest to manipulate.” Had Muriel not been frozen, she would have clenched her teeth. “I couldn't have done this without my servant. You might recognize her.” He pointed his finger at the hard, cold floor and Martha appeared in a swirl of light. Even the stable boy's spell couldn't keep the surprise, and betrayal out of Muriel's face. “You called me, Master?” she asked demurely. “Yes. I want you to dominate this elephant, like I did to the king.” he commanded. “But-” The stable boy glared at her. His malevolent glow grew brighter. “Yes, Master.” she whispered quickly. Muriel didn't want Peanut to be controlled by them. Spurred into action, she struggled, breaking the spell. Muriel ran toward Peanut. Martha sent a blue flash at her, knocking Muriel out of the way. She fell on the ground, landing hard on her elbows, but otherwise unhurt. Martha sent another bolt from her hand that struck Peanut, freezing him momentarily. Martha sat at the piano and played a couple notes. Muriel watched shocked as Peanut's eyes slowly went blank. Staring into his eyes was like staring into a mirror. You could only see a reflection. “Now you have no choice but to work for me,” the stable boy cackled. “Knock her to the ground,” The stable boy growled pointing at her. Peanut's head moved up and down, nodding. He walked towards Muriel. She stared, terrified. Suddenly he turned around and charged towards the stable boy. He tapped his leathery trunk on a spot on the stable boy's forehead. Light of all different shades and colors came flooding out of his ears, mouth, and nose. The stable boy started aging, slowly at first and the gaining speed until he turned into a decomposed corpse. The stable boy was hundreds of years old, but magic was holding him up. Martha cast one frightened look at Peanut, and disappeared in a twist of white light. Muriel pulled out the piano notes, figuring they might be useful. After a close look at them, She realized it said “How to open doors.” She looked at the doors and back at herself again. Why not? she thought, and shrugged. Muriel played the notes carefully, knowing that if she messed up she could end up doing a different spell entirely. She played the last note pressing lightly on the smooth piano key. A gravelly rumble startled Muriel, and she looked up, as the doors opened. Peanut and Muriel looked at each other, already deciding what to do after first glance. They walked forward, their footsteps echoing in the hallway. Inside the chamber, the kings crown, and a journal sat on a slowly rotting table. Muriel walked to the table, and peeked inside the leather bound journal. Inside was yellowing pages of piano notes. Being careful not to rip them, Muriel turn the musty scented pages. After the controlling spell was the reverse spell to the control spell. Muriel marked her place in the journal and put the crown and journal in her bag. Muriel looked around her before stepping out of the echoing chamber. When she looked again it was as though an invisible hand were writing, and words began to appear in golden ink. How you got here I do not know But you seek the treasure that is below Down a corridor you must walk To a trap door there's nothing to block Though there is no light that you'll need You'll see all the treasure you've always dreamed The dark is there to make you only take your share And not to take more than others think is fair There's no obstacles to come across Except the “you don't know how you came” loss Muriel stared at the writing as it began to fade. Peanut had an expression on his face that she couldn't quite figure out. It was a mix between amused and confused. “Come on Peanut,” Muriel said. Peanut glanced at her and they trotted into the next room. “Wait,” she commanded. Muriel sat on the soft piano bench,pulled out the journal, and played the music to reverse the control spell. The instructions said she only had to think about who she wanted the spell to go on. “The king.” Muriel thought over and over again as the music washed over her. When the notes ended the air seemed to grow lighter, and the atmosphere grew brighter. Muriel met Peanut's eyes with achievement glowing in them. Peanut gave her a sad smile back. They dragged themselves out of the room casting a last glance at it. Muriel felt as though she had left a part of her in there. Muriel took a deep breath of sallow air, and continued down the corridor she had just left, rolling yarn behind her. At the end of the corridor there was a room, not big enough to hold treasure. The words of the rhyme stayed in Muriel's mind as though they were printed. “Down a corridor you must walk, to a trap door there's nothing to block.” She took a step into the room. She looked back, and then continued forward again. Sure enough there was was a trap door, made out of aging wood. Muriel pulled on the smooth metal handle to open it. It creaked open as dirty air flew out, filling her lungs. Muriel gently pulled herself in, her heart beating louder than a meteor. Her foot land on a piece of stray gold, and Muriel lost her balance, slipping on many more pieces of gold. “Though there's no light you need, you'll see the treasure you've always dreamed.” Piles of gold were scattered across the floor. Muriel took five pieces of the smooth gold. With triumph building inside of her, she lifted herself out. To Muriel's surprise, the ghost elephant was with Peanut. They touched trunks, and Peanut slowly evaporated until you could see right through him. He waved his leathery trunk at Muriel and walked right through the wall. Muriel was hit with a wave of different emotions, mostly sadness, but she pushed this to the back of her mind. “Good bye!” she shouted hoarsely. Muriel thought she felt eyes full of pride watching her. She turned around, and saw a translucent in the corner of her eye, but when she looked again it wasn't there. Muriel picked up her ball of yarn and, walked towards the exit, leaving a ball of yarn for Peanut. Muriel returned to the castle to return the crown and tell her story. They payed her millions of coins, as well as an apology. She bought a house at the beach. Peace was restored, and stayed that way until... Epilogue Muriel was reading an old scroll about elephants in her favorite armchair, when the doorbell rang. She answered the door. On her doormat, was a letter. Muriel picked it up, tearing the envelope, she unfolded the letter. Last edited by Aethera; Nov 1st, 2016 at 05:26 PM. |
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November 2016 Competition Entries Topic: The Man Behind the Curtain Challenge: an unpleasant aroma, madness and mayhem, and a pet Winner: The Fairy Queen by GeneT The Fairy Queen by GeneT (1324 Words) I had given up. It had all been a waste of time. At the Pick-n-Pull off Granby, I purchased a mostly empty rusted steel drum. Its peeling ‘hazardous contents’ sticker glared as I rolled the drum to my beaten up Toyota Matrix and lifted it in, closing the hatchback. I didn’t care that I’d have to share space with the drum. Both our breathings were toxic. In the back yard, I shoveled wood into the drum’s yawning mouth and liberally showered it with gasoline. I brought it to life with the end of a burning cigarette, flicking the glowing butt over the rim and watching it tumble until the fumes burst out and singed my eyebrows. And then I began to burn my research. All of it. Almost two decades of hunting and searching in musty old libraries and broken down living spaces from London to Bangkok to shanties in India and Africa. Notebooks and collections from ancient molding texts to printed internet forum threads. Seventeen years of hunting fairies. Seventeen years. And I had not found a single one to kill. Some of it I rolled into cylinders until my hands were fists and I threw them to the flames. Some of it I doused with whiskey from the bottle that I frequently clutched and held them over the rim as they burned until I could hold them no longer. Pages that I was sure had real answers, real paths, real facts on how to find them, how to trap them so I could make them suffer. So I could kill them. One by one. Until the end of my days. I remember thinking of her, my Claire. I remember how she smelled. The sound of her voice. The shine of sun caressing the rounded edges of her cheeks. It had been so long since I had let myself remember the color of her eyes. I slumped to my knees in the dirt. The heat of the drum swallowing me as I cried and shook. I had failed. They had taken her from me and I had failed. And that’s when I must have seen it. A tiny flickering along the rim of the drum made hazy by the fire’s heat and my tears. I had trained for this moment for so long that catching it was reflexive. My hand darted out without me thinking and I grabbed the fairy. Blisters immediately formed on my burned fingers, but I held onto it tight, smearing my tears away with the back of my other hand. It was so small and I was too eager. I squeezed until its tiny frantic sounds stopped and its blood oozed from between my fingers. In that moment, I had found how to capture them. How to ensnare them. They feed off our misery, our pain, our sorrow. And all I had to do was let it out and set the trap. I started small and over the years learned how to find and kill even the largest and meanest of them. I became patient in my killing, purposeful, cognizant of time and dolled it out slowly. I bought land cheap in the Carolinas and built cages. Small ones made of guitar wire for gnomes and sprites. Large ones of wrought iron for trolls and giants. I studied them as they died and faded until I needn’t use sorrow nor despair to find them. Until I could smell them when they hid and see them when they were invisible. Until they didn’t even attempt to fight when found and all they could do was run while I followed, waiting until their strength faded and I collected them when they collapsed of exhaustion. Each one brought information. Each one tried to bargain, to shape my mind against me. But I was a cause lost and would listen to nothing in any shape to which I was not predisposed. And eventually, I learned the path to their most sacred place. I made preparations. I coiled lengths of thin copper wire into a whip. I wore round glasses with pink lenses that I bought on Amazon in the costume jewelry section. I stuffed my ears with cotton balls soaked with camphor and then I was ready. The Seat of the Queen doesn’t exist in one land, or one moment. It doesn’t exist in a single glade or field of flowers or glittering ice flow. It is not in one place. It just is. You don’t travel to it. You don’t walk or fly. You can go there from anyplace if you know the way. Standing in my kitchen, I made my old black lab sit near the back door and told him to stay. He whimpered, but there’s no helping it. This wasn’t a hunt for him. The fairy Queen was a beautiful thing. Her eyes black basalt, her hair the color of fine silver, and her skin smooth and white like the petals of a rose. She smelled of jasmine and frankincense. Her voice, even muffled by the protective camphor, was the song of the wind and rain, of spring and the first snow, of laughter and lamentation and yearning. Her seat was a simple grey stone, uncut, lopsided, in the center of a circle of Aspen trees. Around the circle the trees changed from the left in early spring with new leaf shoots, to the full green of summer, and then a right side the gold red of fall. Behind her, the trees were bare, leafless as if in the grip of winter. “It is now,” the Queen of fairies said. “Yes.” “Then be done with it and let the world fail.” I was used to the trickery of fairies. To their lies and falsehoods. History is full of such speakings. But I paused none the less, whip light in my right hand. “Fail?” Her black eyes never left mine. She never once turned her sight. She never once complained. She refused to turn my mind against me, to alter my perceptions so that truth was apparent. She would not answer my question. There was no changing my mind. She knew it was blind and hard set. She did not wipe the tears away with a free hand or remove my glasses so I could see. I wish she had, but the Queen of fairies does not bargain nor does she cry out under the lashes of a copper whip. Breathing hard, I approached her body upon the grass. The grass had begun to die under the touch of her blood. Shadows grew amidst the trees, weaving in and out of the limbs, tendrils combining together like oil in water until they could reach out over the open space and blot out the sky. Her hand was soft in mine and cold. Blood leeched from the tatters of her dress and into my skin and my breath caught roughly in my throat. Laughter and truth whispered thru the camphor from the growing darkness. The ground shuddered under the weight of my mistake. In truth, it is only a matter of time before the darkness destroys the wonder. That is no consolation against my part in the coming of oblivion. The fairies hadn’t taken Claire from me. I had lost her long before that. They do not feed on our misery, but pull it into themselves and help it dissipate before much darker things than they are attracted by its odor. But the selfishness behind the curtain that is man, that is us, that is me, needed some other excuse than the truth. A scapegoat to blame my suffering upon and to be the recipient of my righteousness. I set free what was left of wonder in my back yard in the Carolinas and then burned what was left of my selfishness in an old rotting drum made to carry hazardous waste. The black smoke curled up into a faded sky. An Appetite for Fear (1074 Words) On a warm Neverwinter spring day, Ravenfire works outside the castle to make potions in his tent. Most of the potions ordered for sale are common. Some are uncommon and tend to be expensive. He mixed a few greater healing and greater regenerate wounds which took longer than it usually does. He looked over to the ones that blew up or melted down like they were made of lava a less desired result scattered around the outside of the tent. He just finished mixing 10 to 20 Waters of the Mirror Pool a potion that projects a defensive spell upon using creating 3 mirror images of the user essentially giving the user the option to divert an attack to a mirror projection instead of the user. While he was making a few more for personal use, Anna from the south village ran up to him crying. He waved at a random soldier to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain meaning him, but the soldier didn’t get the humor of his intention. He motioned Anna over to a table and sat next to her. He spoke to her is a consoling tone. “Tell me what happened.” She responded after a fit of sobbing died down. “I was playing with my dog Sandy when a goatlike animal ran at us making a scary loud bray. The sound caused Sandy to run away. When Sandy ran, the creature laughed and its horns glowed with a bright golden light. The creature then took off around a wall laughing as it went.” He thought about her story for a moment then in an eerie knowing wisdom responded. “I know of this entity. It is a very dangerous creature that feeds on fear. A cultist mage must have summoned it from a totem spell not knowing what he was getting into. I imagine they quickly lost control and fled the scene. Our job now is to find the creature and banish it to the forbidden realm where it can’t hurt anyone again. It will take me an hour to prepare the banishment scroll so go find Sandy.” Ravenfire is a very powerful Evocation wizard but can make the spell work with his high level spell experience and certain key components he used often to compose spells or making potions. This spell he used dust of all the fairy elements combined to enhance the spell’s strength intensity more than enough to complete the job. Anna came back with Sandy padding behind her. Duke Flameborn arrived with her as requested. Ravenfire gathered the items he needed and they began the search. The first stop in the search proved to be the summoning site. Ravenfire let Duke do some cracking heads with cultists to gain information. The rough interrogations brought back the information needed that the entity is headed for an elf hunting party near Brador’s Gate. The hunting party can generate a great surge of fear for the entity. Ravenfire and the search party picked up the pace and headed down the road. The entity invaded the elf hunting camp. The elven archers were in the process of tracking a large animal. An elven ranger waited in a tree branch lining up his energy bolt to the neck of the bearlike animal. An animal this large would feed the village for days. Just when he pulled back his bow, the entity rushed behind him. The entity scared the ranger into firing the energy bolt wide right. The result of that caused the bearlike creature to run toward the camp. The entity absorbed the fear as a snack before the meal that the camp will provide. The entity ran to the camp anticipating the surge of fear he was about to consume. The bear ran into the fire cooking it to death. The elves scattered from the fire in terror as the entity laughed maniacally. The feast of fear was intoxicating to the entity as it reveled in the euphoria of the warm nourishing power. As the entity incorporated the surge of power, the elves fled the camp with the large bear creature back to their village. The entity let out a loud evil bray in victory over its massive consumption of fear. The consumption made the entity sleepy causing it to stagger down the road in a euphoric drunken bray of song laden stupor. The stagger ended when the entity crashed in a patch of tall grass along the road. The entity began to sleep off its fear bender merrily humming a happy tune. The elves returned to their village telling the frightful tale as they processed the bear to feed the village. A session of comforting the young children of the village commenced to help them understand the danger that was just experienced. The elders of the village reassured that this entity will be dealt with immediately so the village can be secured. The village was secured and a group of brave elven warriors set out to deal with the entity Duke found the entity resting in some tall grass along the road. He ran back to alert Ravenfire and Anna. Ravenfire told Duke and Anna to surround the entity before it wakes up. He gave a Waters of the Mirror Pool potion to Duke and Anna. He will drink one with them at the same time to set up the trap. When they drank the potions, three people became twelve encircling the entity in the trap. He instructed Duke and Anna to produce the most menacing stares as they could. The entity woke up to twelve angry faces set on retribution. With no fear to feed on, the entity began to weaken. The entity grew weaker and weaker to the point of fatigue. Ravenfire went into action. He unfolded the scroll and read with conviction. Each word had the energy and thunder of the greatest spell ever voiced. A portal formed in the sky and pulled the entity through its blue membrane to the forbidden realm. When the entity was fully banished kicking and screaming on its way, the scroll vanished in a puff of red smoke. The color of the smoke reason was not important bur red flame sparking from the smoke added a nice flair. Duke, Ravenfire, and Anna returned to their normal visage. They hugged each other for a job well done then returned to Neverwinter with Sandy barking happily behind. Last edited by Aethera; Jan 1st, 2017 at 12:42 PM. |
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December 2016 Competition Entries Topic: Let the Cat Out of the Bag Challenge: a caricature, predestination, and an odd vegetable Winner: Convergence of Nested Sequences by GeneT Youseff Saada stood waiting by a bus stop that was the only feature in an inky black void. Dust covered the young man’s face, fluorescent vest and coveralls, he held a white helmet in his hand. It felt like he had been there for eternity, waiting. In the distance the blackness swirled a set of headlights became visible. The rectangular form of a silver bus came into focus. The glowing yellow text above the windscreen read ‘Final Destination’. The bus pulled up in front of Youseff and the door opened. Looking up he could see a hooded figure in the driver’s seat The driver turned and from deep within the hood a cavernous voice said, “Well hurry up, get on, no telling when the next bus will be coming along.” “But, where is the bus going to take me?” Youseff had a feeling, he was talking to Death, himself. “The bus will take you to where you have always been destined to go,” said Death “Do you mean heaven?” Checking a screen near the steering wheel the hooded figure said, “Yes, you led a good life, the life that was laid out for you, therefore you get to go to heaven… eventually.” “What do you mean eventually?” “Well you’re a Coptic Christian that means you are on Yewah’s list. Now he is one busy man, firstly we had a lot of arrivals like you from Syria. Then he is always sorting out all the Catholics, the Protestant and the Jews, convincing that lot there is only one heaven for them to share is a full time job. And his kid’s birthday is just around the corner. So you know he is a little backed up and hasn’t had to time to oversee the latest extension.” “So you are saying Heaven’s full?” Death nodded. ”How long before the extension are ready?” “Estimated waiting time is 50 years.” “Why so long?” “Secularisation, they have to wait to collect enough prayers for the foundations,” Death said matter-of-factly. “Oh,” was all Youseff could muster in reply. Death tried to fill the void in the conversation by going off on a tangent, “Anyway that is not too bad a waiting time really. If you were Muslim there is a huge hold-up while Allah is trying to work out the problems between the Sunni and Shia. All these ‘martyrs’ keep arriving talking about 40 virgins and Allah has tell them, they’ve got the wrong end of the stick.” Youseff’s eyes widened as Death finished speaking. As the driver was talking about the ‘martyrs’ he raised his hands to make air quotes. The hands that came out of the robe’s voluminous sleeves weren’t skeletal and they weren’t male. “You’re not Death, you’re a woman,” said Youseff. “What?” the hooded figure said as she quickly drew her hands back into the sleeves. “Yes, I am so Death.” “No you’re not,” Youseff stated firmly. “Yes I am.” “Oh, no you’re not." “Okay I am not,” the Faux-Death said in resignation. “Then who are you?” The Faux-Death said nothing and began to pull back her hood. From the darkness, Youseff saw two emerald green eyes, first he note their beauty and then was taken aback as their round pupils drew into vertical slits as they responded to the light. His surprise grew as a feline face was revealed. Covered in short lustrous grey fur, the cat-lady’s face was beautiful, the alluring nature of her eyes was highlighted by thick black eye shadow and a golden ankh hang from each ear. Deep from within childhood memories a name jumped out of Youseff’s mouth, “Baset” The Egyptian Goddess’ face broke into a toothy smile and in a purring voice, she said, “Yes. I am surprised you know who I am.” “When I was a child, before the war, I travelled to Egypt and became obsessed with the Gods,” Youseff said with a twinkle in his eye. “Why are you pretending to be Death?” “He is on leave and you know, votive offerings to anthropomorphic gods, ain’t what they used to be,” Bastet said looking at the floor. “But, you’re a Goddess.” “Yes, but a Goddess without followers is powerless. In the modern world, I am only an icon of past glories, not someone to be worshipped. I am lucky, I am allowed to stay and help out around the place.” Youseff could sense the Goddess’ hurt and disappointment and said, “I am sorry.” “Don’t be it is the way of the Heavens,” Baset said with a wry smile. “Well are you getting on?” “Well I guess so, I can’t just wait here, but if Heaven is full, where are you taking me?” Youseff said as he placed a foot on the first step of the bus. “To a Holding Camp run by the United Afterlifes.” “Holding Camps… You have those here as well,” said Youseff as he thought about taking the next step. Baset had watched the events in Syria unfold, it was only a hop, skip and jump from her homeland. Staring at Youseff, she could only imagine the things he had been through. The white helmet he carried was a sign of his integrity and his selflessness. A lump formed in Baset’s throat, swallowing hard, she said, “Hop on, I think I have an alternative destination in mind.” Youseff climbed aboard and sat in the front seat and placed his white helmet on his knees. Baset turned and smiled and then eased the bus away from the stop and then performed a u-turn. After travelling a short distance, a white cloud could be seen in the distance. Youseff watched it draw closer and soon the bus was in the mist. Shortly after the bus emerged in a space inside the cloud. A blue-skinned man with four arms stood in the middle of the space. Baset said, “That is Vishnu, he might be able to help. We dated a few times, but it never really worked out, he’s all hands.” The bus pulled up next to Vishnu and Baset stood and said, “Leaving the talking to me.” Baset alighted from the bus and said, “Hey V, a long time no see.” Vishnu said, “Yeah, it’s been a while… I need to apologise, I overstepped the mark, last time. Are we all good?” “Yeah, we’re good.” Baset said with her arms folded across her chest. “Listen, I need a favour.” She signalled Youseff to stand beside her. “This is Youseff, he is from Aleppo and I don’t have the heart to put him in the Holding Camp. I was wondering if maybe you could…” “If I could what, ignore the fact he is not a Hindu.” “You know as well as I do, all humans are the same and Youseff here has built up a surplus of karma. If you don’t want help me, I can always take him over Buddhists.” Vishnu looked at Youseff and said, “Let me hold your hand.” Youseff held out his hand and Vishnu took in one his right hands. Looking at Baset, he said, “You’re right, this man has helped many and paid the ultimate price. I will help you and Youseff.” Baset threw her arms around Vishnu’s neck and kissed his cheek, “Maybe we can try again.” Vishnu kissed Baset on the lips and said, “I would like that.” Turning his attention back to Youseff, Vishnu said, “Young man, I can offer you another a turn on the Great Wheel of Life.” Vishnu pulled back the clouds to expose the entrance to a tube-like slide. “If you want Youseff, you can choose to go down the slide and be reborn.” Baset looked at Youseff and said, “You deserve better than the Holding Camp.” Youseff stopped and thought did he really want to live again. There was so much suffering and pain in the world. Then he felt the white helmet in his hand and remembered there was good in the world, there was hope. He reached out and hugged Baset and said, “Thank you.” Offering his hand to Vishnu, he said, “I’ll take you up on that offer.” Vishnu wrapped his four hands around Youseff’s hand and shook it vigorously. Placing his white helmet on his head, Youseff sat on the slide, he turned to wave goodbye and then pushed himself into the tube. Baset stood watching as he disappeared into the light and cried as she heard his screams of joy descending back to the mortal realm. *** In a field hospital on the outskirts of Aleppo, Youseff Saada had lain in a vegetative state for weeks before his brain ceased to function. “Why call me nurse, I can’t help the dead,” said a middle aged Doctor weighed down by grey stubble and the bags under his eyes. The young female nurse who had called the doctor over said, “I thought you should see him, Doctor, it is very odd.” The doctor looked down and was stunned to see a huge smile across Youseff’s face. Convergence of Nested Sequences : A Mathematical Proof by GeneT (1800 words) “The only ones necessary for the advancement of mankind are the very intelligent and the dull. The first is neccessary to ferret out the secrets of the universe and propel us forward and the other is needed to clean up after them. All those in the great expanse between the very intelligent and the dull are superfluous. Our decline and extinction is inevitable under the conditions of decreasing resources unless we cull those unnecessary for our continued advancement and survival.” Fatima Bergin 13th World Congress Dec 21, 2347 The Producer sits hunched over his desk reviewing question after question. He personally selected those questions that are included in the competitions. Surprises must be limited. Uncertainty must be denied. Answers must be irrefutable. Life, lives, depended on it. Any glitch was costly to the system whether it be discernible immediately or, worse, discovered later. The Government Adjuster stands lazily on the other side of his desk, hands in her pockets, thumbs hooked over the edges, micro-sculpted nails shining as she waits for the Producer’s attention. She could have occupied one of the leather chairs in the Producer’s office but does not. She is in no hurry. The Producer ignores her and she finds the slight amusing. He would have to address her eventually and she devours his impertinence, feeling taller after consuming it, almost as if she is one of the chosen, a Desirable, instead of a functionary of their government. She doesn’t mind being a pale imitation. It lifted her above the masses. The Producer does not look up from his work. The Adjuster is neccessary for him to select the right number and consistency of questions but he did not need to share the color of his eyes with her. The proximity of her skin was nearly intolerable despite the long years that they had been linked by this task. It had not always been so and he acknowledged his part in it. Innate compassion did not change him. Change was ground into his bones question after question. By the math of it all. “Number of Contestants?” “Thirteen.” The Producer pauses and his stylus hovers over the list of questions. His face is a studied calm, flat and quiet. He is in another place, somewhere that does not exist. A mindless place where he has given way to a thoughtless existence. Yet, despite his daily practice to control breath and mind, he does not remain there long. The wall is barely begun before it crumbles away. Numbers intrude. Mathematics simple to him assault his awake mind. The digits rolling across the frame of his consciousness divining foul weather like tumultuous grey clouds bunched up in an angry sky. Perhaps if he had a Master to teach and guide him in his meditational studies he would be more suited to it, but those type of people are not neccessary. “Thirteen?” The Government Adjuster smiles. Its a small thing but somehow thick and heavy. Looking for something else to devour, she can’t help but offer privileged knowledge, to let him hear it for her own joy. She wrinkles her nose a little and shrugs her shoulders. She finds what she’s about to say humorous and her eyes twinkle in advance. “The Southern Conglomerate had a failure of crop structure. There’s not enough to go around. So the circle must be made smaller.” “How many?” “That’s not a matter for you.” “How many?” The Adjuster sighs, covering her amusement as she finally captures the Producer’s eyes. As his face turns upright away from the list of questions, she make him wait. She doesn’t do it to be impertinent. Impertinence is for lesser men. She makes her smile flat but underneath it grows. She likes numbers, especially large ones, even if she doesn’t really understand their nature. “Four cohorts. Maybe more.” The Producer nods and then bends his head back to his work. He would give the Adjuster no more of his time and she doesn’t require any. The set of his fallen shoulders is more than enough for her. She has eaten part of him and leaves fulfilled. “5 major determinants and 13 minor determinants are allocated at random but with equal distribution to every male and female not meeting the QoD, Quotient of Desirability. Those labelled QoN, fulfilling the Quotient of Need, are not exempt from distribution of determinants. Breeding will replenish lost QoN numbers. These determinants are small pieces of code inserted via viral vectors into specific gene sequences of specific chromosomes at viable points of fragility which upon activation will constituent a critical biologic failure. A finite number of combinations of these determinants have been created in such that a selection of a variable but precisely computable number of the population can be achieved by the stimulation of these combinations either singly or in groups. A smaller or larger percentage of the masses may be chosen for depopulation simply through intelligent activation of combinations of determinants, allowing effective and mathematical precise control of total population numbers on a routine semiannual schedule or adhoc community requirement.” Population Control Technical Paper PCTP #21 For the days until the competition, as the thirteen who will represent all the others who share their allotment of determinants are chosen, the Producer labors. He references each question, compares them, balances them. He studies the manner of their asking and the sound of the syllables created by the words of their construction. He counts the blank spaces between. Logic requires it. He doesn’t sleep and rarely eats. When the contestants are known, he studies them, each one. Not just the look of them, but the specifics. The letters of their birth and the records of their living; times, dates, places, education level, hobbies. Everything. He studies those living around those chosen and those lost thru prior selections by them. He studies the mundane, the forgotten, the seemingly inconsequential. He studies each cohort, individuals who are welded to the competitors by small pieces of code woven into the very fabric of their cells; the men, women, children who will live or die by the answers the competitors give to the questions he has chosen. And then he does the math and selects the pattern of the questions. Life, lives, depend on it. The Producer rarely ventured out in the days before the show. He preferred sitting on the veranda of his small apartment drinking bourbon and reading ancient proofs by dead men like Astarchus and Raghunatha Shiromani or amusing himself in finding math in living examples; pythagorean spirals, the Fibonacci sequences in Romanesco fruit , or how Wile’s proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem was an error filled Galois endeavor. His favorite bourbon was a lighter spirit aged in Saunterine casks. It was expensive and rare, only occasionally given over to public auction when an excess was unforeseen or the government wished to fulfill promises of magnanimity. It is raining the day before the competition. The drops are bright upon his skin, but he doesn’t mind even though it dilutes his bourbon. He stays out on the veranda until the wind forces him to retreat inside and, after finishing his last Saunterine bottle, retires. He sleeps soundly, dreaming of complex numbers unbefitting of his allotment, their sum no less and no more than they were ever destined to be, yet he nudges them sideways until they are what they always should have been regardless of St. Augustine’s dissent. “The competition should broadcast live in all territories. The Holiday scheduled a day in the month after the competition allowing for mandatory community festivals to be planned while QoN individuals perform clean-up tasks and for the selection process to complete in its entirety. Barring any technical compromise of the scoring, the results should be enacted within a few hours of the end of the competition, although any indication during the program or after of the selected combinations is strongly discouraged despite the fact that no one individual could possibly know their assigned combination and it is impossible for any but most extraordinarily gifted to understand the complexities of determinant propagation. The results will become evident in the days that follow, vectors activated per instructions by multiple triggers controlled by a number of unconnected QoD agencies. It is impossible and unnecessary for the scope of the effect to be known. QoD persons are not subject to selection and the determinant assignment is random. Security forces are deployed in the periods prior and after per guidelines. Security personal who are members of the selected, when their selection is ultimately manifest, should be deposited at the nearest collection facility by unit personnel.” Manual of Allotment 11th Edition Both the Producer and the Government Adjuster are present as the competition begins, but it is her show from this point on. They watch from a windowed booth high above the fake audience as the contestants are challenged and their response recorded. She feels hungry after her last meeting with the Producer. He is an appetizer before the main course and the Adjuster can’t help but indulge. “Shall we pick favorites?” The Producer shrugs, delays, and then seems to acquiesce, although it’s unfair of him and he knows it, but that doesn’t stop a small smile from creeping onto his lips as the show ends. The smile is neither fat nor heavy, but something lighter and open as it brightens to reveal the falsehood of what he has done. His smile is a true nature, a number inseparable from the abstraction of reality, and it sits comfortable upon his lips when he shudders to the floor. Eyes open to the Adjuster. Unconscious. Unbreathing. Eventually mindless. A review of a man’s history is rarely sufficient in elucidating his character or his thoughts. Seldom do we tell ourselves the truth and rarely is such fully evident to ourselves let alone those outside us. So, it is uncertain why He did what He did or the reasons for His actions even if we wish to claim Justice or Truth or Love. But what is certain, is that the totality of the effect upon Security forces, those who had been protected in some fashion from selection by chance or interference and directly favored in other ways by Desirables to elicit their complicity, was a finely calculated result dependent upon His skewing the selection process thru manipulation of the game. He sacrificed himself to orchestrate the opportunity of our revolution and the end of their absolute control. We who have benefited wish to bestow upon Him our gratitude for what He made possible. To make Him Hero and Savior. For unshackling and delivering us. But in the end, there is but one thing to say of Him in thankfulness. He was Neccessary. Biography of Carlos Bardejov The Last Producer The Eggplant, the Lentil, and the Carrot by ADancingKitty (c/o Ion2Atom)
Slam! An angry looking carrot, strode out of the newspaper office, shutting the door behind him. A rolled up newspaper was in his tightly clenched fist. Carrot chuckles followed him out of the building. Roger Carrots wasn't much to look at. He had a chocolate brown eye, with an eye patch covering up the holed out eye next to it. He adjusted his eye patch, his good eye glaring at his onlookers, as he walked through the muggy streets. A couple of nosy whispers followed the strange man with an eye patch, as he walked into the driveway of a house on the border of the Eggplant Empire. He rapped sharply on the door three times, looking through the broken glass of the windows. "Come in!" a voice called. Roger walked in. Inside was what looked to be like an eggplant. Unlike a regular eggplant, grew up to be a shiny purple egg, not a veggie, like all the others of its kind. “What's the matter?” the eggplant asked soothingly. “Ledger, I'll tell you what's wrong. The newspapers made another caricature of me,” “Roger, when are you going to get over that?” Ledger asked exasperated. “I thought you'd understand, with you to be the one of the prophecy.” Roger shouted “What prophecy?” questioned Ledger blankly. Ledger was Roger's best friend, but at times like these, Roger wished he wasn't. “You know-” “No, I don't know.” Ledger cut in. “Look Ledger, I know you don't want to talk about it, but,” “There have been lots of prophecies.” Ledger replied curtly. “The vegetable prophecy.” Roger informed him. “There has been a lot of vegetable prophecies too.” Ledger answered back. “Do I have to recite the whole prophecy to you?” Roger asked. “Yes, so that I can understand you better.” replied Ledger aggravatingly. “Fine.” Roger said haughtily. “There will be a veggie unlike the rest that will destroy the world, unstoppable, unless a veggie that isn't what he appears will come and save Veggieland from its tears.” “That prophecy's not about me.” Ledger said when he had finished “But people think it is, and they hate you for it.” Roger retorted “I ignore them.” Ledger answered. “Have you seen how many broken windows you have?” Roger cried. “I don't mind. It's such a bother opening them anyways.” Ledger replied calmly. “You don't have a job, and you’re living off your uncle's money.” “I'm doing just fine, thank you,” responded Ledger heatedly “Just because you don't have any caricatures made of you doesn't mean you can't be sympathetic!” Roger complained. “I'm trying to talk sense into you, not be sympathetic. And it's not my fault, eggplants aren't good at drawing.” “Whatever.” retorted Roger walking to the door. Turning the door knob, Roger slammed the door the second time that day. ~~~~ Ring! A sharp ring rang through the night in the Carrot Community. Roger woke up in his bed startled. “What-” he muttered. The doorbell rang again. Roger grumbled, and got out of his nice cozy bed. Who could be calling at this hour? He thought, as he lit a candle. He opened the door to see a tall lentil with a stern expression on his face. “Are you Roger Carrots of the Carrot Community?” the lentil asked in a squeaky tone. Roger jumped back. He had been expecting a deep voice. Without waiting for an answer the lentil pushed his way into the house. “Forgive my manners.” Roger said shakily. “Would you like some tea?” “Some carrot leaf tea, please.” he said forgetting his audience. “With a drop of honey in it.” the lentil added Roger paled. “Are you a cannibal?” Roger asked stuttering. “Aren't you?” the lentil asked surprised. The lentil burst out laughing seeing the carrot's face. “Just kidding! Call me Sherlock. Sherlock Lentil, obviously.” the lentil said brightly. “The Sherlock Lentil? Detective Sherlock Lentil?” asked the shocked Roger. “Who else?” the lentil asked “Now that introductions are made, let’s get down to business.” he said, his tone turning serious. Sherlock leaned in. “I've heard about the caricatures”. Roger trembled rage, as he turned as red as a tomato. “You dare.” he whispered. “Don't misunderstand me. I'm not here to make fun of you. I just think you should get back at them.” Sherlock stated “Who's them?” Roger questioned “The people who made all the caricatures of course.” Sherlock responded. “How?” Roger wanted to know. “Let me think. It has to be a suitable punishment of course.” Sherlock said. He scratched his head, putting a finger to his lips, like a child deciding what to get at a candy shop. “By golly I've got it!” Sherlock exclaimed after a moment of thinking. “You should make a carrot catcher, to pay back for the caricatures. Get it?” Sherlock explained. “When do we start?” Roger asked. “I'll build it. You do the capturing. Deal?” Sherlock proposed “Deal.” Roger replied. “Sign here please. The carrot catcher should be here in about a day.” Sherlock commanded. Once it was signed, Sherlock walked to the door, saying his farewells to Roger. Sherlock walked out of the house, chuckling maliciously as he climbed into his lentil limo. “Oh he'll never guess.” he cackled maliciously. Inside, Roger blew out the candle. The last thing you could see was Roger gleefully smiling. Unnoticed by both of them, Ledger was peeking out his cracked window, watching the lentil come and leave. Ledger was very curious, very curious indeed. What was this strange lentil doing in the Carrot Community? And why did he go into Roger's house? What did he mean when he said “Oh, he'll never guess.” Questions were bursting in his head, like popcorn, too much for an eggplant. He sat down in his chair overwhelmed, thoughts rushing through his head like a torpedo. He decided to wait a couple days before he confronted Roger, so that he could cool down from yesterday's fight. To pass time, he decided to walk to the Eggplant Empire newspaper office. It always took a couple days to walk there and back, partly because, nobody wanted to drive the one of the “prophecy.” When he finally got to the newspaper building, lentil limos were parked in front. “How do you know more about this than us?” a lentil detective asked. “The Carrot newspaper branch was informed by Roger carrots, of the Carrot Community, that a couple carrots had gone missing.” the newspaper eggplant responded. Then he noticed Ledger. “You there. You must be the odd eggplant of the prophecy. Are you behind this?” “No.” Ledger said curtly. “As if. It's probably the start of the prophecy. I heard you had a fight with your carrot friend, which is most likely why your starting with the carrots.” the eggplant accused. “No, I did not start the carrot catastrophe. I only just heard of it now.” Ledger replied. “Oh really?” the eggplant asked sneering. “That's quite enough, Bates.” a lentil said. “He s innocent until proven guilty.” he added. “You may go now.” he ushered Ledger to the door. “Can I at least buy my newspaper?” Ledger asked. The eggplant known as Bates tossed him one. Ledger walked out of the building. Roger reported to the newspaper he hated so much? Why? Ledger just couldn't shake the feeling that something was up, and it had to do with that odd lentil, that met with Roger. When he got home, he went straight to Roger's house. He rang the doorbell many times, but Roger didn't answer. Just then he realized, that both Roger's, and the lentil's car was there. Hiding quickly behind Roger's well cared rhododendron bush, he peeked inside Roger's open window. Ledger heard them speaking. “…now, that the people who made the caricatures are caught, what about the people who laughed at you?” the lentil asked. The truth was that Roger was starting to feel uneasy about this whole thing. “No thanks. I'm good. ” Roger responded shakily. The lentil's bright cheery tone turned dark. “I'm not giving you a choice.” he growled. “You signed the contract. It says here that you will catch anyone I command you to. If you don't I'll tell everyone about your eyes.” The lentil threatened. “You have your mission. I will leave you now.” the lentil closed the discussion. As soon as the lentil's car was out of sight, Ledger raced in. “What were you doing with that lentil? Who is he? What did he mean when he said you signed contract?” Ledger screamed. Roger nearly fell out of his chair in surprise. “You heard all that?” Roger exclaimed. “You have some explaining to do.” Ledger said. “Do you really want to know?” Roger asked. “Yes!” So Roger told Ledger about how he had made the deal with Sherlock Lentil. “And you made the deal with him?” questioned Ledger once he was done telling his story. “Hey,it was the middle of the night.” Roger protested. “Ledger?” Roger asked. “Yes?” Ledger replied. “I think I'm the one of the prophecy.” Roger said. “Why do you say that?” Ledger asked “Sherlock knew my secret, which is what he used to threaten me.” answered Roger. “What is it?” Ledger questioned curiously. “I have three eyes.” Roger said promptly. “What!?” Ledger shouted. “You're the first person I've told.” Roger added. “What about Sherlock?” Ledger calmed down enough to say. “I didn't tell him.” Roger said matter of factually. “Well, I think Sherlock was the odd vegetable who almost destroyed the world, and you were the good one.” Ledger comforted. Ledger changed the subject. “We have a problem at hand.” “I'm afraid that we're going to have to call the carrot cops.” Ledger added “Okay.” Roger responded, head down. “Maybe the jalapeno judges will lessen your punishment, because you let them know about the crime.” Ledger said reassuringly. “Maybe. Oh and Roger, make sure to mention Sherlock when you report the crime.” Roger replied. “Sure.” And with that, Ledger picked up the phone. ~~~~ Carrot cars pulled into the driveway of Roger Carrot's House. Three cops came in. “Hands up.” one commanded. Roger put up his hands. The cop clicked metal handcuffs over his wrists. “Now, where are the captives?” he asked. “At Mr. Sherlock Lentil's house.” Roger replied. “What are they doing there?” The cops asked. “I thought you told them.” Roger complained to Ledger. “They really must not have believed me.” Ledger explained. Then to the cops he said, “Let’s at least check. It wouldn't hurt would it?” “We've been called there anyways, by his wife. I figured Sherlock wanted to have tea with us.” a cop said embarrassed. “Tea?!” Roger and Ledger exclaimed in unison. “Yeah right.” Roger said rolling his eyes. They all got packed in the car, and departed to Lentil land. Once they got there, they had a surprise waiting for them. His wife was standing outside the house. “I've got Sherlock all tied up and gagged. He was annoying me to death, with his evil cackling, so I made him tell me.” The wife said modestly. “Okaay.” the cops said unsure. “Now Roger where are they?” the cops asked. “I can tell you that.” the wife cut in. “They're in the cellar. But, be prepared. They are quite chatty.” The party walked down the stone steps, into the cellar. It was as black as though ink had been spilled in the air. Soft cobwebs hung in every corner.' “Aagh!” “Help, me,” “It smells bad,” They released the overwhelmed carrots. The carrots gave a good shout to Roger. “My wife has been worried sick about me.” “My children are in tears!” “What were you thinking?!” Ledger stopped the fight by saying, “Well at least Roger told us. Sherlock didn't.” ~~~~ Ledger walked into the courtroom. He had been able to scrape up enough money, to buy a lawyer for Roger. “Let the accused come out.” a spicy voice said. Ledger looked up. A long panel of judges sat, staring expectantly at a door. The door cracked open, and the “accused”, came in wearing hand cuffs. They sat on to stone chairs, chains wrapped around there wrists. Roger was sitting in his chained chair, white and nervous. Sherlock's cheeks were red as he struggled in his chair. He looked around the room his eyes, blazing with an angry fire. “Now that the accused is present, let’s get started.” a jalapeno judge suggested. “Sherlock, you are accused of making an illegal carrot catcher, and bullying an upset carrot into doing your dirty work.” The jalapeno accused “Where does it say that a carrot catcher is illegal?” he spat. “Law 163.” the jalapeno said glaring. “Wha-?” Sherlock asked surprised. “Now I think that we all agree that a lifetime sentence in prison will be suitable for you.” the jalapeno called, his voice echoing throughout the room. The other jalapenos nodded in agreement “Take him away.” the jalapeno commanded. “Noooooo!” Sherlock screamed. Once he was out of sight the jalapeno continued. “Roger, you are accused of catching three carrots. Do you deny it?” he asked. “No.” Roger “The sentence would be fifty years in jail, but we are taking in account that you turned yourself in, so we will lessen your punishment to twenty five years.” The jalapeno called out powerfully. “Hold on. What about him being bullied in the middle of the night, when he couldn't my make good decisions?” the lawyer cut in. “We can only take of ten more years off. Do we all agree on fifteen years of punishment?” the jalapeno asked its colleagues. The other jalapenos nodded again. “Good. You are dismissed.” 15 years later Ledger had started a company for drawing, after finding talent in himself. He got lots of money, after saving Veggieland. Roger burst through the door, cutting through Ledger's thoughts.“I'm back.” he shouted “Roger!” Ledger exclaimed. “You're out.” “I have bad news though.” Roger said solemnly. “What?” Ledger asked. “Sherlock escaped from prison.” The End Last edited by Aethera; Jan 17th, 2017 at 04:29 PM. |
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January 2017 Competition Entries Topic: Can't Fight the Future Challenge: a broken accessory, peach fuzz, and a bad connection Winner: Lost and Found by GeneT Uninhabitable by Wrathryder Three men stand, naked, on the rocky shore of a mountain lake. Each man stares in a different direction, gazes flitting here and there. Mountain peaks enclose the small lake, reflections of the snow-capped peaks so clear that it is hard to tell where the mountain end and the lake begins. The sky is blue and cloudless and the erratic warbling of loons fills the silence. The underbrush joins the birds with a chorus of insect chirps. A wall of evergreens encircles the clearing like pillars of a great hall. The men seem to be surveying the land around them. Admiring it, maybe. Their bodies and stances give them away. They are stark naked despite the cool mountain air and their shoulders are back, bodies completely exposed without care or shame. They stand awkwardly, skeletons arranged as if they were wearing them for the first time. They moved around the clearing like physical therapy patients, stilted and halting. Although the wind blew cold and they were miles away from the nearest town, there was no fire or camp in sight. Each man changes the direction of his gaze methodically, no man’s gaze crosses that of another. All at once, without a word or sign of communication, the three of them turn and walk towards an outcrop of boulders. They disappear suddenly and are gone. Moon Phase I – Star Rise 1 We have landed and established a base camp. The Syndicate’s instructions stressed the importance of establishing a base in isolation of the planet’s inhabitants. They are an aggressive race with a dislike for difference, even among themselves. I have spent most of my adult life studying this planet, and still I am in awe of its beauty. We have chosen to land in a northern quadrant. We are surrounded by white-capped mountains on all sides as if we rest in the mouth of some great beast. There is a water source nearby and we were amazed by the clearness of the water. We were prepared for a planet plagued with pollution but so far we have not seen much evidence of this. The air is hotter than I was expecting. I must review my climate logs. We are spending this first moon phase acclimating to the environment and getting used to our disguises, and learning the language. This planet is the last of the known humanoid races that has not yet implemented a universal language. The climate is not what I was expecting from my studies. It may take us longer to acclimate than expected but I remain optimistic. The three men are seated around a small metal table in the middle of a large windowless room. Their bodies are limp, as if they are asleep. Thick wires protrude from the back of their heads into the chairs. Behind the comatose men, three figures stand around a small pillar protruding from the metal floor. The first figure is simian. It is of short stature, covered from head to toe in fine silver peach fuzz. His long arms gesticulate frantically at the figure across from him. He speaks in harsh, angry syllables. His body is animalistic but his eyes are clear and intelligent. The figure across from him tall and silent. Hairless and sleek. He is more humanoid in stature than his simian friend. The skin is the same colour as the angry simian’s hair, silver and metallic blending in with the wall behind him. The face could have been a human face, painted silver, except for the eyes. The eyes are large and grey, blank spots in an expressive face. They betray nothing. The figure stands calm in the face of the simian’s anger. The final figure is also humanoid in stature although she stands as short as the simian. Her skin is dark blue, like the night sky, with an hourglass torso and short powerful legs. Long hair, as dark as her skin hangs down over one shoulder in an intricate braid. She remains quiet awhile, but soon joins the simian in its protests towards the tall, sleek one. Moon Phase I – Star Rise 15 Rhea-Thip-Xan, codename Cleo, and Thyrallegian, codename Ajax, are infuriated. They wish to abandon the mission immediately, claiming they were led under false assumptions of the climate of the planet and the difficulty of adjusting to the disguises. Cleo is unable to leave the ship without her man suit as her natural skin will absorb too much of the star’s energy. Ajax complains one moment of being too hot and the next too cold. I am not sorry for them. They were briefed with plenty of information and paid a large sum of money to accompany me here. I will not tolerate any more complaints, we have barely skimmed the surface of our objectives here. There was a hailstorm last night and much of our outer communication equipment was damaged. We were unable to move it inside the ship on time. One minute the sky was blue, the next we were pelted by hail the size of small rocks. I remain optimistic. I will have to be more prepared in the future. The equipment and accessories can be repaired and my companions will soon grow used to their suits. Once we are experts at functioning in our suits and masters of the environment we can begin the journey towards inhabited lands and make contact. A massive brown bear stands in the clearing. It stands on its hind legs, batting its powerful forearms against some invisible barrier. The force of the bear’s forearms creates resounding metal bangs. The lake and mountain line flicker more erratically with each bang until there is a piercing metallic screech. The bear tears a sheet of metal from the hull of a large ship that now sits in the clearing. The bear tears packet after packet from the compartment, gorging itself. After ten minutes of eating it begins to roar and wobble on its hind legs. It drops to all fours and tries to run. It doesn’t make it out of the clearing. Moon Phase III – Star Rise 3 A bear caught a scent of our food storage through a ventilation shaft and managed to tear down one of the ships compartment doors. It was already damaged by the hail but the strength of this creature is astounding. It died of course, and we are unable to move the corpse because much of our electronics are still down. The smell of rot assaults us each time we leave the ship. My companions are not happy. They have already tried to start up the ship while I slept but the damage has grounded us here until we can repair it. We have almost depleted our supply of food. The bear took much of it. We have attempted to eat some of the local foliage but there is no telling how our digestion systems will react. A fire blazes in the middle of the clearing and acrid smoke fills the air. Two men stand near the fire holding their noses. They are clothed in thick white jump suits with hats and gloves. They stand more naturally now than they did before, at ease with their bodies and dressed for the weather. The third man sits on a boulder near the edge of the clearing. He is doubled over, grasping his midsection. The seat of his jumpsuit is stained a dark colour and vomit stains the chest. Moon Phase IV – Star Rise ??? It is cold. The kind of cold that chills through the body and seeps into one’s very being. We are trying to stay inside but we must leave to hunt and fish. The meat has proven to be easier on our digestion than the plants. The animals are scarce and the lake is frozen. If only I could have foreseen this. Communications still down, there is some feedback here and there but it boils down to a bad connection. Another fire blazes. Only one man stands before it. A filthy white jumpsuit is barely visible under a cloak of animal skins. He is alone. Moon Phase V – Star Rise ??? Rhea-Thip-Xan and Thyrallegian are dead. I don’t know how long I have. I spend so much time ensuring that I will live, hunting, insulating the ship that I do not have enough time to spend on repairing the communication satellite. Some days I think it would be easier to give up. I am trapped in a frozen wasteland. At first, the animals were easy to catch, they approached the ship out of curiosity. But now the last of the curious creatures has abandoned me, they learn quickly. If I could just make it until the change of the seasons I might have a chance to get home. A lone figure stumbles out of the ship. The tall silver captain without his disguise. All caution and secrecy lost. He stands out blatantly against the landscape. Even the ship, battered and dull, has been claimed by nature, just another rock in the background. He trembles violently. The wind drives snow and sleet through the clearing. He stoops over to fill a steel bucket with snow but drops it several times. Poorly prepared animal skins and scraps of clothing hang from his body in disarray. He manages to fill the bucket with snow and hobbles back into the ship with his prize. Moon Phase ??? – Star Rise ??? I do not have much time, and I do not care. This mission- my life’s work- is failing before it begins. I need more time. The captain sits before an electrical panel. The outer panel is cracked and discarded. He fiddles with this wire, then that wire. He works intently but erratically, frantic. Chairs are scattered. A mattress covered with filthy blankets lies near his feet. He looks up to a light bulb above the panel. It is dark. The ship is dark. He works until exhaustion and falls onto the mattress. He writes something in a stained notebook and then is still. Moon Phase ??? – Star Rise ??? Uninhabitable. The lightbulb above the panel blinks red. Once. Twice. It glows steadily, casting a blood red lens over the motionless figure on the dirty mattress. Honor in the Face of Defeat by tomplum Bright light streaming in through the forest boughs brought him out of slumber. Looking around the camp site, she was nowhere to be seen. Where has that elf gone now, he thought. Always flitting about, never still. Standing and stretching he listened to the sounds of the forest for any indication which way she had gone, he heard nothing as usual. She always chastised him for his disconnection with nature, with the world around him. A curse of mankind she called it. Too busy plotting tomorrow to pay any mind to the present. What did the elves know anyway? Weren’t they the ones being pushed further and further into the forests by the progress of man? Clinging to traditions of the past and frolicking amongst trees were no way to prevent the progress her people so desperately despised. Walking down toward the creek, he heard the laughter before he saw anyone. There she was, splashing in a deep pool acting as if she had not a care in the world. She trusted him too much. The last of her line putting all hope in the protection of a human. “To allow such a noble blood line to die would haunt me to the end of my life and yours as well I should think. If that is not the case, I would say I have failed you miserably as your mentor.” The words and images of his late master flooded back into his mind. Was it only three weeks ago the old man had sprung the elf maiden from the castle dungeons and entrusted her to him with a pledge to see her home? Treason to the crown. Betraying his own race. All in the name of a romantic dead man. He’d never be welcome home again. Perhaps the northern villages would offer him refuge. The Crown rarely enforced its will there. “My cloak if you will.” Blinking back his surprise, he reached for the grey hooded garment hanging on a tree branch and covered the young elf. Water ran off her shaven head down between the peach fuzz on the back of her neck. They had cut her hair in an effort to break her will, make her reveal the location of her people’s refuge. She had not broken. He remembered seeing them bring her in to the capital. A giant procession snaking through the streets, the elf Princess in a cage being pelted with various rotten vegetables. Her hair then was the most beautiful golden blonde one could ever dream of witnessing. Even by elven standards, her hair was said to be prophetic. Intoning some sign of fate. Maybe it had been bad luck. Perhaps now her fortunes would change without it. He walked back up away from the stream to allow her to dress in solitude and began packing to continue their trek. She had said it wouldn’t be far from here. That they would be found by scouts before reaching the refuge camp her people had set up. Folding the last bed mat, he heard an anguished cry from the stream. Running down to the water’s edge, he found the Princess holding an elven man who was bleeding from numerous wounds across his body. “They’re all dead. The camp was discovered by the King and everyone in it slaughtered. The women. The children. They came in the night with no warning.” She finished relaying the dead elf’s story and quietly began sobbing. She was truly all alone now. The last elf. A simmering rage filled the man’s mind. The death of his master, his own treason, an entire race killed by a cruel and paranoid monarch. “Did the King lead the assault himself? Was he there? Did he say if the King was there?” Pleading for a response he pulled the elven warrior out of her arms, set him on the bank and cradled her face in his hands. “Was the King here?” he asked again. “He said a silver chariot lead by a black mare tore through the unprepared ranks.” The King’s personal chariot. He was here. “Run away, Princess, run away and never look back,” he urged her to action. She only shook her head and replied, “I see the desire for blood in your eyes. Know that this desire also fills my mind. There is nowhere I can run. Nowhere I can hide. I will fight with my last breath to see this King fall.” With that she took the blade and scabbard from the fallen elf and began into the woods. “Then we are settled,” he replied. “For death and glory.” Following the trail of the dead elf back to the scene of battle, the pair came across the human army’s camp. There in the midst of hundreds of tents was the King’s own, large, silver, and conspicuous. What did he have to hide from? His foe was defeated. All but a young elf left of a great and noble race. Pulling his wand from his sleeve, the man pointed it at a nearby tent and spoke the magic words, “Facere Incendium.” Fire shot out from the wand and instantly lit the tent in a blaze of flames. Once more and another tent was lit. Scrambling the other direction, the duo dodged panicked men running to fight the inferno. Closing ever closer to the King’s tent the pair ran as fast as they could. A whirring sound and a rush of air were all the warning of the axe flying for them. Instinctively raising his hands in defense, the axe contacted his wand, shattering it into thousands of pieces, a puff of smoke and it was gone. Standing before them was a beast of a man. Easily over six and a half feet tall, covered in tattoos and sporting a giant beard hanging down below his chest. A large axe in each hand and a blood-thirsty grin on his face, this was the King’s elite bodyguard, Berserker. The she-elf pulled the elven blade from its scabbard and whispered a prayer. The giant man charged, his axes swirling before him. Cupping his hands together and focusing all of his powers, fire began to swirl in the mage’s grasp. Calling forth powerful magics and thrusting his arms forward, a flaming sphere shot out toward the giant, exploding in a burst of flame and smoke. Through the ash came Berserker’s axe cleaving deep in the mage’s shoulder and into his chest. Falling to the ground he could catch glints of light shining off the elf maiden’s blade as she cut delicate wounds into the large man. Dancing in and out of his axe swings and striking her own blows, he marveled at the grace of her movements. Finally, the big man fell in a smoldering pile of blood and smoke. The Princess looked over at him and for a moment, he thought he saw the very heavens in her eyes before she too fell to the ground, an arrow protruding from her back. There behind her stood the King, a wicked smile across his face. With a nod, he lowered his bow, turned round and marched toward his tent, content in what he had accomplished this day. Feeling the life rush out of him, the man looked once more to the fallen elf maiden and as his vision slowly faded. He too felt content in what he had accomplished this day. Lost and Found by GeneT (2845 words) I was glad it was winter and that I lived in Wisconsin. Even now, there is no real winter in Florida or South Carolina, no matter what anyone says. You can argue that these places don’t really exist any longer, at least under those names, but I’d still be right. Sure, it may rain and the temperature may be cooler, but it’s not the cold of a Wisconsin Winter. And, as long as my feet touch ground, there still is a Wisconsin and it still is damn cold. I know the cold. And so do my people. We have been here since the Muskrat saved us and the Great Hare rebuilt our house. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. There are no heroes, no transformations, no animal spirits. As it always has been, there is just us and them. Which is why I’m happy for the cold. It let’s me hide the steel cap I’ve fashioned to fit against my shaved head under a knit beanie and the hood of my coat. I don’t remember making it and the steel never warms against my skin but I don’t mind. I’d rather shiver than have them take me. At first, when they slipped into our spaces and more and more of us acted erratically, it was a disease, or a virus, or inequality, Fascisms, religious extremisms, and because of ‘the degeneration of our society’ from the principles of its founding. But that was a load of crap. People are stupid and terrified people even more so. Explanations don’t need to be reasonable when day after day more and more are taken and turn murderously on those left. It was only a matter of time until the whole thing man had made came crumbling down and we returned to the wolf and rabbit, the strong versus the weak. And there were few, if any, wolves who had good spirits and shining coats in those days. It was the year of the mean and ugly. The first few weeks were the worst. The collapse wasn’t gradual or slow. It was like a nuclear ballistic missile that scorched the ground for miles and shuddered the heavens until burning rain sizzled against exposed flesh. It was an abrupt and bloody scream. Society didn’t go waltzing into the dark. It consumed itself, neighbor to neighbor, city to city, nation to nation. By the time we realized the truth, that they were here, it was much too late. By then, none of us were brothers and sisters. We fought and fell unconnected or in small groups which sacrificed the weakest for a few more days of breathing, letting them take more of our lives and land while we dwindled until there was only solitary rabid ones like me left. Too smart to die and stupid enough to believe I could last it out. Hide from them. Resist despair. Feed myself. Find some woman and restart mankind. That sort of schizoid dreaming. In the end, I was alone and I tried not to move out in the open much, but I had to scavenge and hunt to stockpile stores or starve. I had to be careful. A steel cap didn’t make me Superman. They would know I was not one of them even if they saw me from a distance. I think they somehow shared their thoughts or were linked like those Borg people on Star Trek. I imagine that’s how they took our minds, stole our persons, bore into our souls and hollowed them out so they could take up residence. The steel cap protected me. As did the fact that we weren’t made to scavenge and hunt in the dark and luckily neither were they. Perhaps because when they stole our skin they suffered some of our limitations, which is why they weren’t physically stronger or faster and could be killed just like us with a hatchet or even a heavy stone if one was caught unaware while taking a sh** behind a burned out gas station. I think things would have ended different if I had had my hatchet close or found a large piece of brick when she found me. But probably not, as I preferred to run. Besides, all I had was a little bit of paper. She appeared suddenly, vaulting over the remains of the cinder block wall and crouched low, hiding, breathing hard through her nose trying to make little noise. I was as quiet as I could possibly be, but my efforts were fresh and the smell gave me away quickly. Her arms made a small arc as she scrambled away from me and brought the end of a small pistol even with my head. There didn’t seem much left to do and I didn’t really favor dying dirty with my pants down. I started to clean up figuring my ride was about to end. She whispered, her words seething steam let free in airy bursts across her lips. “Quiet. They’ll hear us,” she said. I went rigid against the cinder blocks, naked butt peaking from the edge of my shirt, pants bunched up around my ankles, my legs eventually starting to shake from the effort and the freezing cold. After a while, she glanced over the edge of the blocks looking for them and then stood while backing away from me, keeping the gun’s mouth at my eyes. She didn’t speak at first, so I didn’t ask and pulled up my pants. “Slowly.” I nodded my head. She sighed and peaked over her shoulder, doubt flickering across her forehead in wavy lines that pulled her eyebrows together. I knew she couldn’t kill me, at least with the gun. It would be too loud and they would find us. So I stayed put as there was no reason to force the issue and waited for her to make a decision, one way or another. “Where’s you stuff,” she said after a while. I pointed around the corner where I’d left my pack. She edged past me in a wide circle, gun unwavering. After putting my pack across her shoulders, she picked up my hatchet and, after a short moment of consideration, during which I held my breath, secured it in a loop of her belt. “Where’s your hiding place?” I nodded east and she mimicked the motion with a flick of the gun. I started walking and she kept a usable distance between us. After a while, she asked for my name. I pretended not to hear and kept walking. She didn’t ask it of me again. I think my name didn’t really matter. We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep. I didn’t take her to one of my temporary hiding places. I took her home. A place I rarely went unless scared or tired or sad. I don’t really know why because it is a sacred place. My sacred place. A place I had not visit more than three times in the last month. I had stocked it with tins of cat food and beans. A few boxes of crackers, some flimsy and wafer thin, others thick and seedy, lined a single wall. I had wrapped them in any plastic I could find so that they stayed dry, or mostly so. It was dark in my place as little light filtered in from above through the piled remains of what had been civilization and past the grimy back window of a school bus that was buried nose end deep into the silt of our collapse. We had to crawl thru a warren of debris to reach it, layer upon layer of twisted rusting refuse and damp crawl spaces. It was safe. Even if they had seen us enter, the path was impossible. Living on a thread made one’s sense acute. Our eyes had accustomed to the dark quickly just as our noses had accustomed to this life. We could see easily enough and she still held the gun high, level and steady. She kept her distance, sitting precariously on the back of a bench row in the middle of the bus while I laid in the rotting driver’s seat. The gun eventually wavered as she ate, the smell of cat food permeating the half-light, the sound of our teeth breaking crackers a pleasant staccato to our breathing. I lit no candles. Even here, deep in my place, we feared them finding us despite the impossibility. We attended any sound, even small, with exquisite attention, halting our chewing until sure it was something natural, something safe, something that did not clutter the sound of our eating and breathing. The days and weeks of our heartbeats had taught us such things, such vigilance, such skittishness. She watched me as she ate, green eyes hidden in tight narrow folds of skin. Once she had eaten her fill, her eyes were worse on me, brighter and difficult to weather. I pretended to scrape the last bits from my tin with a broken plastic spoon and picked crumbs from my beard. Anything to avoid looking into them, those green eyes; bright, narrow, soft, understanding, probing. “What’s that there? Under your hood,” she said. The gun came up, wary and smart, watchful. She rose up on her legs and braced herself straddling the seat. I shrugged trying to change the subject but a shadow crossed her face and her eyes flashed as she scanned for the exits of my place. “Show me,” she said. “Now.” I eased back my hood and removed my beanie with one hand. My steel skull cap gleamed even in the dark and her eyes widened in fear. “You’re one of them,” she said straightening her arm rigid as if the gun were a shield. It had been a long time since I had seen another person. I couldn’t remember the last time I was so close to one let alone have one speak and share a meal. But I knew the danger of company well enough. I had come across its remains in the past. There is a point that survival dictates the availability of compassion. And from what I had found, compassion had died out with the weak. I showed her the palms if my hands and waited. There was little that prevented her from letting the gun speak. Down here, in my place, the sound would echo indistinctly and fade away as my blood leaked out. Even they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint its origin. “Take your clothes off. All of them. Slowly,” she said. I was never good with people anyway, which is probably why I had survived as long as I had. I didn’t understand them most times. They confused me. I found their words often at odds with their bodies; the angle of their eyebrows, the smoothness of their cheeks, what their shoulders and hands had say, the brief, tiny, nearly imperceptible twitches of their lips that ghosted their words. But I understood her in that moment. She was looking for something. Something I was not. So I undressed, slowly, with the gun as a voyeur. With each layer that I discarded, the Wisconsin cold eased closer to my skin. It was nearly a nuisance after a while, especially after I discovered what was left of me. It was as if I had been remade, cobbled back together like some old car from donor parts scavenge in a junk yard. My skin was a field of mismatched pieces varying in color and composition. Pale white skin bordering irregular areas of dark brown. Skin peppered with tiny hairs, peach fuzz mixed into animal fur and plastic. A glint of metal over the sharp point of my joints. Nothing real. Nothing me. After a while, I looked back up at her and waited until I watched a flicker of change on the wisps of the corner of her lips. She wasn’t aware of it, but I was even as I was struggled with the revelation and the lies I had told myself - of what I really was. That I was one of them. Another voice inside me woke. “Get dressed. We’re leaving,” she said. It would have been simpler if I had lunged at her. Defining. But whatever change had been amended in my mind was not in charge and, with each layer that covered what I was as I put my clothes back on, I remembered who I had been. I regained the calm assurance that not everything I wanted to do was what I wanted and that I had a choice. As if the shock of the discovery unhinged the door shutting my memories away, I found it hard to breathe and harder to look into her green eyes. I had shut and locked that door long ago. A defense against that other who I wished was not part of me, but was there none the less. I shivered under its sudden freedom and striving after such a long dormancy. Seeing myself, the parts me of that were not flesh and blood, but were none the less part of what I was, began to let loose everything inside the whole of me that I had denied. I led the way out of my special place. She followed, crawling a suitable distance behind me, gun held tight in one hand. Part of me knew that the gun was useless. That any retort from it against what I was could do me no lasting harm unless it pierced my skull. I could have turned and trapped her there in the narrow confines of the tunneling that led to my special place until she had exhausted the gun’s capability of argument. I could have, but I would not. Outside, in the light, she quickly got her bearings and made me walk. She would have taken me back to her people if the journey had ended her way. I wouldn’t have struggled. I couldn’t have struggle. No matter what I saw in her when she looked at me, her green eyes held onto my insides and pulled at them until I resigned to do as she commanded. When they attacked, I fought by her side. They had waited for us to return, hiding until the time was right. Hungry for her. They cared little of me. I was one of them in flesh, infected and changed. I tore at them in their initial confusion. I dismembered their parts, both flesh and metal, wood and plastic. I unhinged their arms and legs so they could be no more. I let go of that thing I did not want to be. I let it out. We had come to an agreement, that thing that had infected me and the part of me that was still left. A truce and balance. It was not all what I had been nor what I had become, but something in between. We, I, tried to protect her, shield her from danger and harm. I, we, caught those that had attack us, attacked her, by surprise and rended them incapable. Some of them were new and healthier. Some of them had let themselves degenerate and rot, not protecting the flesh that remained from decline and eventual failure. But neither her gun nor I was enough in the end and only I was left amid the scattered remains of the others. I made sure they could not return and walk or breath again. She lay on her back upon the ground, breathing haphazardly in that scattered way one does before death. I knelt and brushed the blood from her face. Her green eyes never left mine. They held me as they had done all the hours since our meeting, but now they were truly open even if fear pricked the edges of them. Gone in them was the monstrosity of what she had thought me to be and the gentleness that replaced it slowly faded with her breathing. I stayed there until night. It started to snow again, a thick haze of fat white flakes. I warred against it, me, us, until a decision was made by what I was becoming. Leaning over her, I touched her flesh for the first time. Even cold, it was wonderful. My lips pressed over her open mouth and I lingered there, one hand cupping the side of her head. I gave her a little piece of me. Something small. Something microscopic. It eased from my lips to hers while I remained lost in the touch of her skin. It would take time and I carried her to our special place. Days of waiting during which I would fashion for her a metal cap like the one I wore. But I didn’t think I would have to teach her who she was or unbury it from what she could become. So I spent the time dreaming of what may be and it didn’t seem so crazy anymore. When her green eyes opened, I smiled and told her my name. February 2017 Competition Entries Topic: The A-Team Challenge: a song, animal fur, and serendipity No entries. So sad. March 2017 - No Competition
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April 2017 Competition Entries Topic: Dreams Challenge: a melody, walking a pet, and fortitude Winner: Dream Walker by Seravok Dream Walker By: Seravok (1951 words) It was a cold morning, and summer had come to an end. The autumn sunrise kept only a margin of warmth and the dew in the grass would glint momentarily as Celes walked along the path. The Moorwood forest held the morning fog at bay, and song birds chirped their melodies for rising with the new day. Parker would run ahead of her, and chase any mice in the field, returning at so many failed attempts, while panting each time. He was a good dog, and been part of Celes' life for over a decade now, and their bond was strong. She reached down and picked up a small stick, throwing it ahead of the path. Parker would take off running and prance his way back to Celes with pride. "What d'ya say, Parker" she asks rhetorically, as Parker drops the stick at Celes' feet and barks once. "Alright, alright, another go, and then back to camp" as she picks the stick up again and throws it at the edge of the woods. Parker makes his way to where the stick was thrown, but pauses in his tracks, flattening his ears back and lowering his head towards the forest. "What's the matter, boy?" Celes calls out, noticing the strange change of Parker's mood and body language. As she wonders what Parker notices, she peers closely into the woods and sees for herself a young boy, dressed in rags and dust and dirt smudged across is face and arms. "Easy, Parker. Come" Celes commands as Parker raises his head and runs back to Celes, keeping to her side and watching the forest attentively. Celes calls out to the boy "are you okay? Can I help you?" she wonders for the boy's wild appearance and keeping to the trees. The boy stares back, quirking his head to the left, and then the right, hearing Celes calling out, and not responding. He bends low and grabs a handful of fine dirt, stretching out his arms forward and rubs his hands together, sprinkling some of the dirt and dust in front of him. Celes feels a gentle breeze become stronger and the tall grass nearby begins to sway. Parker's ears perk up and his head cocks to the West, where the wind seems to be coming from. Celes notices Parker's behavior, taking her eyes off the boy for a second, and when she looks back, he's gone. No sign of him at all, and she wondered if she imagined seeing the boy? Parker begins to get excited again and barks twice, as a few song birds flutter above and dive back to the trees. This morning was enchanting, but that boy, was he lost? Did he live in the Moorwood forest alone? "That can't be..." Celes considers deep in thought of the strange encounter. Taking in a deep breath, and feeling the fresh air seems to calm her as she heads back to camp, while Parker is tailing her, looking back from time to time and catching up. The Moorwoods were vast, and at this time of year, the copper hints begin to peak at the tops of the trees. Their leaves shimmered and caused a rustling sound in the breeze as it picked up and settled again. Song birds still singing their tune, and calling out to one another as the trees calm from the settling breeze. When Celes arrives back at camp, she finds her pack is missing, and her journal gone. Parker avidly sniffs the area, and begins to growl. Someone unwelcome had been to camp. "Was that boy a distraction? Seriously?!" thinking as she walks over to Virion's tent. "Hey! Wake up!" she yells while kicking his boot at the heel. Virion stirs and startles awake, almost catching his breath in a snore at that moment, and frowns groggily at Celes "What was that for?!" His mood unpleasant for such a rude awakening at the earliest hour of sunlight this autumn morning. "I've been gone for a few moments, I took Parker out near the woods, and came back with my pack and journal missing, that's what!?!" she exclaims in a fiery mood. Virion's facial expression is now puzzled, he knew nothing of the missing gear. Celes continued "and some boy was in the woods, I swear, looking like, well..." she couldn't finish the sentence, she wasn't even sure if she imagined him or if he was real. "He looked like he lived in the Moorwoods." Now, Virion was promptly confused. The woods were considered enchanted, and some believed they were protected in some force of nature unknown to man. "A boy? living alone, in the Moorwoods?" Virion asks in confirmation of what Celes had just relayed. Celes nods, and looks around the camp, not finding any tracks. Parker continues to make his way around the tents a few times, sniffing about, and finds his way to Virion, giving him a lick to the side of his face. "Thanks, boy. G'morning to you too" he says sarcastically, as he wipes the side of his face with his sleeve. Virion prepares a pot for breakfast above an open fire at the center of camp. A boiling broth with a few eggs are cooking, and some dried fruit are warming along the stones near the fires. The aroma grows and Virion's stomach grumbles at the smell of breakfast. Parker sits patiently at Celes' side as she survey's the forest in the distance. Virion notices how unusually quiet Celes is about her strange morning, and wonders himself of the missing things "we should head East soon, and make good time for Leochvale" he speaks to break the silence and hopefully keep Celes' attention from wandering. Celes blinks and twitches at that moment, as though in a thought of trance "huh... uh, yeah" she agrees without acknowledging fully Virion's plans. "Are you okay? Are you still obsessing about that boy in the woods?" Virion asks with concern. "Sorry, I... my mind is elsewhere... I feel ... I want to go back there." Celes shares with Virion, not expecting him to answer her thoughts out loud. "Well, if it helps you feel better, why not?" Virion responds to Celes' notion. She turns to look at him in slight shock "no, I ... really? should we... maybe, just to check it out, to know if ... if he's okay and if..." uncertain how to finish her own sentence, Virion cuts in "to know if your witts are with you?!" he notes with a sly grin, fetching the eggs from the broth with cloth in hand. After breakfast, they pack their tents and scatter their ashes from the campfire. It was considered bad luck to leave the campfire ashes intact, and enough had already happened for one full day. Instead of heading East, they head to the path Celes had seen the boy earlier that morning. Parker seemed to be excited about traveling again, running ahead and coming back a few times to encourage the companions. As they approach the area, Celes remarks "here, around here" pointing ahead at the edge of the forest. They pause and take a look at the edge of Moorwood forest. "Well, what are we waiting for?" Virion says, heading off the beaten path, and stepping into untamed wilderness towards the woods. Celes begins to feel uncomfortable about the unknown, but braces herself and takes her steps in line with Virion's. Parker reaches the edge of the forest, and stops abruptly. "Come on, boy?" Virion calls, but Parker refuses to go further, and whimpers three times. Celes bends low and says "Alright, it's okay. Stay" she commands, as Parker sits, patiently waiting and then rests himself at the very spot. "He'll be alright, we'll be back soon" Virion encourages Celes, smiling at Parker and heading further into the woods. Inside the forest it feels damp and thick in the air with must and strange uneasiness, trying to find any sign of the boy or his dwelling place. Celes keeps to Virion's left, attempting to keep track of their surroundings, as every tree looks more and more like every other tree the deeper they wander. Virion calls out, attemtping to rouse Celes and prove something "Hello?! Wild child? Are you out there?" smirking towards Celes. Celes, not amused, looks at Virion, and over his shoulder, about a stone's throw away was the boy. Virion notes the facial expression of Celes, and turns quickly, to see for himself, but sees nothing but forest and more trees. Celes, refusing to take her eyes off of the boy says to Virion "there, you see?!" as Virion turns back to Celes shaking his head "No, I don't" he explains with confusion. Celes places her hand upon Virions shoulder, encouraging him to turn and look again. Virion reluctantly turns, and this time, he see's the boy too "Oh! ... Hello?" he says in shock. The boy moves on all fours, towards the two in the forest, and sniffs the air a few times while approaching. Virion braces himself with a step back, balanced upon his heel, while Celes quips a quick breath in, placing her hand on Virion's back for support. The boy raises his two hands high into the air, staring upwards to the sky, through the tops of the foliage, then deeply inhales. He faces Celes and Virion and exhales gently, and a warmth begins to overtake the two, they're eyelids heavy, and their limbs weak. Their fortitude was quickly fading and their stance was failing to keep them upright. There, in the middle of the woods, their bodies lay, trembled and peaceful, their consciousness gone, and their minds filled with wonder. When the two of them wake from their enchanted slumber, they feel energized and refreshed. Celes notes her skin has a glow-like aura about it, and amazed how she's completely healed from her scar on her left hand. It was as though the accident never happened. Virion can't believe it either, and wondered what exactly happened to them. All he remembered was seeing the boy for that quick moment, and then that dream. He dreamed of a euphoric place, calm and filled with light and warmth, strange celestial creatures roamed the land, and the waters were shimmering green instead of blue. He felt like he was only there for a moment, but his soul had been waiting for him, for what might even have been eternity. "Whao" Virion thinks to himself and can't believe how great he feels. Celes turns to Virion and says "I know!" as Virion turns to look with confusion. "Did you just... read my thought?" Virion asks in complete shock. Celes' eyes widen and thinks to herself "No, its not possible" as Virion clearly hears the same thought made by Celes in that second. They both look to each other, and then the surrounding area, then back to each other again "No way!" they both think at the same time, hearing each other's thoughts. "Okay, there has to be... what's happening here... how... " Virion says, "how does this make any sense?" he finishes his sentence in thought. "I don't know?" Celes says "but I think, we've been given a gift" sharing her thought with Virion as he understood. Just then, barking was heard from a distance. Completely disoriented from where they were laying, they realize in unison "Parker!" reading each other's thoughts again. They grab their things and head towards the sound of the repetitive barks. They reach the opening of the forest, coming to the clearing, meeting their four legged companion, falling to their knees and hugging Parker. "Thanks, boy" Virion thinks, as Parker barks twice to the notion. Feel free to send me a PM regarding any feedback on this short story. Any tips are welcome, and I hope you've enjoyed this entry.
The Borderlands
by WhiteStag (1,470) "My goodness, have I done it? The borderland state between two worlds; I think I've found it..." Jimmy awakes one morning on a usual day in his usual life. The day is cold outside on a usual autumn morning. "Usual" is the description Jimmy has given his life this last year so far. Life has lost its luster it seems. Things aren't as fulfilling as they once were. Music is not gratifying anymore. Movies seem to be disappointing one after another. The thrill of buying things and new possessions are just boring now. Family and friends are a nuisance and irritating. The worst part even, Jimmy has lost his passion for his hobbies. Things he once loved to explore and learn about and play in, have lost their excitement, their fulfillment, their joy. It's like he's walking through his life in one tone. His ambition is gone. That's it! His ambition to grow has dwindled. He's tired all the time. The only thing that's working is sleeping. This last observation is the most curious: he's finding himself more emotionless. The gamut of emotions once experienced as part of his life until now have waned greatly to just a dull state. One could say even, that it is a peaceful state. But peace is so boring, Jimmy refutes. The stillness all of the time is so uncomfortably still and easy. There is no conflict here in my mind anymore. Coworkers and family members continue engaging me with their usual anxiety and passion, but they have no effect on me anymore. I feel dead inside. No spiking of feeling; just one still emptiness. What's to come of me? One morning I awoke just barely remembering my dreams. They were so vague. What I remember, I was trying so desperately to get back to this hamster I left in a safe-deposit-box. I finally reached him and he was still alive on the brink of dehydration. But he was happy to see me. My dreams are getting more vivid I've noticed; more alarming and bizarre as well. They have always been bizarre, but now, even more so, if at all possible. I've noticed that if I awake in the morning and not open my eyes right away, I tend to eventually 'see' things. See things where? In the blackness of my mind. The blackness is just fuzzy and chaotic at first, then when I don't care about the blackness, when I don't look for anything, the blackness smoothes out instantly when I wasn't paying attention. It smoothes out to black glass, like obsidian, an obsidian mirror. Then the images come in the smooth screen. They start as impressions first, vague resemblance of things, elusive and fleeting, random even. I really have no control over what I see. For instance, I would see trivial things like the kitchen faucet will appear, a coil of rope in someone's woodshed. Someone walking their pet. It's like a slide show, a movie screen. "Let's see what I'll see this time" I say to myself when lying down and closing my eyes ready for 'the movie to begin.' Sure enough, the resemblances, the slide shows, are becoming more detailed. Astonishing! As I practice this meditation more, it really is a meditation; I have to get into a state of 'release,' of surrender, of allowance, then the impressions come. As I get into this state more and more they are becoming more vivid! I am almost eager now. This is one of the very few things that I actually look forward to. This strip of movie in my mind was once very vague, now is getting richer with color and detail, with personality and plot! My hands are starting to get numb; my pinkies first, then the sensation spreads to my ring finger, then to the middle and index, and finally my thumb. My hands feel like one glowing ball of numbness. I can't distinguish variation. I must be dreaming. That's what these visions are, they must be dreams. They are the beginnings of dreams or something like that. Are they lucid dreams? I've heard so much about the elusive lucid dream. Ha! I think that's a redundant sentence, elusive lucid. I don’t have any real control of them though. They are just movies. You don't have control over movies you just watch them. My family scolds me now at times, "Why are you sleeping so much? What’s wrong with you?!" they bark at me. Thank God I have somewhere to retreat too. The serenity of my newly discovered meditation is so welcoming and anticipated. Recently, I had a breakthrough. I started my usual setup of relaxation and meditation. I went inside myself, trying to simply allow my outside sensations. In allowing them, they aren't points of interest, so I forget about them; I forget about my senses and what they are reporting to me. A woman, a woman appeared to me. She was very different than all other things I've seen to date. She was addressing me, talking and focused on me. She was much more tangible than I have ever seen. Get this: she said to me, and when I say 'said,' it's not distinct words, they are more like mental impressions, packets of information not necessarily in linear order. But the message is still coherent. She congratulated me!! On what? I was surprised. There was such a confidence about her. She gazed at me with such a loving tone and impression, almost like she does this all of the time; like it was her job. There was a melody sounding around her. The warmest melody I have ever heard. "You are at the gate," she said to me simply, and her look was ominous, mysterious, like she winked at me with those words, but she didn't actually wink. The rest of my waking day was euphoric. I felt like I was in a cozy daze all day, with a smile on my face for no reason. This is getting a little ridiculous now. So now my whole body gets numb. When I lie down and let go of everything, my hands would get numb, now it has spread to my whole body. My whole body tingles and is warm, and I can't feel anything. It’s like being in a warm bath and now I can't discern any detail. It's backwards. My visions are getting more detailed and the feeling of my body is getting more blurry. Then the next thing happened. I saw myself in my vision-dream so to speak. I don't know why, but I was behind a movie theater, in the alley; a movie theater my father would take me to as a child. I looked down and floated my hands out sideways, and I just thought- body light, and I was light. Light as not heavy. I floated off the ground in a gust of wind! I was in a dream for sure, but I was aware it was a dream, a lucid dream! I was so excited to be flying. I was showing other people at the theater. I was light as air. And when I thought to go back to the ground, I did. The woman appeared to me again one night. She looked me right in the eyes. She was bathed in golden light. She said to me, "Do you want to follow me?" I said, "Follow you where?" Her response was just a deeply warm smile, almost mischievous. "Do you have the strength, the fortitude to follow me... deeper?" "What do you mean the strength?" I retorted rather concerned. She then paused a long while waiting for me. I started to process her question in my thoughts. She broke the silence, "There is something else, beyond the mirror..." Her presence was so euphoric and loving, I couldn’t possibly be frightened of her queries. I just had this sense, this knowing, that there was nothing to be frightened of. Just then I was struck with something. I had déjà vu. Déjà vu inside a dream! I instantly remembered that I had seen this before. I had seen this conversation before with this wonderful woman. It was another impression, a feeling, a knowing. I returned to her, "Yes, I wish to follow you." She smiled deep at me then, and I heard her ask me in my head while maintaining her gaze, "Are. you. sure?" My heart beat heavily... "Yes I am sure." Jimmy disappeared one morning. His roommates never saw him come out of his bedroom. They weren't even sure if he came home that night. He went missing for some time. Family and friends tried their best to track him down. He never turned up. All of his things remained where they were. He just vanished. That was it. Last edited by Aethera; Jul 7th, 2017 at 08:42 AM. |
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May 2017 Competition Entries Topic: The Experiment Challenge: a dirty pipe, prey, and a mismatched fairy tale Winner: Here Lies Happily Ever After by Zany Here Lies Happy Ever After By Zany (Words: 500) The chill breeze stung his reddened cheeks and ruffled an unruly, black beard. Dew laden grass reached above short, solid legs brushing the back of his hairy fingers. A handkerchief muffled snort to his left indicated his comrade was, as always, Sneezy. Fresh as the spring morning was it made his own bulbous nose run a little too. His eyes watered, partly from the cold air, mostly in wonder and disbelief at the sight before him. The balmy, pink, light of dawn coloured the small garden at the rear of their homely, thatched cottage. Soft, billowy, grey smoke drifted from its small, clay chimney. Dancing to the chorus of bird song a ball of joyful midges rolled above the neat rows of leafy vegetables, eager to mate before death. A flavourful aroma of freshly drunk coffee hung on his breath and honey drizzled porridge warmed a nicely rounded belly. To his right his best friend and constant companion, recently risen from a cosy bed, was Sleepy. A resigned groan from behind left little doubt, as usual, his fiery bearded, purple nosed brother was Grumpy and timid footfall announced his brothers ever present shadow. Slightly framed and smaller by several inches his siblings pal was Bashful. He was Happy. A mere twenty feet in front and directly between himself and the toolshed the huge, terrifying beast cast its remaining plate sized eye over the small group like a wolf considering its prey. One great foot planted firmly in the strawberry beds, the other sunk into the dark, rich, neatly tilled earth of the bean plot. An impossibly new, enormous, hairy green stalk rose from amidst the other beans and reached for the heavens themselves. Glacier like, Happy's right hand reached forward cutting through the deep, frozen valley of his fear, a meaty fist tightening around a protruding length of broken, dirt covered pipe. One small fractured piece of Doc's experimental and, apparently, highly successful irrigation system. Other fragments of the innovative "Superior Horticultural Irrigation and Fertilization Technology" lay scattered around the base of the massive legume. Happy's current thought suggested he considered the name a little too long and given present circumstances they might easily have omitted the Fertilization. Tugging the cold, dripping, highly inadequate length of conduit from the sundered earth he wondered what lunacy might consider the current situation a success. "It works!" This completely understated and bloody irritating comment from the last of their party. Doc's best friend and design partner in garden cultivation systems was unquestionably, Dopey. Hefting the metal tube into the air for the first time in his life he wished he was someone else, anything else, other than Happy. In the proud, time honoured tradition of hundreds of gardeners before him he melted through the icy bonds of his fear and nurtured the inner seed of bravery before charging headlong at one giant, hirsute kneecap hollering the rarely heard gardening phrase, "Narvak ov Kavir!". {Glory or Death!} They all lived ever after. Except Happy. Sexton Blake watched the insect skitter across the hammered copper table of Bistro L’enfant, while a piano concerto from W. A. Mozart filled the interior of the restaurant from the audiograph on the wall. He had decided on an outside view on this steaming summer day for two reasons; The primary reason, of course, being his original purpose for being in Mauchakao, or in Oceania for that matter, to watch the embassy across the skyway. The second reason was the obvious, it was a horridly humid day.
Blake had opened his detective firm only six months ago, and he already collected several clients on his calendar reaching across the Known World. An accomplished police inspector with twenty years at the Arkham Constabulary, in the Americas. Needless to say, he possessed a fair amount of reputation. His current client was the successful businessman Yomoto. The task at hand, simply find out who is following him. Yomoto had been in a meeting inside the embassy for a little over an hour, and Blake was on his second ‘stovepipe’ gin, a personal favorite, served on a brass saucer. Blake smiled only when circumstances where too coincidental. Now definitely called for a smile. Yomoto’s business dealings where sometimes shady as he was an arms dealer, Blake new because he had dealt with Yomoto before, both as the law and aside the law. So, the businessman’s emphasis on his completely legal operations had a difficult time falling on Blake’s ears. The next coincidence was the location of Yomoto’s meeting; Mauchakao, was a legendary stewpot of scum, an island-city home to pirates both of the air and sea varieties. The last coincidence was that Yomoto claimed to being followed. It would seem naïve to believe everyone in Mauchakao wasn’t followed in some way. The Bistro L’enfant occupied the thirty-third floor, and happened to be directly across the sky-pad of the towering embassy building. He watched through his field glasses as several sky-cars landed and departed. None of them remarkable. He further inspected the buildings around for any signs of something out of the ordinary. Of those in view of the sky-pad was the Fantomas Columns, symbols of the ruling House, House of Atlantis. The sky-pad of Fantomas Columns, spanned to join both large towers, happened to be a few stories higher than the embassy’s. Another link in the peculiar chain of coincidences. The other, a multi-office tower belonging to another powerful entrepreneur, Ms. Sara Crewe. It was interesting to Blake that Ms. Crewe would have property here. The wealthy philanthropist, owned property all over the Known World, but the chance of finding one here struck him. Another coincidence, perhaps? The buildings sky-pads were far below the embassy and on the other side of the structure. The throngs of people in both the Bistro, the sky-pad of the embassy, and the sky-pad of the Fantomas Columns, increased as the second hour started and the noon-time meal got its regular practitioners, increasing Blake’s vigilance. He noted several dark sky-cars come to a fix on the Fantomas Columns, the leader evidently in a model with a decorated nosecone of teeth. According to some myths here in Oceania, characteristic depictions carried power if invoked by a shaman. Carnivorous teeth, usually facing the forward of a craft, meant menace. Through Blake’s field glass he could make out five figures, they were all cloaked in dark garb, but he deduced by the way they moved that three of them were female. All but one entered the Columns. The last stayed and walked toward the edge facing the embassy. Blake’s gin had arrived and he set the field glasses aside casually and pulled some cred-coin from his waistcoat the pay for the drink when he heard a familiar voice from his waiter. “On the house, Mr. Blake.” Came the coy reply. Looking up Blake found exactly who he thought he would. Cheshire Cat, a member of a species called the felinidae, grinned down upon him. His unnerving fangs, always smiling, bringing doubt and security with every word Cheshire said. He was a valuable informant to Blake, and given the trust of the Cat was in doubt, the surety of his information was spot-on. Cheshire had many tricks that afforded him favored access to information, some of which included invisibility and teleportation. “Cheshire, please sit.” Blake offered. “To what do I owe this hopefully inexpensive visit?” Cheshire chuckled and slid into the seat across from Blake. “Oh, this and that, I figured you might want to know what it is your looking at?” Caution played into Blake’s mind. “Indeed?” “You have been contracted by General Yomoto, have you not?” Cheshire paused, an inviting smile across his lips. “I am only guessing this because you arrived a few minutes prior to the General’s sky-car, and have been here for the entire time he has been in the embassy. The one you have been sneaking glances at with your field glasses.” “How do you know I am working with Yomoto, perhaps I am here for another reason. Several dignitaries from around the world are in that building; and I always could be here for any number of other reasons.” Blake countered, not appreciating his ability to be read. “Yes, quite true,” Cheshire continued, “Anyhow, whomever it is you are following, they seem to be of interest to the figure across the way. Can your glasses make out who she is?” Hesitating Blake looked again. She was just too far away to make clear estimate. “No? but I do recognize the sky-cars that just landed.” Cheshire grunted agreement, “Yes, there from the pirate ship the Chameleon.” Blake nodded once. Cheshire smiled seemed to broaden. Blake surmised, “The sky-pirate is responsible for shadowing Yomoto.” It would not be too far of a stretch, Yomoto is an arms dealer, Blake pondered. Cheshire chuckled again, “Your close, Inspector Blake.” The Cat called him by his former title. Consider just that one female, not our ill reputable Captain or crew.” Blake looked back toward the distant figure on the sky-pad. She had not moved. Cheshire words drifted away from Blake, “Try looking at Jean Cartier, good Inspector.” Blake wanted to ask another question but he knew that Cheshire wasn’t there anymore. The Cat had faded out of sight, out of the Bistro, and possibly out of Mauchakao. Blake took a sip of his gin. Whatever this little transaction cost him he knew Cheshire would be soon in asking for payment. The Cat always was. He regarded his satchel, and pulled a tablet of paper from it. Hailing another waiter, he asked for the nearest tele-prompt communication bank. The waiter directed him to a few floors below. Blake could not risk traveling the few floors away with such concerns at hand. “Does the Bistro have any messenger-pigeons?” “Of course, Sir, the Bistro carries many. You simply cannot hope to run a business surrounded by corporations if you do not have a way to serve your customers every need. Rapid messaging is a must for us.” The waiter answered. “I’ll need one, post.” Blake said without removing his eyes from the distant figure. The waiter was away gathering the pigeon from its pen. Blake scribbled a note with the name, Jean Cartier, as best he could spell it, and rolled it tight. The pigeon was a magnificent ivory colored specimen, with little tufts of black at each wingtip. Attached to its leg was the small, thin, copper cylinder with the message securely rolled. Blake knew these birds well, he owned several at his offices in Arkham. The birds had been bred to every detail of the terrain they operated in by command. Blake, holding the bird gently to him whispered to its ear, “Pier 3, The Sea Witch, Elaine Dodge.” He promptly released the bird and it was off on its foretold route. He was sending the name to his trusted associate. She was aboard the ship that had brought them to Mauchakao, the Sea Witch, an oft used vessel when Blake Investigations find need. Captain “Iron” Mike Costigan kept a tele-prompt onboard. Giving the message to Ms. Dodge he would get a prompt reply, and nearly as correct as if he had heard it with his own ears. The only thing that Blake worried about now, was Yomoto’s meeting lasting long enough for the pigeon to return, or the distant woman to depart. Another half an hour rolled by, another ‘stovepipe’ gin, and neither figure moved, until the far door leading out onto the embassy sky-pad opened and Yomoto walked out. He was with others and Blake did not need his field glasses to see that all were in good spirits. Yomoto boarded his sky-car. Blake regarded the female figure and saw her moving as well, toward her own sky-car. Blake needed a way to warn Yomoto of something amiss. He glanced about and his eyes rested on the brass saucer below his gin. The sun was ebbing, but still very prominent in the hot day. He angled the saucer the catch the sunlight and direct it toward Yomoto. Yomoto surrounded himself with soldiers of his former army. It was Blake’s hope that one of them would know Morse’s Code. It was quickly proven to Blake that no one heeded the message. Yomoto’s sky-car departed and was quickly followed by the dark sky-car from the Fantomas Columns. Blake very much wanted the Grey Panther, his own sky-car, with him now. He glanced about for any near sky-car’s available. There were a few, docked at the Bistro, but they left much to be desired for speed or protection. At that moment, the messenger pigeon he had released to Ms. Dodge returned. He glanced at the quickly disappearing craft, they were traveling at a leisure pace; the dark one staying a respectful distance from Yomoto’s own. Blake pulled the paper from the pigeon’s courier cylinder and leapt for the nearest sky-car. He assuredly looked as if was attempting to ditch his bill. Reaching the sky-car he engaged the rear thrust toggle and pressed quickly down upon the gas, releasing the clutch. He was off, with several voices shouting behind him in a few different languages. He unrolled the paper, to find a lengthy explanation from Ms. Dodge. Blake’s whispered thanks to the gods that the sky-cars ahead of him were not racing after each other. The note read, “Jean Cartier is the slain soldier who fought for the House of Atlantis during the Second Battle of Malacha. He was engaged to a Ms. Mary Roche. Shortly afterward, Roche disappeared. E.D.” “Good form, Dodge.” Blake noted. He increased his speed and followed as Yomoto made his way to his own villa. The dark sky-car slowed before getting within range and the pilot disembarked. Blake followed suit. Blake considered flying straight into Yomoto’s villa, but the distant woman may be watching for such a bold move. Blake decided he would confront this woman, or at the very least, watch her close enough to deduce who she was. Her sky-car came to rest on the ground level, she parked in the shadows of an alley. Blake parked across from her and noticed the attention they both garnered upon arrival from the not-to-innocent local population. Five of the sturdy locals encountered him as he stood aside the sky-car. “Fancy ride you ave’ere, mate?” One appraised. “Min’if’n we take it f’r a ride, Gov?” another noted. Blake paid them no attention at first and focused on where the distant woman had gone. He could barely see the sky-car, but not her. “Oi! Mate, we’r talkin’ to you?” A burly one brandish an iron pipe he picked from the corner of a waste bin. Blake snapped, “I meant no trespass, gentlemen. I was following a woman.” The all began to laugh, one with a horribly high pitch. “At’s a good one. Ain’t no ‘women’ere. Least, none f’r you. Argyle, show’is American down to the hells.” The burly fellow with the iron pipe moved in and swung the pipe like a bat, his face a mask of malice. Blake stepped back and found himself up against the sky-car that had brought him to this precarious position. He reached for his trusted slug-revolver, the one he’d carried since his early days as a constable, but Blake was too slow as several shots rang out in the dirty street. He was quick enough to count them, five. All five scum fell dead to the pipe clanging to the ground, the only remaining sound. “You’re following me. Why?” called a musical female voice from the many shadows of the street. Blake cursed himself to being discovered, though he had taken some unneeded chances with this target. “I don’t often see a ship from the Chameleon simply strolling around.” Blake tried to sound as if he were interested in anything that wasn’t associated to Yomoto. She laughed and the sound had a hint of charm, “That makes you even more unwise than I thought at first. So, you aren’t one of Yomoto’s goons, you can see their kind laying at your feet.” “But, you are knowingly shadow a pirate.” Her voice came from over his shoulder and he turned to set eyes upon her. Blake expected to see the distant woman, he was only greeted by empty air. “You should stay to your more legal clientele, Mr. Blake.” The disembodied voice jerked him around to face her. She was covered in a full, black body suit. The only thing visible of the real her was the lower part of her face; a hood and goggles prevented the rest. On her hip was a holster and in her hand, was a slug-pistol, magazine fed. Considering disposition of the shots she had plenty more than needed. In her other hand, was the dirty pipe from the slain thug. She offered it to him, “Adieu, Mr. Blake.” Blake took the pipe and watched her turn to depart toward Yomoto’s villa. He ventured, “Mary?” She stopped and turned to consider Blake, “She’s been dead for a long time, Mr. Blake. Let old ghosts fade.” Blake was undeterred, “Mary, I could recommend the same to you. Jean Cartier died a long time ago, you want revenge I can understand that…” She screamed, breaking her calm demeanor, “Can you!” “You have me, I reconsider. I can respect that.” Blake rescinded, “I lost my son years ago on a case. But, this cat-and-mouse game you play with Yomoto; Jean knew what he was doing going to war.” He attempted to rationalize. She countered, “Yomoto knows what he is doing staying in the business of war.” Blake could not counter and accepted as much. “I will not caution you against fulfilling your contract, Mr. Blake.” She considered, “On second thought, one warning would suffice, don’t get in my way. Yomoto will die, today.” She turned to leave again. Blake ventured one more request, “If Mary Roche is dead, then who is it that he should fear?” She paused, “Black Venus.” Blake looked again at the pipe, he tossed it into the sky-car. before heading quickly to Yomoto’s villa. This time he flew directly to the sky-pad. He warned Yomoto, as his contract specified, telling him an assassin named ‘Black Venus’ was tracking him. Blake chased her to a street where she fought off several of the street thugs before disappearing without a trace. Yomoto, satisfied, strengthened his house guard and sent payment for damages to the Bistro, and paid Blake for a job well done. The pipe was going to be added to his collection of mysteries. After two decades in Arkham he had quite a large library of memories, a keepsake from every task he had ever taken, successful and not so. Upon Blake’s return to the Sea Witch he found the coy grin of Cheshire to greet him as he walked aboard. “I see you’ve met the mistress in black?” Cheshire teased. “Delightful woman,” Blake remarked sarcastically. “She evidently gave you enough time to collect your due.” Cheshire remarked. Blake looks at Cheshire as he materialized into view. “Yomoto is already dead, another of many fall prey to the Black Venus.” Cheshire offered. Blake was silent, he had no reply. As a former law officer, he owed Yomoto no allegiance. The assassin said the arms dealer would find death today. She did not lie. Justice is painfully slow here in Mauchakao and very unstable. The likelihood of any arrest or conviction would be almost moot. “Inspector Blake,” Cheshire started, again grinning, “There is the matter of my payment.” Blake stuttered, “Yes, yes. What price do you see? Then I can retort with the price that I see.” Blake was a fairly good barterer, but he only tolerated the practice if needs arise. At the moment, he just wanted to head for home. Cheshire chuckled, “I am considering a new method of payment for my services. You have beautiful set of metallic field glasses. I saw them at the Bistro. For my fee this time they should surely suffice. Do you still have them?” “My field glasses?” They were of no consequence to him. He picked them up because he hadn’t a pair. “Of course, I still have them.” Cheshire asked, “By word, Inspector, how long have you had them. They look too well to be a trivial purchase.” “I got them some years ago. I can get more, but why must you bargain for mine?” “Much like you, Inspector, I consider it a trophy for my memories. With some hesitation Blake agreed and soon, the Sea Witch departed Mauchakao. Cheshire Cat materialized again several hundreds of leagues away. He stood at a pillared opening as a woman garbed in purple sashes flowed out to greet him. “Ah Cheshire, my favorite agent. Do you have the item I was hoping for?” “Of course, Mistress.” He raised the field glasses for her to take. Circe, the Witch Warden of the East, smiled her approval, “Good, this should certainly suffice to mend the binding enchantments I have over his son.” She turned to depart, “You are dismissed Cheshire.” The Cat was already gone. |
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June 2017 Competition Entries Topic: The Bounty Challenge: two children, a mysterious box, and a natural disaster Winner: A Turn of Events by Wynamoinen A Turn of Events [2024 words]
The rickety cart of mush-fruit topples as Gutter and Stink-Eye barrel past, turning into the cluttered dark alley. “Little rat dodged down here!” Stink-Eye pants. His eponymous oozing eye isn’t much more unsightly than his tangled hair and tattered vest. Nor does he look much worse than his hunting partner, Gutter. Good meds and willing Divines haven’t been easy to come by. Not since the sun Turned. Gutter grunts and keeps trotting. Their quarry, that boy, is wearing clothes worth 100 carts of mush-fruit. A month’s supply of coyote flanks. Maybe even a dish of Toad. His mouth waters in anticipation. And that doesn’t even consider the reward money. “There! In that warehouse. Ha, got ‘em now.” The two pursuers scatter a pile of detritus, and trip over the legs of a person who may or may not still be alive. It’s hard to tell in the dank alley. And there’s not much of a difference, anymore, anyways. They reach the door and barge their way through. The door bangs open, and slams behind them on the rebound. The two pant, hands on knees, just inside the dark mouldering building. They can hear skittering footsteps in the darkness, clambering over junk and slamming wood against wood. “There’s… there’s no way out… of here.” Stink-Eye gasps. “Used to be… one of his daddy’s warehouses.” Recovering some of his breath, he stands up straight. “Was always locked up tight as Old Maid Marmalade. There’s no back door. Wouldn’t be secure. Kid musta found a stash somewhere. I thought this place was looted clean by two months After. Just gotta go systematic. We’ll find him.” Hunting pays better than most jobs, and Stink-Eye owns a lighter. More importantly, that lighter has fluid. He sparks a light and finds enough paper and wood to roll up and serve as a filthy makeshift torch. They start their search. True to expectation, the place seems scattered with worthless trash. Looting was the only real occupation in those horrible weeks after the crops wilted, then melted. When the deer starved and the wolves and bears got desperate. With the few soldiers that remained loyal, even the King’s storehouses and treasury didn’t hold fast more than a month After. “Junk, junk, junk. I told you there’s nothing here.” “And I told you, there is. A kid running around this town in ermine robes doesn’t hang around a place like this, unless it’s holding something worthwhile. Keep looking, Swine-bait.” Sure enough, a few minutes later, away from the cross-breeze of the door, they find a set of tracks in the dust of the floor. Gutter flicks a knife out of its sheath. A new one, with a sharp blade. Another rarity nowadays. “How’s a kid survived this long and not learned to conceal his tracks? Must think he’s king of the world. World of hurt….” The pair follow the tracks, moving as quietly as they can, to a large box. The tracks end there. The box is made of a dark dense wood, carved and stained with an elegant simplicity. It could have been an outer casing for a large casket. How it avoided being splintered into firewood is anyone’s guess. It stands upright, leaning at an angle against an outside wall. With a silent count of 3…2…1… Stink-Eye throws the door open, and Gutter, knife in hand, lunges to grab the kid. But the box is empty. And deep. Too deep. Gutter takes a quick-step back, baffled. “What is this?” “A box.” “No, you…” he considers treating his partner to a taste of his knife, but quickly re-considers. “It ain’t. A regular box. Check it out.” Stink-Eye gives his Gutter a suspicious glare, but takes a tentative step towards the box. He puts his hand in, and he finds no bottom, where a bottom should be. He looks at Gutter. “A secret exit?” Gutter flicks a glance at the wall. The box isn’t built in; its bottom is solid. Gutter waves Stink-Eye onward with his blade. He takes one more step, and finds bottom. It’s a flimsy bottom that gives at his touch. He starts backwards, then tentatively prods again. It gives again, like a door on hinges. His mouth gapes in wonder, even as his eyes narrow in suspicion. “It… it goes… somewhere.” “Then we’re going. Git.” Stink-Eye almost argues – this is looking more and more like it’s not going to be worth a Prince’s ransom. But it’s also not worth trying the edge of the knife. Leading with his makeshift torch, he mutters and grumbles, but he pushes forward into the box, with Gutter at his heels. They slide one box-width in, then two box-widths, and then out the impossible door on the bottom. They step down at an uncanny angle, out of the box and back out into the warehouse. The same warehouse. But changed. First of all, everything is reversed, like in a mirror. The outer wall is now at their back, even though they walked in a straight line. The entrance is still on their left, even though, the way they’re facing, it should be on the right. But this reversal is not the most shocking thing; it barely registers on their attention. The pair stands stock-still, taking in the sights. The warehouse is full. Boxes are stacked on pallets, three and four high. The grid of goods is orderly; there is no sense of the place being ransacked. Stink-Eye’s torch clatters to the ground. Gutter realizes that he’s not able to see the overwhelming riches by the light of the torch, but by the nighttime running lights, heading off, in their steady grid, in every direction. Gutter gasps at the realization. Stink-Eye continues his muttering, but all hint of antagonism is gone. He is dumbstruck, unable to comprehend what he’s seeing. “The prince… the royals… they’ve been hiding all this. There are boots. Bowls. Cloth. Technology!” he says, looking at the lights. On that day the sun Burst, and Turned, it knocked out just about everything electrical. What wasn’t immediately disabled, quickly became useless without the tools and infrastructure to support and maintain it. Or the organization, as people fought for their holdings. And looted everything. Supposedly everything. This place, uniquely, seems to contradict that narrative. “Chocolate!” Gutter exclaims, tearing open a box a few steps away. To no one’s surprise, that was one of the first things to disappear from shelves, and society. By the time Stink-Eye can join him, Gutter has already consumed a quarter-pound of the stuff. Mouth full, he says, “This job’s price just went up. Way up. Don’t know how they kept this stuff hidden – how did they protect their electrical system? – but we’re not going to spill the beans about this place without something major in it for us.” Stink-Eye just nods, chewing on his candy and looking around the room. It’s like the last three years just never happened, in here. A pre-pubescent voice rings out over the cavernous room, in the direction of the exit “You won’t tell anyone about this place! You’re just hogs at the trough!” The pair of hunters look at each other, scowl, and drop their chocolate. They run towards the door. Their quarry had doubled back on them. Easy enough, in this mirror-room. They hear the door to the outside slam open and closed. They put on a burst of speed, and are out the door, themselves, seconds later. The Prince is standing in the clean, brightly-lit alley, not sure which direction to run. For a second time, the hunters stop dead still. Gutter silently looks to the sky. Gyro-carriages soar overhead. The searchlights of the Pleasure Emporium beam and rotate through the clouds, advertising the seedy entertainments at their source. The amplified music from Shambles Street can be heard echoing between the buildings, brightly lit in yellow and orange lights, with traces of lurid neons. “What is this?” Gutter asks, turning to his partner. “It’s like we went back in ti…” Stink-Eye lay at his feet. He didn’t stop dead to see the sights. He just stopped. And was dead. A large portion of his head was a smoking hollow crater. “Energy-rifle?” is all he can say, as he charges towards the Prince, looking desperately for the shooter. Bolts of energy fly through the alley. The Prince does not look inclined to leave the alley, and he is tackled with almost no problem. Gutter pins him with his body weight, then with an arm. If he can just put the kid between him and the shooter… There, he finds the sniper. The Prince is there, standing on the roof of the warehouse, pointing a rifle directly at him. Gutter’s survival instinct, and his threatening knife, manage to put his prey between him and the gun before it recovers enough charge to make another shot. He holds the Prince up as high as he can, providing as much cover as he can. He confirms his initial impression. The Prince is in his hands. The Prince is also up there on the rooftop, threatening him with a weapon that should not work, lit by lights that should not glow. “What is this? How do these things… What’s going on?” is all he can manage to say, as he presses his knife against the Prince in his possession. The rooftop Prince looks worried, and lowers his sights. The street-level Prince is less inclined to give up. “Let me go! You Ruin animals don’t belong here! This world is mine, you don’t deserve it! Let me go!” “`Ruin’? This world? What are you talking about? How did all this stuff survive the Burst? What did you…” He’s not able to finish his sentence. The Prince throws his head back, smashing into Gutter’s already-crooked nose with a sickening wet crunch. Gutter grunts in agony, and his knife falls to the ground, as does the Prince. The boy scrambles on all fours, yelling “Shoot! Shoot!” The rooftop Prince doesn’t hesitate to obey, but his aim is untrained. The eerily quiet gun misses multiple times. Gutter is almost blind, and intent on re-capturing the ground-level Prince. He almost succeeds, but a lucky shot finally catches him in the hip. He drops to the ground. The ermine-wrapped Prince on the ground waves the rooftop Prince to come down. As the rooftop Prince finds a nearby ladder, the Prince in the alley picks up Gutter’s knife, then leans in close to the bloody hunter, writhing on the ground with a cauterized hole in his side. He whispers, “Bounty is MINE. You filth can keep your trash world for yourselves. I’ve found a better place. One that I should have been ruling, anyways.” Gutter tries to respond, but the Prince kicks him in the wound, silencing him with pain. The gun-toting Prince trots over. “Are you OK? I can’t believe we just did that!” he says with a nervous excitement. “What… what now?” “Finish him off.” The gun-toting Prince grimaces. Even though he is the one wielding a weapon of war, and the other is wrapped in ermine, the gun-toting Prince is clearly the more delicate of the pair. He is cleaner, more eager, more sensitive. “Do it,” says the ermine prince. “Together,” he adds, “let’s do it together.” The one holding the gun raises it, tentatively, pointing it point-blank at Gutter. He looks increasingly worried, as if he’s just grasping the enormity of what he has already done to Stink-Eye. The ermine prince puts his hand on the trigger, over the other Prince’s hands. He squeezes the trigger while the other closes his eyes and turns his head. It’s done, and the gun is lowered. The Prince with the gun can’t look at his handiwork, and so looks to the other, seeking validation. Nodding, he says, “Together. We did it together. That’s the way. We can get so much done together! No one can stop us. This is going to be great, right?” “Right,” says the ermine Prince. Behind his back, he twirls the knife, getting a feel for the keen blade. “Together. Always.” She seemed too small for her age. When Sexton Blake first met Alruane, he was at a social gathering held in the Atlantis Quarter of Gaia City. Alruane possessed dark red, almost maroon hair; it was kept in loose curls that dangled from her head, yet they had no vibrancy of life. Her face was doll-like, appearing to be of around ten years old, her features still held the puffiness of that very young age. To top her image off, her doll-like features were further enhanced by a red-satin spring dress, tied at the back with a white bow.
The peculiar thing that peaked Blake’s interest, was that she did not partake in any relations with the other children present at the gathering. She remained strangely aloof, barely speaking to anyone, even members of her own house, House Fantomas. Sexton Blake, at the time was dressed as he always was, a proper suit and matching tie, both shades of gray. He never truly wore anything different, even from his days as Constable Inspector over a year ago. Blake was in his late forties, and gray tufted the temples of his receding hair. He was currently nursing a gin. He had been invited by one of his associates, Ms. Elaine Dodge. Dodge had worked with him since his early years as the Constable Inspector. She was accomplished in arguing law and versed in security, he hired her on afterward as a bodyguard. Dodge had connections in House Fantomas, as she was related to a branch of this widely connected family. She was in fantastic shape and stood a head shorter than Blake. Though this gathering was a semi-formal affair, she wore her usual made-up complexion. She waved at him when she found Blake standing alone. “Do you see her?” Dodge asked. “Ms. Dodge, I am a detective, of course I see her,” Blake smiled, noting Alruane. “What is it you say this is about?” Blake was intrigued by the request he had been faced with a few days ago. Dodge had come to him with the usual correspondence his office receives, among it was a letter addressed directly to him. “Detective Sexton Blake I have an urgent matter to discuss with you at your convenience. If at all possible I would most enjoy your company at a gala House Fantomas will be hosting in the coming days. I do hope you can see fit to make your person available. With all respects, A, House Fantomas” The letter became more intriguing when Blake observed the apparent age of who must have sent it. Dodge was the second person to inspect the letter and she surmised that ‘A’ must be Alruane, a young girl. Blake observed, “She still only looks to be a girl. It is amazing she is able to pen such an elegant letter.” Dodge glanced about and noticed an opening to speak with the young lady. She nodded to Blake and left to set up a meeting, while Blake continued to observe the social climate of the gathering. Before too long, Blake was seated with Dodge as Alruane stepped up to their table at the bistro on the floor below; behind her, a tremendous rock of a man grimaced down upon everyone. Alruane wore no emotion, as she had not during the whole of the gathering. Under the table, Dodge gripped Blake’s hand in reassurance then let go. “I apologize for my brother, Eegah, he is protective of me, as I am of him.” Alruane spoke. Her voice was haunting, with the tone of a little girl, yet a slight accent that caused the singing sound to feel as if it were drifting away with every syllable. Eegah stood about three heads taller than Blake, who himself reached over six foot five. His shoulders were broad, reaching almost thirty-six inches across, and the musculature of his body reflected across his frame as if it had been sculpted in place. His brow was heavy, leaving only little sparkling points to represent his dark eyes. Eegah’s jaw also protruded giving him a chin that was nearly as long as wide as his forehead. Given the event at hand, attempts were made to make his appearance more acceptable. Eegah did not speak, but just stood behind his sister. Blake’s eyes met Alruane and he fought back the uncomfortable feeling she was looking through his calm exterior, “Of course, do not consider it a bother. Why all the subtleties?” Alruane spoke intently, “My brother and I boarded the sky-train about a week ago. We of course went straight away to House coach, but on our route, we ran into something you may find interesting. As you certainly must know I am also called Red Hanna, by those who do not favor my House.” Blake indeed did know of Red Hanna and he himself was primary inspector to those heinous murders. The fact that this girl claimed the elusive Red Hanna moniker, was new information to him. Those killings happened over a decade ago, certainly before Alruane was born. “Alruane, how is it possible you are Red Hanna?” Blake asked outright, holding back from the conflicting times of the act and the claims he now heard. Alruane smiled, “Good Inspector, I am not who you think me to be, nor is my brother. About fifty years ago Eegah was born along with his twin sister.” Blake’s natural suspicion tickled the back of his brain. “Eegah’s sister died that same day, however where we were born is how I came about. My brother and I were born in servitude to the sorceress Circe. I am who I appear to be because of Circe’s enchantments, she created me from the body of her own daughter, by transferring my consciousness into her mortal shell. That is who you see before you. I will not ever age, I will not ever decay do to the wickedness Circe has committed through me.” Alruane paused to allow the detectives to understand what she was saying. Blake’s mind was running and he struggled not to let his face show his excitement at this intriguing notion. “Please go on.” Prompted Blake. At his side, Dodge was openly amazed at the story, though her mind was doubtful, enchantments did exist in the world, the results were always heard of and left little evidence. Alruane continued without emotion, “Circe possessed a hope chest, with a bronze frame, hinges, and clasp she held this over our head by telling us she kept my true body within. She told us I could be returned to my old self if I would but take on a few tasks for her. I had no bargaining leverage with the Witch, yet I also knew my poor brother was not as astute as the average person of our times. I asked for his hand in assistance, and she agreed. For years afterward she held my brother and I to do her bidding. As you know from your own involvement, those biddings culminated in acts most savage.” Blake’s mind raced back to his involvement with the Red Hanna murders. He did not need to look at Dodge; he could hear her mind racing nearly as fast as his. All the victims were male, a known ‘signature’ of Circe. In all of the Known World there was no statute of limitations for murder and he pondered the case for bringing Alruane and Eegah in to the constable; yet he also knew the power of House Fantomas, and the illegality that could be proved in gaining these claims under false pretense. He noted those arguments for a later time. The larger question to him was simple, “Given the story you have related, Alruane, what is it you are hoping to gain from Blake Investigations?” Alruane did not change her expression, but looked at Ms. Dodge then to Blake, “I wish for Blake Investigations to use its resources to discover the nature of this hope chest. It has been nearly three years since the Master of House Fantomas assisted us in escaping Circe, we would like to put the bother of this chest behind us with surety.” Blake thought, pushing the past wrongs aside and considering the case before him with clear vision. Under his employ he had, along with Ms. Dodge, a few other avenues to pull from in regards to investigative techniques. Two individuals were skilled with security measures, but one of them was especially well versed in the ways of subterfuge. “I believe I have an individual who can gather the information you require.” Alruane remarked, “I am glad we could find arrangements, Mr. Blake. In the matter of your payment, I will forward the sums to your office via messenger pigeon.” It was the usual of society to have clockwork courier-pigeons transfer any articles of wealth, most being transferal of funds. Each was equipped with a self-destruct device should they be interrupted while enroute, thus theft of funds, when transferred in that manner was low. No one wants to harbor a sub-atomic explosion that immediately follows a pigeon’s unscheduled off-route travel. “We haven’t discussed payment, Madame?” Blake remarked. “Then consider it a down payment on services rendered, Mr. Blake. I trust you will not short myself or House Fantomas. Your integrity is far too grand a measure.” Alruane was finished with the meeting and she started to depart, Eegah stepping along behind her in an almost comical fashion. Once Alruane and Eegah were out of sight Blake turned to Dodge and remarked, “Please have Charlie bring about the Phantom and contact Mr. Locke to meet me back at the firm.” Dodge nodded affirmation. A few hours later Quentin Locke sat in the Grey Phantom, Blake’s custom sky-car, joining Dodge, and Blake, as Blake’s driver raced above the streets of Gaia. Blake always thought it humorous that he drove a steel gray car in a city of brasses, coppers, and emeralds. Blake had written a dossier for Locke on the issues at hand and the possible follies that Locke would surely encounter. Quentin Locke was a man of common stature, and no outwardly remarkable physical traits, he was simply an average human male. He possessed light brown hair, deep brown eyes, and stood a head shorter than Blake. At least, he appeared to on the outside. What was unknown was if the hair was not colored or a wig, the eyes were not masked; his height, even though it could not drastically change, Locke had a way of changing his gait and his stature to match the disguise he wanted. In terms, what Locke’s appearance did not portend was his expertise at infiltration and escape. The man had been raised as a stage magician and learned much of illusions as he grew. He had also turned to acting in order to perfect his ability at showmanship and place a persona to his disguises. “So, boss, what’s the news?” Locke smiled, whiskey-rye in hand. Dodge began by handing Locke the portfolio, “Sexton and I just came from speaking to Red Hanna. As you can see in the memorandum of the meeting she eludes to a chest that is being held by the Witch Warden of the East, the sorceress Circe Aradia. Her request for this case is that the secrets of the chest be discovered.” Locke broke in with, “So you want me to infiltrate the Wicked Witches lair and find out?” Blake added, “As crude as that sounds, yes.” Locke asked, “Anything I should worry about, aside from the possibility of disappearing? I hear she is become quite infamous for her ‘zoo’ of men.” Dodge chuckled, “That is probably your largest concern. The other matters are the storms that surround her island. These are not constant storms and they appear at random, leading to the belief that she controls them herself. Though she claims she does not.” “Payment has already been sent?” Locke asked. “Yes, your share is awaiting your approval at the depository.” Blake answered. Locke slammed back the rest of his drink and set the copper goblet in its holder, “Fair enough, Mr. Blake consider Quentin Locke on the job. Charlie can let me out here. My plan, after collecting a few things, is to make haste to the North Main Terminal station and catch fair out to Grecia. From there I will find my way into Circe’s island and get report back to you. You, Sir, should hear from me in a week’s time.” Dodge smiled and Blake said, “I’m sure you won’t have much issue getting there, but be careful. A Witch Warden is nothing to take lightly. I’m forwarding a bonus of 200 more ‘clams’ to your account, for hazards.” The Grey Phantom cruised to a stop at a sky-port attached to the Central Hyrdo-Medical Analysis Tower, and Locke stepped out. *** Weeks later, Quentin Locke, crouched at outer-most of a row of tremendous stone columns, immaculately carved from a single chunk of marble. His steps were akin to a feather on the polished floor as he took the first tentative steps inside the Witches lair. Locke was dressed in all black, to mask his appearance during the moonlit night. Over his head was a hood, the eye-slit covered with a cloth screen, also black. The infiltrator carried no weaponry, it would hinder him, but he did carry a small length of silken cord, about twice as long as his body. All about him he heard the subtle grunts and casual meanderings of the animals of Circe’s macabre zoo. The weather had become worse since his arrival a week ago, creating hazardous seas around Circe’s island; now as Locke entered the sanctum of the Witch, the winds died away. Locke smirked, he loved magic. The hour was just following midnight. Silent as a cat, Locke ventured further through the second row of carved marble columns. The snore that had suddenly burst over the area, caused him to freeze in place. Silently his eyes searched for the source. He found it just beyond the third and last row of carved columns. A huge hog has slumbering deep and lay propped against one of the entrance pillars. Circe’s quarters sit beyond the massive swine. Locke remained frozen until he was certain the hog was not to wake. He continued onward once certain. Reaching the hog, he couldn’t help but stare at the creature. Something seemed eerily familiar about the beast. Locke fought off the stories of Circe and her hatred of men, and the enchantments she was accused, and reminded himself of the goal. Steeled, Locke ventured onward. He was not sure of the location of the chest, he could only guess as to its rumored importance and relates that to its whereabouts. He reached the walls of the structure and stopped to listen, silence. Stepping into the rooms he found them to be of extraordinary design. The treasures he found would have a hard time finding rivalry outside this sanctum. He pondered why he had never become a thief, he would make a fortune in this theft alone. Locke ventured onward and inward, seeking a chest of copper frames and hinges. Passing vases, urns, boxes, and containers of various shapes and sizes he found himself outside Circe’s room. He peeked around the corner and found what he could only guess was the chest. There at the foot of a large bed sat a fat chest made of marble slats, with copper frame, hinges, lock, and latch. To complicate the matter, laying in the bed was a slumbering Circe Aradia, Witch Warden of the East. Locke had expected a lock, though he really hoped it would be forgotten. This was the ‘inner sanctum’ of a Witch Warden, what would be the worry. He slipped into the room and discovered something else that appeared strange. The floor was covered with the bodies of slumbering hogs, all of them much smaller than the one back at the entry. Locke pursed his lips in concentration and continued on, stepping around the small swine. Upon reaching the chest he carefully rolled his mask aside and took his picks from a pocket in his outfit. Gripping those picks he may need handy between his teeth, he focused on the lock. The latch was not locked, thus he deduced a magical ward. Locke had dealt with his share of things magical and mystical before, and he knew more than most about the nature of magical wards placed upon locks and openings. He had this in the fore of his mind. He encountered that very problem here. The nature of the ward he was not sure. He had experience, but his talents lay with stage magic, actual magic was not his profession. He weighed the options of the case, the chest, and the penalties of both. Locke considered himself a connoisseur of the female image. He stole a look at the slumbering witch. She was gorgeous. So pristine was her skin, so inviting were her arms that to deny a single glance would be a crime in and of itself. Locke regarded the chest again. He tied the end of the silken cable to the latch of the chest and moved to its length up next to Circe. He pulled carefully, lifting the lid and as he expected a blast of magical power exploded from the chest. Circe leapt atop her large bed, her body barely covered in her nightgown, but Locke was moving far too fast to recognize. Porcine squeals filled the air. She was seething and filled with rage; who dared enter her rooms? The Witch glanced around to focus on Locke who smiled and winked at the Witch from his new position at the now opened chest. Stealing a glance inside caused momentary hesitation, Locke flung a marble-sized ball at the floor at his feet and the area instantly filled with smoke. Circe threw her hands forward sending a magical stream of blue-violet electricity into the smoke, screaming her rage at the intruder. The blast hit nothing but the empty air within the smoky cloud, because Locke was already leaping over the groggy, giant hog in the entrance hall. Locke reached the main entry, with the huge hog on his tail. The gales outside hit him like a fist and knocked him back into the entry. He was amazed at how strong they had grown over the past hour. The loud thump-thumping of the hog’s hooves told him the pig was close. Searching his black garb he produced the two remaining smoke pellets he carried. Eyeing the hog as it came into view, the infiltrator thrust the pebbles at the slobbering hog’s feet and the place erupted in smoke. The winds of the open area quickly dissipated the cover, but Locke was gone from sight. The hog tried in vain to catch the thieves scent as Circe strode calmly up behind the beast. Patting the hog’s massive head, she soothingly said, “Perhaps I need a new guardian.” In the distance she could see a ship losing its battle with the angry seas. Without another word she sent a blast of electricity through the hog. *** Blake regarded the messenger pigeon, and its message, with a gin in hand. He read it again, paying more care. Blake, Can’t spend long on this. Camping out on the Witch’s island. There was no body. Only a collection of random things. Copper cuff-links, blue cloth, gray cloth, a pair of brogues, field-glasses, stuff like that. Be back in Gaia soon. We can talk then. Locke The Memory Box
Limp auburn curls stuck damply to the woman’s face. Her caramel skin glistened as she lay supine with her legs up. She held the small wrapped bundle close against her bare skin. The Sheikh would be ecstatic. An heir at last. And delivered by his favorite concubine. The concubine’s nurse moved quietly about the chamber, rinsing bowls and wiping blood off the floor. For a few moments Maya watched the nurse go about her duties. She looked joyfully at her newborn son. Her heartbeat softened synchronizing with the heartbeat of the baby. Stroking her son’s head as he laid against her, Maya closed her eyes. Exhausted she fell into a deep sleep. " At last". Farid pushed back the nurse’s veil, revealing his cold calculating face. He glanced down at the beautiful woman. Maya. His heart throbbed and for a moment his eyes grew tender. He reached to feel the smoothness of her face. "No!" Abruptly he retracted his arm. He must stay in control. He needed the bounty. The child would not be harmed. The Ayatollah had assured Farid of that when he had accepted the job. The job was simple, straightforward. Kidnap the infant from the palace, deliver it to the Ayatollah's man on the beach, collect the money. Surely there were politics at work here. What did the Ayatollah want with the Sheikh's son? Luckily for Farid, he never asked that question. And in truth, he didn't care to know the answer. He had his own reasons for accepting the job. Yes he needed the money, but there was more. Six years he had waited. Six years since the Sheikh stole away his bride. There had been no recourse. What claim had a simple clam digger over the Sheikh even for his own bride? None until now. Trembling, Farid reached down and lifted the bundle from Maya’s chest and ran from the palace into the night. Outside a steady wind was wailing. Black pearl waves rumbled along the shoreline. Rhythmically they rose up, folded down and spread themselves out over the sand. A dense stifling fog hung in the air, broken only by the glow of the lighthouse miles offshore. A slap shod dinghy teetered at the edge of the foaming ocean, oars planted in the sand on either side of it. “Where was the Ayatollah’s man?" wondered Farid. Farid clutched the small bundle close to his chest as he ran barefoot across the wet sand toward the boat. The wind had crescendoed to a howl. Towering palms began to bend and twist. Twigs snapped and tumbled to the ground, cartwheeling across the shoreline. Inside the bundle the babe squirmed. Crash!! Farid dropped to his knees as an uprooted tree collapsed in front of him. “I must reach the boat”, he hissed. The ocean churned. Rain fell in torrents from the sky. Blinded by the storm, Farid stumbled face first into the sand. Cold black water thundered over him filling his mouth and his nostrils and drawing him out to sea. He clutched the baby tightly determined not to lose it. Farid kicked his legs wildly but his thrashing was nothing to the power of the angry ocean. Starved for air, his body finally went limp. It drifted about aimlessly in the rolling waves. Abruptly, the ocean seemed to lose interest in this piece of flotsam. Heaving up, it cast the man back into the sand with a bored thud and receded. The morning after the hurricane Farid opened his eyes staring up at the orange clouds. Fizzling saltwater drizzled into his ears. Suddenly remembering the bounty, he looked down and found he was still clutching the warm bundle. He parted the blanket and looked inside. Sweet sapphire eyes smiled back at him. The little being gurgled. With a start Farid rewrapped the baby swallowing the lump in his throat. Realizing it must be late by now, he stood up and gasped. As he looked around, the enormity of the previous night’s destruction began to sink in. The city lay in ruins. Building debris littered the beach and fifty foot palms lay horizontally separated from their roots. This was not supposed to happen. Head spinning, Farid sat back down wondering what he was supposed to do now. No one would be coming for the bounty. Tap tap. Farid shifted as he sat. “Must be a shorebird behind me”, he thought. He didn’t look back. Tap tap. Farid jerked his head around. Nothing. Tap tap. This time Farid scrambled to his feet and growled. Giggle.“I must be imagining things.” Farid, chastised himself. He sat back down. Tap tap, giggle, giggle. Rubbing his forehead, Farid clutched onto his bundle. “Hey mister, whatcha doin? Wanna look for clams with me? Mama and I used to come out here every morning to dig some up.” A little boy, perhaps six years old, head covered in brown curls emerged from behind Farid. He wore no shirt and his trousers were stained and threadbare. “Where is your Mama then?” Farid asked looking annoyed. The boy shrugged his shoulders.” Dunno, where’s yours?” “I don’t have time for this.” Farid rubbed his head again. “Over there,” he lied pointing as far down the beach as he could. “Maybe you could find her for me?” “Sure thing sir.” The boy pulled out a small box from his pocket. He held it out to Farid. “Here, could you hold onto this for me while I look?" “I really don’t think you should be leaving your toys with me. . . Aargh!” Farid cursed under his breath in frustration, but he waited for the boy. Tap tap. "Back again so soon? "Farid's heart sank. “Hey mister, there’s no one there." The boy looked at the bundle in Farid’s arms. “Whatcha got there?” The boy pointed at Farid's bundle. “Nothing.” “Okay, wanna play hide and seek?” “No.” “Come on mister just once?” “What is happening to me?” Farid gritted his teeth. He did not play games with children. He worked for the Ayatollah. He was a hardened criminal, a bounty hunter. “Ok, just once. You hide.” “Here I gol "The boy smiled and ran off. “Now’s your chance,” the bounty hunter’s voice commanded from within Farid. Glancing in the direction the boy had run he whirled on his foot and headed in the opposite direction ,baby in his arms. “Hey mister, I’m over here.” Little footsteps pitter pattered across the sand toward him. The boy was waving his arms as he ran. Farid spun around. "Oh there you are. Right. Guess I was going the wrong way.” With effort he curled his lips into a thin smile fuming at yet another failed escape. The sun was beginning to set over the ocean. “I need to move on. Perhaps if I could just find the child’s mother then I could be on my way,” schemed Farid. Looking down at the child Farid asked, "Little boy, what’s your name?" “Farid.” Farid gulped, "Well Farid, we should really find your mama now. Where should we look?" “In the box.” “What?” “In that box I gave you. She’s in there. Open it.” Farid opened the box. A curl of auburn hair lay on top of a folded piece of paper.Hands sweating, Farid unfolded the note. To my dear Farid. Love, Maya “Where did you get this box boy?” Farid’s voice was hoarse. “Mama gave it to me to remember her by if I couldn’t find her. She said she would be in the box.” Farid’s hands shook. He closed his eyes in agony as the walls of his heart came crumbling down. Maya. Tears stung behind his eyelids. He caressed the box in his hands. Looking down at little Farid he whispered, “Yes, I see what you mean, your mama is in the box.” “She seems to like you”, volunteered the boy. “Really, how can you tell?” Farid quavered. “Dunno.” Farid looked out to the devastated city resolutely. “Well, do you think she’d mind if you hung out with me for a while?” “I think she’d be ok with that.” The little boy's head bobbed. “Very good, I could use a bit of help with your brother here.” Farid unwrapped the blanket revealing the baby. Gently taking his son’s hand, Farid walked across the wet sand, hanging on tightly to his bounty. Misadventure By Zany {500 words} At three years old he'd been the terror of his teddies, skewering many a viscous bear with the pointy end of a crooked stick. Simeon was an adventurer, always had been, its was his destiny. He just hadn't done any adventuring. Yet. "That was about to change." He resolved, stuffing his woolen jumper into the top of his satchel. He'd eaten most of the cheese roll mother had packed for lunch, his feet were sore and back aching when he found the cave. Simeon made camp. He chose his spot carefully, downhill from the dungeon. Hidden behind a large rock. Piercing squeals, pounding feet and tumbling rocks were his warning before he found himself face to face with some very angry looking green creatures. Deep set eyes, large melon shaped heads and lots of pointy teeth. Four of them in all, hurtling round his rock like maniacs, pulling up short of where he'd been crouched over a pile of sticks. Evil little monsters. Goblins, Simeon knew from his books. Grabbing his sword, still in it's sheath he stood to confront them. "Submit or die!" He demanded. A phrase from his favourite comic hero. The goblins screamed maniacally, and ran. Down the hill towards the woods. There were more, many more, all running frantically towards the trees. "My reputation precedes me." He gloated. Two much larger beasts ran past, wild brown spotted fur, long legs, claws, teeth. One jumped down from his rock. It towered over him, dark beady eyes, drool dripping from incisors, rancid breath, panted into his face causing him to wrinkle his nose in a kind of snarl. A menacing snarl, since the beast, like the goblins, turned and fled. A menagerie followed. Blue skinned trolls, a bugbear carrying a huge morningstar, an Otyugh, he even spotted a couple of young wyvern's flapping toward the horizon. The last to make the mad dash down the hill toward the tree-line were a group of evil cultists, red eyes glowing beneath blood-red hoods, they lifted their robes like his mother'd done when she'd embarrassed herself - and him - at his school sports day. It fell silent. A small pebble rolled down the hill. Simeon peeked out from behind his rock. At the large cave mouth, without a care in the world, sat a small, white, rabbit. "An albino." He recognised from it's bright red eyes. His friend Steve'd had an albino hamster when they'd been kids, so he knew. "Yield! Your bounty is mine!" Stepping from behind his rock sword held high. He'd always wanted to say those words, this moment was the proudest of his life. ~~~ It was more of a memorial than a funeral really. No body, just an index finger and a rusty old sword Simeon found in a curious wooden box in the attic. Hardly anyone came. Not many cared since folk had started disappearing so regularly. Simeons mother hoisted her skirts and trotted back to work. Things'd been busy lately, so many adventuring parties passing through. Last edited by Aethera; Aug 30th, 2017 at 07:05 PM. |
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July 2017 Competition Entries Topic: Booked Challenge: some letters, a few words, and an account Winner: Library Connection by Captain Devonin
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So long, and thanks for all the amazing games.
pronouns: she/her ✦ On indefinite hiatus. My Site Shtuffs ✦ Ask Me Anything |
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September 2017 Competition Entries Topic: Obsession Challenge: unexpected insight, a party, and youth Winner: Ladyfingers by samibb8 Whistful Thinking by Gunthert (1171 words)
ONE: High in the tower a thick hairy forearm swept across the desk and washed the piles of account books and contracts over the edge. Their collision with the floor punctuated Whist Sinpatre’s remarks, “Get these documents out of my face!” His voice reverberated off the walls and was dampened only by the five under-ministers standing solemnly around the trembling Grand Vizier. The steward voiced his confusion as he scrambled to collect the papers, “But your excellency, these are the items you just asked for.” “Shut up! Get out of here. Send me someone new.” The gray bearded man mumbled seethingly at the servant, “Incompetent.” The steward could feel the rumble of Snipatre’s voice in his bones and knew enough to make his exit hastily. He gathered the last of the papers and found his way to the egress crouched into an awkward submissive ambling bow. No sooner did he exit than a half-empty wine glass hit the door. It shattered. The wine spattered like blood and then slowly dripped downward. Snipatre bellowed, “I didn’t rise to the office of Grand Vizier by relying on… by relying on… on!” He slumped onto the desk exasperated. In his relative youth he flew up the ranks of party politics through hard work and hardball. By middle age he had beaten the pool of candidates in every regional position he ran for by digging up dirt and dirty pool. Now, that he was in his golden years and living at the top of the pyramid he had single mindedly climbed, he realized that his lifetime of shaking hands and then ordering them to be cut off was a life wasted. Most of his opponents were left to rot in menial clerkships, although a few slithered their way high enough to be nipping at the Grand Vizier’s ankles. Now they were standing around him, crowding his desk. TWO: It was late in life to marry and obviously a political maneuver. The Whist wed a much younger woman from the far western caliphate. Despite the business nature of their relationship, he was able to kindle the spark of love. Within a year, the couple produced a son. He was named Nabob, although his parents called him “Scimi” for the scimitar shaped birth mark inside his left armpit. Scimi rejected the life of the court and was somewhat of a rascal. Pursuing mischief making as a craft was above a life of political back stabbing as the Grand Vizier now came to see things. However, it was far from his highest hopes for Scimi. He thought poet or philosopher suited him more. Whist Snipatre’s thoughts didn’t matter much in those matters. For, although his slightest whim made underlings shudder far beyond his line of sight, his son never seemed to hear or care what his father said. Perhaps, Whist only knew how to deal with the world by wrapping himself in one full tilt charge at a time, or perhaps it was that he had never known love before. But since Scimi’s birth, his wellbeing was all that consumed the high advisor. To his misfortune, it came at the expense of political shrewdness when it was most valuable. It did not take long for the Grand Vizier’s son to find himself on the opposite side of the law as his father. While Ponder found it easy to overlook this as hearsay, there were throngs of people that felt the sole of Snipatre’s boot in their face during his climb to the top that were now quick to capitalize on the youth’s dalliances in the dark part of town. Word spread quickly when Scimi had committed a felony. The House of Ministers knew it was only a matter of time and were more than ready to act on on their vengeance in the name of the people of the city. They hired an assassin to take him in dead or alive. Together, the five ministers collected 500 gold pieces each; a sum that each of them would gladly individually pay to see the Grand Vizier squirm and twice as much to see him cry to the gods. Today, it seemed, they would have their thirst slaked. The assassin was fast and brutal. He had beaten the boy with a club so viciously that his face was not recognizable. THREE: The sergeant-at-arms was tasked with bringing the body back to the tower to have it positively identified by Scimi’s parents. He walked into the top room of the tower with a body hefted between his arms. It was covered in cloth, but the shape was unmistakable. The officer laid the boy’s body down on the desk that had just been cleared. “Your Excellency, please understand there is nothing to see above the neck that will help you. There is no need to look there.” One of the ministers feigned sadness, “Really, there is no need to put yourself through this. Take our word for it. It is for the best.” “Show me,” the Grand Vizier said with a hard face. “As you wish, Your Excellency.” The sergeant-at-arms slowly withdrew to cloth to reveal a horribly disfigured portion of the face that remained. The hair color could not be discerned because of the matted clots of blood that enveloped the little scalp left. Whist reviewed the corpse methodically. He looked at the bottom of his shoes. They were worn on the insides… just like Scimi. He looked at the hands. The left one was more calloused than the right… just like Scimi. He moved to the abdomen. There was a small round scar from falling onto a hot coal as a toddler. Then he lifted the left arm of the corpse and saw the small scimitar shaped birthmark. He put the arm down. The room was so quiet that the scant friction of Scimi’s skin being laid next to his torso could be heard by the new steward as he was pushed from the room by the gravity of the situation. There was no doubt. It was Scimi. Whilst’s first thought went to his wife, “His mother cannot see him like this.” But then his career in politics took hold and he smiled. He realized the next move in this game of chess. The Grand Vizier stared into the eyes of the minor ministers that surrounded him and did not break their gaze as he spoke through a beaming grin, “Sergeant-at-arms, I am ecstatic to inform you that this is NOT my son. I do not know who this unfortunate soul is. I am afraid the House Ministers here just paid to have an innocent man killed.” The officer drew his sword and called upon the bailiffs to enter the room. The ministers unanimously caught a flash of unexpected insight into what the Grand Vizier was capable of as shackles were slapped on their wrists. Whist Snipatre feigned sadness, “You really should not have put yourself through this. But take my word for it. It’s for the best.” The End Ladyfingers
Sukhanya tossed the red flannel sheets off and rolled over on her back. Waves of heat boiled up from within as sweat coated her body. She turned over on her side pulling the pillow out from under her and wrapped it over her head. Frustrated, Sukhanya rolled over in the other direction, this time facing Kish. Kish was sleeping like a baby, not a care in the world. Sukhanya snuggled up to him, listening to the rhythm of his heart hoping it would lull her into the same sleep. I have got to get to sleep. She gnashed her teeth and tightened her eyelids refusing to let them come open. A few minutes passed. Kish snored. Sukhanya squirmed. “This is not working,” she murmured. Grumbling, Sukhanya stumbled out of bed and walked over to the dressing table. Dipping her hands into cold water, she splashed it on her face. Feeling around she located her ring, shiny and silvery. She slipped it onto her gnarly finger wincing. She picked up her mirror and glanced at the reflection. Gone was her youth. Gone in that blasted mirror. The stranger staring back at her shared only her copper eyes. Her lustrous ebony hair had turned salty. Her once glowing cinnamon skin looked more like weathered papyrus now. She sighed and set the mirror down. Perhaps it would have been better not to look. She picked up her cloak and wrapped it around herself as she tiptoed down the rickety wooden stairs. Downstairs the guests for today’s party were sprawled out on bedrolls atop a wooden plank floor with woolen blankets heaped over them. The fire was still burning in the hearth. "Should be fine till dawn," thought Sukhanya. She looked at the clock standing in the sitting room. Two AM. She moaned. It had been the same for the last two weeks. Every night she tucked herself under the covers and somehow sleep evaded her. Tonight had been no different. But today, today was a big day. Sidd had completed his training for the Raj’s Elven Guard. Today was his graduation day, and a proud day for the entire family. Few withstood the grueling training. To have withstood this and have been selected to serve the Raj was among the greatest of honors. Sidd was everything his mother was not. Tall, proud, outspoken and athletic, very much like Kish. Sukhanya on the other hand was short, soft spoken and a potionmaker by trade with a penchant for baking. Despite these differences, Sukhanya and Sidd had always been able to find common ground. Usually over a piece of one of Sukhanya’s fine cakes. Every birthday from the age of one had been marked by one of her fine creations. Which was why today’s cake had to be perfect. The cake. Sukhanya’s mind jolted onto high alert. Did she have enough eggs? Was there enough butter from last week’s churning? Should it be a coconut cake or a chocolate one? Which one was Sidd’s current favorite? What about the fillings? Would there be enough time for it to cool after baking before the frosting needed be spread? And what color for the frosting? Sukhanya’s heart pounded and she began to sweat anew. Her hands were suddenly cold and she felt nauseous. She closed her eyes, willing away the list of questions. For two weeks she had been obsessing over this. Each question mulled over a hundred times, but still being asked over and over again. Outside the cry of a mourning dove announced the coming of dawn. Graduation Day. Sukhanya jumped up. Time to get started. Walking into the kitchen, she grabbed some eggs out of a basket and cracked them into a bowl. Then taking out a fork she whipped them up to a foamy consistency and slowly added sugar butter and flour. Finally she heated the fine chocolate she had purchased at the market and poured it into the mix. She tested the taste and texture of the mix. She smiled, just right. Next she poured the cake into pans, filling them exactly two-thirds of the way full and set them in the oven to bake. The smell of baking chocolate filled the air. At last the cakes were out of the oven and cooled. Sukhanya set about filling the layers and decorating the cake with a fluffy vanilla frosting. Carefully she created borders and intricate designs over the cake, finally topping it with the symbol of the Raj’s Elven Guard, two crossed golden arrows superimposed on the Rajput palace. By now sunlight was streaming into the kitchen. In the next room the guests were stirring. There was a sudden clomping of boots coming down the stairs. Sidd appeared at the door. At twenty-five years old, he was dashing. He had the chiseled face of his father, high cheekbones, piercing lavender eyes and lightly tanned smooth supple skin. Wavy brown hair framed his face hanging to his shoulders. He was dressed in the formal garb of the Elven Guard, its crest embroidered into his leather vest. Ignoring the sleeping guests, he said loudly, “I’m late. I must be on my way. Oh and mother I’m going to Amrit’s after the ceremony. Don’t wait up.” Before Sukhanya could open her mouth, he was running out the door. She looked up the stairs. What would Kish have said? He was so much quicker thinking than she. He would have demanded that Sidd be present at his own graduation party out of respect for the family and friends that had come to pay their respects. It was too late now. Dusting off her hands, Sukhanya ran outside, watching Sidd disappear down the road. She waved silently to his back. Umm, hmm alright . . .? Tears streamed down her face. Next to her the first brilliant orange leaf of autumn dropped into the grass. Sukhanya looked down at it. She gazed thoughtfully up at the tree. It stood tall and strong as more leaves dropped down one by one. And suddenly it came to her, an unexpected insight. She knew what she needed to do. Resolutely, Sukanya walked back into the kitchen. She looked at her cake. It was beautiful. Truly it was the perfect cake. Clenching one hand, she leaned over and picked up a knife with the other. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Then raising the knife she plunged it into the heart of the cake cutting deeply. Crumbs rolled down onto the plate. Cream filling oozed from between the layers. And at last the cake collapsed inward like a volcanic crater. Sukhanya opened her eyes. The once perfect cake lay dismembered and lifeless on the table before her. She had done it. Sukhanya felt her vision clear. Slowly she loosened her grip on the knife, prying her fingers from it one by one. As she let go, the knife clattered onto the table. Licking the last bit of frosting from her fingers, Sukhanaya turned away and climbed back up the stairs. She rolled onto her bed and within moments she fell fast asleep.
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"We don't stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing." ~George Bernard Shaw
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