Sisyphus was straining at the boulder. His boulder. The path was a familiar one, worn smooth by his sandled tread. At first it was difficult, the way choked by sharp-edged gravel and the path winding. Tedious, back-breaking work, yet his task had been assigned.
So up the boulder rolled, since time immemorial, pushed and shoved at the behest of his shoulder, his hands, his back. Fighting the thing every inch, straining with it at every moment, each muscle afire as he searched within himself for a reservoir of strength he knew he did not have. And just when he reached the summit, without fail, it would roll back down. And, also without fail, every time he made the trek, Sisyphus fostered a little hope that it wouldn't. It hurt just as bad each time he watched the great boulder go skipping and hurtling down the hill and roll to an angle of repose, asking him, taunting him, goading him, to come down and try it again. Why? Why this punishment? Sometimes if he managed to hold his breath and listen for a moment, he could hear Tantalus screaming. Sisyphus did not know why, but he was sure he would trade places with him.
Because Sisyphus was tired of that silent agony, tired of the sweat in his eyes and tired of the fire in his lungs. The monotony, the sound of his own labored breath and the relentless grind of rock on rock - he wanted none of it. The summit was in sight again, and like always, that blossom of hope opened its petals in a place that had seen no light for thousands of years. Push, the damned man thought. Just a few more feet and... there. The top. The boulder ground to a halt, like it always did. In a few seconds it would teeter and tumble down again. Sisyphus blew his long hair out of his eyes and wiped his forehead, waiting. Seconds stretched out, and suddenly the light let in, and the blossom stretched its petals. The boulder was still. It had no intention of falling down.
Sisyphus looked about, confused. Had he finally won his rest? There was no sign. He plucked that blossom, and drew deep its sweet scent. He stretched his back, marvelling at the absolute stillness of the great boulder, perched delicately as Athena on her pedestal. And the moment stretched on. There was no noise, just a sea of silence; even Tantalus could not be bothered to scream at this moment. Sisyphus tried sitting down, but the silence was roaring in his ears. A few more minutes longer, and Sisyphus stood up again. "Am I free, Hades?" The only reply was his own echo.
Sisyphus circled his old nemesis, inspecting its impossibly smooth sides, noting its feel, almost slick with the years of oils of his fingers. Another long exhalation. Sisyphus laid a hand on the boulder, and gave it a light shove. There was something in his heart akin to joy as he watched it clatter downhill.
The shadows seem to engulf the sliver of light that slips into the crack between the wall and the floor of my hidden prison, yet this time the shadows have substance- the shade above me makes certain that I realize this. I have just enough wit left to be frightened thanks to the band around my forehead- and barely enough to recognize my tormentor. Ah, Saryn, I cared for you once. Now I would give everything that I have just to see you dead. His laugh chills me, his touch drains the last of my hope for a rescue...as if anyone cared enough to discover where I have been led. The Stygian cold seeps through the thin white robe I am covered in, and the voice of my captor echoes from the room next door, where he seems to be having an auction. The merchandise, of course, is me. Then the light comes in the form of darkness. Saryn cowers from the light brought by my protector, the last one I expected to enter Hell itself to find me. My cat, Hairball, rests comfortably on his shoulder, looking smug at the fact that he managed to convince him to come. I almost disbelieve that it's really him- that's how I got caught in the first place. Saryn falls to the killing magic of my protector, life stripped from him with the wave of a hand. My protector says, "I made them an offer to die for." Nine bodies, faces contorted by terror, lie motionless on the floor of the rakshasa's chamber. The rakshasa, would-be lord of Stygia, snarls his rage at the necromancer before me and vows to cause his death. I'll bring down the castle first. With my bare hands. He rips the headband from my forehead, spitting the words of a spell as if they offended him, and I felt the knowledge flow back into me. I won't be fooled this time. The rakshasa moves swiftly, faster than I have ever seen a cat move, and I cry out-
"Lucien, look out!"
He looks towards the treacherous creature, hastily moves one hand in a series of arcane gestures, and a gate opens, releasing a solar straight from Celestia. The rakshasa swings his blade of darkness at the archangel, who takes the hit stoically...and then falls away, its essence seemingly stolen by the blade itself. The evil creature turned to Lucien as if to strike. Not on MY watch, you bastard. I released the power within me, one of the most potent augmentations I know, and a ray of cold that seems to be twice its normal strength emanates from my hand and freezes it solid. Take that, you damned cat. You wanted to rule over a frozen section of Hell, and I've given it to you.
And yes, no incantatrix for you. Or anyone. That class makes puppies cry. Mostly because they are the former Big Bads who have been Baleful Polymorphed into said puppies. By you. Because you're an incantatrix.
Quote from Yukora »
This is Deraxas we're talking about.
Remember, the girl that just killed an aspect of herself before literally consuming her?
Yeah, I don't see her handling a pissing match in any way other than a duel.
Quote from RedDwarfian »
Yes mistress...
Quote from About epic-level D&D »
There are only so many epic, psuedonatural barbarian/blackguard half-dragon akutenshai vampire balor paragons they can throw at you, right?
Quote from Concerning breeding habits of humans in fantasy games »
I suppose it's true. Though the logistics implied in a human/Great Wyrm Prismatic Dragon pairing makes me shudder.
...Something tells me that even should all arcane casters in the world unite, that the Grease spell would NOT be sufficient.
This is what I get for procrastinating. Oh well, round 3 is just as good.
Retroactive Pizza Delivery Service
The doorbell rang.
I groaned. Couldn’t I have a couple minutes to myself, at least?
It rang again.
I muted the TV, got up grudgingly, and shuffled over to the door. It was a pizza delivery guy.
“Hey!” he said, much too friendly. “One extra-large pepperoni right here, sir. That’ll be $12.99.” He balanced a large pizza box with one hand and held the other out expectantly.
I blinked, trying to clear the drowsiness out of my eyes. I hadn’t ordered a pizza. Was this some smartass friend of mine? If so, I didn’t recognize him.
“Umm… sorry. I didn’t order anything. Maybe you’re thinking of somebody next door?”
It was about then that I noticed the strange logo on the guy’s uniform. It wasn’t Pizza Hut and it wasn’t Dominoes. It was a little rocket ship zooming around the Earth. In miniscule letters was “The Pizza of the Future.”
The pizza guy looked startled. “You didn’t… crap.” He dropped the pizza and shook his fist at the sky. “Gerald! Damn you!”
I considered closing the door and calling the nuthouse, but maybe he was just lost. “Did you get the wrong place?” I asked.
His laughed weakly. “Heh. No, right place. Not the right time. I’m- let’s see- an hour or so off.”
Maybe he was crazy. “I really don’t think you’re getting it. I never ordered anything from your company.”
He grinned again. “Not yet, you didn’t. But you’re gonna. Maybe I should explain.”
“It started when Gerald- he’s my brother- came up with the time machine. Drags me downstairs and goes “It’s brilliant! It’ll revolutionize the world! And then he launches into this harebrained idea for a pizza company, and, like a fool, I listen.”
“The idea is that we get your order by phone, make the pizza, then send it back in time to the exact second you ordered. Wazam! Instant service! Now if stuff like this will stop happening, we’d be rich. But we’re not.” He sighed. “Goodbye, then.”
And without warning he disappeared.
Oookay. Some lost nutcase. I retreated to the TV and turned it back on. Of course he’s crazy. There’s no such thing as time travel, right?
Half an hour later my stomach starts to rumble.
I tried to ignore it and put my interest in the lame reality show that was on. But it rumbled and rumbled and rumbled so I got up and shuffled to the kitchen. I opened the fridge.
Nothing. Milk, orange juice, moldy cheese, and week-old Chinese food. Crap.
The phone book was open to the Ps. And sure enough, right there in big bold letters was PIZZA OF THE FUTURE 892-3830.
I shivered a little. Coincidence. I’ll just get some other place's.
My stomach rumbled again.
They had said instant delivery.
I called the number nervously. It rang twice. A breathless voice greeted me. “Frankie Almdew. 92 Cobblestone Road. Large pepperoni. Thank you! Goodbye.”
She was not, in any sense of the word, domestic. She tried to be, because she knew that a woman with three kids was supposed to be, but try as she might she could not get the switch to flip. She didn't even like baking. She was terrible at it, and it showed. But baking pies on Thursday was what she thought a mother did, and what she lacked in domesticity she made up for in effort.
So on Thursdays our mother made pie.
We used to feed it to the dog when she wasn't looking. Eventually the dog got smart. We'd smash it on the plate and move it around, but Mom figured that quick and out came the small plates. She'd smile when she ate her bit, even though she had to know what it tasted like. She'd ask about our day, or our friends, all the while eating that terrible pie. We'd sit there dreading each bite, dragging out the conversation and washing away the taste with milk. One rhubarb monstrosity stretched our normal hour into three. But an hour a week was the price of harmony in the home, and if that was the price we'd pay it.
When I was in fifth grade I accidentally brought a flier for a bake sale home. My mother was interested. My sisters were furious, as we'd had an unspoken rule to never let her see such things. But the damage was done, and mom dropped the pie off herself. My history teacher put my mother's name on the pie, at a dollar a slice. I waited until mom left then came up with twelve dollars my sisters and I had scrounged together and bought the whole damn thing.
I wanted to throw it away. To this day I'm not sure if it was morbid curiosity or a little bit of hope the made me try a bit. And it was wonderful, warm and flaky, with sweet and tart apples mated together perfectly. I ate the whole pie in five minutes. Then I threw up. I wanted to confront her. I also wanted a toothbrush. But I didn't.
On Thursdays mother made pie. And it was still terrible. But as long as we sat for an hour she no longer made us eat it. It would just sit in the middle of the table, getting cold. Before I went off to college Mom showed me how to make a decent pie. She also showed me how to make a terrible one. When she died I made ten good pies for the funeral. I made one bad one for me and my sisters.
Now I have kids of my own. They get older, they get independent, and they disappear. It happens too fast and you can’t stop it and it gets so you hardly see them at all. Except on Thursdays, when I make pie.
When you think of darkness; you think of fear. Figures lurking in the shadows, ready to steal, rape, kill. The darkness scares you; it is all that is unknown. It dares you to confront it, but the thought terrifies you. The darkness engulfs your soul along with your body. It dampens your spirits and heavies your heart. It weakens you for me; for I am not like you. I draw power from the darkness. It sends me to a place where pain is strength. Sadness is energy. Despair is dominance. I am immortal in the dark. You are not like me, but I want you to be. To see the light and come to the dark. To fear nothing and be feared by everything. When they run, we follow. When they fall, we conquer. When they scream, we laugh. When they die, we rejoice. They will return to us soon. Who are we? We are the minions of the dark. We are the vampires.
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Quote from Kijin »
It's funny because innocent people that were trying to pay the bills for their families were brutally murdered.
It had never been brighter than it was that day at the bazaar. Nor had it been any more deserted. Edwín had had an “emergency meeting” that morning to attend, leaving Rajmi and Sélima to their pearl stand by themselves. The few other families selling that day were scattered about the town square in front of the church, the women gossiping, their children playing with stray stones. A baby’s cry could heard in the background, echoing from stand to stand, swallowing the pearls in its shrillness. Then, the church loudspeaker suddenly came on: "Praise God in our darkest hour! He is our savior and he alone can save!" The pastor's voice loomed ominously
I heard a loud boom in the distance, then two successive booms, the din reverberating, making the stand quake under my hands. Sélima was playing games with a little boy two stands over. I called her name—Sélima! But it was already too loud for her to hear me. I saw a woman running down the hill towards us with only a white shirt on, and behind her, thirty meters back, appeared armed men in formation, much like those I’d seen in my dreams. But they did not look like us—they were white and green, and did not shine like the pearls. They shot at the woman, who was screaming and crying out the name of God as had Father Inam. "God will save us! God and no one else!" she shouted as she ran down the hill, faster and faster like a rolling boulder. She ran towards us, and towards our pearls. Blood shot out of her arm, then her leg, until she was only meters from us. She touched a device on her stomach before our eyes just as a bullet pierced her chest, and while still praising Him, she exploded. The force of the explosion sent pearls bursting into the air while bullets rained down from the hilltop, creating a mixture of body, blood and pearls glistening horribly in the light, echoing the carnage that was yet to come. I called for Sélima.
As she searched for her child she saw dead bodies lying against the church, shrapnel pearls on clothes, in their eye sockets, in their mouths. But not all of them were dead. Some cried out, “What God is this?” Others cried for their families, as Rajmi now cried out for her daughter.
SÉLIMAAAAA! she screamed through the smoke and fire and bullets. She was bleeding from her left leg, but she paid it no attention.
She was somehow alive, squatting under the half-broken stand by which she’d been playing with the boy before. He was next to her, dead. A pearl—or a bullet, Rajmi couldn’t tell—had struck his skull. She grabbed Sélima’s arm and lifted her into her own in one long, titanic arch, running into the distance as the pastor continued his incantation: "God is great! He alone can save!"
The night has befallen the land. An Icy breeze sweeps through our encampment. The only sound is the whispering of the leaves synching up with the restlessness of my troops. My breath leaves my body sporadically and sinks heavy onto my hands. I know what lies beyond the foliage. I have seen what death awaits us.
Markus is less than a mile away, more than likely, encompassed by a hoarde of brainwashed men ready to die for a cause they know nothing about. I can see his face clearly in my mind, he is laughing with his followers. They are on the forefront of this war now and there is no turning back. He is giving them their last rites as I had done hours before. I would like nothing more than to walk through the trees and face him in the ring. I do not need my men as spectators for I would bring sure proof of my victory back to them. What real cause is there for my men to die in this slaughter that will reach us eventually. I am a pawn thrown into this game of war. I am not willing to die for this, not yet.
My nerves are momentarilly interrupted by the soft hand of innocence tugging on my cloak. I turn my stare from the darkness and smile at the kid standing besides me. It is a genuine smile that shines through the dread overwhelming the situation. I make eye contact and reassure him of a false safety. He hasn't spoken a word to anyone since we rescued him days before, but his lips form words and utter a response.
Just as the sound and the moment fade, a crossbow bolt streaks across the clearing and cuts the thick air. It finds rest in the boy's forehead. A streak of blood trickles down his face and he falls back. The is no time for mourning, no time for anger. A soldier rallies our attention skyward.
A volley of fiery arrows cascade like falling stars towards us from behind the trees..
The sun was shining, birds were chirping. What a fantastic day. I got up out of my bed, savoring the warmth, and looked out the window. Holy crap! Is that a Meteor? HOLY CRAP, IT'S A METEO---
One time, a long time ago, in a time long since past ... I was walking like Little Red Riding Hood through something that was distinctly like a forest, only with houses. It seemed as though I was in the Shire; the houses were normal houses, and the people normal people, but it had that feeling. Everyone would help everyone else, and the distinct sound of magic - that smell of azure creativity - was emanating through the neighborhood always, as though the world was not a bystander to what the people within were doing, but instead an active and willing participant: that there were strands of magic flowing through all of us that we could all call forth as will.
As I walked in one direction, a man walked past in the other, arguing with somebody; he looked just like a wizard, with a beard he was stroking. More impressive was the fact that he had just killed the person he was arguing with with a wave of his hand and a flash. It occured to me that this occurance showed that realities may be merging, alternate realities becoming truths. A voice cut in, out of nothing, and I looked around for the source as it spoke, moving to and from to gauge it, but nothing helped.
"Undone symphonies rise, like black onyx, solid and unmoving, ready to judge all before them. A lesser-known man would have wilted in the face of incredible adversity, but instead, this one soldiered on. A respite from black magic, an introduction of white: merging the two, it was believed, would cause nothingness, or destruction, an absence of power in both cases. But in the end, isn't everything - all power - shades of gray?"
The man in gray must have told me, somehow, what he wanted me to know of him and his exploits. What are you, I thought; and why are you here? He seemed to know my query and responded emphatically, his wizard-hat falling off and revealing a head devoid of hair, his teeth becoming crooked, his beard becoming impossibly dirty, and everything suddenly falling into a bizarre sense of clarity:
"I'm a Pastafarian!"
I have been afraid to eat pasta of all kinds since then. What has probably been more helpful, however, is staying out of my grandmother's pill-box.
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my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Her beady black eyes were piercing straight ahead.
Her smooth obsidian feathers were ruffling slightly in agitation.
Her curved wicked talons were gouging long shallow trenches on the polished white skull on which she was perched.
Before her, squat a toad.
He blinked his large bulbous eyes at her.
Irritation flashed across Aya’s features. Her gray beak snapped forward in a resoundingly loud clap.
“Do be polite,” warbled the toad.
“Don’t you polite me,” squawked the crow fiercely, eying the toad’s mottled brown coarse skin with distaste. “What are you doing here?”
“As you may have surmised, I am your new… partner,” he rasped in response. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“The feelings are not mutual,” snorted Aya, flexing one of her talons.
The toad gave the twitching limb a glance but said nothing.
“I have had eight partners before you,” crooned the crow in an oddly satisfied tone, gazing at the toad smugly. “All of them died… tragically.”
A delicate eyebrow would have been raised if the toad had one.
“Either they are extremely incompetent… or you have had a hand…” he paused. “…in their demise.”
“What do you think?” drawled out Aya, smirking nastily. “Are you feeling the dread?”
“On the contrary,” the toad smirked back. “I relish the challenge.”
“Bold words coming from the mouth of a cold-blooded amphibian,” hissed Aya.
“I would say the same of you, you warm-blooded birdbrain,” replied the toad evenly.
There lasted a solid five minutes where beady black eyes drilled into large bulbous eyes and were drilled in turn.
“What is your name, toad?” asked Aya, breaking the silence first. “It is only fitting that I know your name first before I deal with you… permanently.”
“You may call me… Mr. Toad,” answered the toad, puffing up as if daring her to comment on that.
Aya was never one to back down.
“So Mr. Toad, why do you have such an uninspired dull boring name?” challenged the crow.
Mr. Toad was never one to back down either.
“Why don’t you come over here and find out, Ms. Birdbrain?” stated the toad in a bored languid tone.
“The name is Aya, you fat quivering mass of pustules,” snarled Aya, flapping her wings immediately to stay upright in the air.
“You’ve got to admit you are a bird and you have a brain,” Mr. Toad continued to taunt, expanding himself in preparation for combat. “Unless you are implying the latter part is false?”
A shriek of rage. Her talons arched downward, scratching out glyphs of power onto the surface of the polished skull.
A grunt of concentration. Fountains of mist erupted from his back, intermingling with eldritch energies commanded to exist.
The skull glowed from within. Flames exploded outward from its orifices in a burning stream.
The mist surged forward. A thick latticework of layered ice erected in a split second.
There was in fact, an explosion.
And thus, the love-hate relationship between a witch’s two familiars began.
"Seeker of Knowledge, take care not to mire yourself in the past, for if you lose yourself in the past, you forget your present. Without your present, there is no future. Without your future, the past no longer has meaning. Time is a wheel, traveller; beware its path."
Time...a concept misunderstood by many, quantified by few. Largely subjective, it is: it's the old question about five minutes with your hand on a hot stove versus five minues with someone you love. I've tried to explain this to people, and no one gets it- but then again, I have a somewhat unique perspective on the subject.
If time is a wheel, then one must be able to circumnavigate it. One must also be careful in this; paradox isn't what I would call easy to wrap your mind around. I tried to explain this, too, to my companions, and yet they still don't get it.
It's enough to make a grown wizard cry, I tell you.
I tried to give them an example of this, using the last relic from my past that I still own- it's called a phone...it works without wires, lines, or anything else. Of course, here it doesn't work at all- a lightning bolt in a jar won't power much, if anything. Certainly not a cellular phone, even if there were satellites to run it. If I tried to explain how it worked, I'd probably give even Lucien a coronary- electrical engineering is far beyond him.
We finally entered the tower behind the inscription, the same tower I went to before- and it seems to have changed. Last time I had to admit my feelings for him in front of four other people, and it wasn't easy, especially since I've professed hatred for his kind for about eighty years now. Maybe it's different for each person who enters to learn and grow, maybe not...but there were three mirrors, one for each member of our group, instead of an overpowered kobold with a nasty disposition.
Through the mirrors was a vision of what could be- I could be alone for the next sixteen thousand years, providing I didn't finally piss off something meaner than I am,; or I could die trying to accomplish some fool act designed to save the world I should hold no allegiance to...or I could spend my life with him, providing he'd actually have me.
And yes, no incantatrix for you. Or anyone. That class makes puppies cry. Mostly because they are the former Big Bads who have been Baleful Polymorphed into said puppies. By you. Because you're an incantatrix.
Quote from Yukora »
This is Deraxas we're talking about.
Remember, the girl that just killed an aspect of herself before literally consuming her?
Yeah, I don't see her handling a pissing match in any way other than a duel.
Quote from RedDwarfian »
Yes mistress...
Quote from About epic-level D&D »
There are only so many epic, psuedonatural barbarian/blackguard half-dragon akutenshai vampire balor paragons they can throw at you, right?
Quote from Concerning breeding habits of humans in fantasy games »
I suppose it's true. Though the logistics implied in a human/Great Wyrm Prismatic Dragon pairing makes me shudder.
...Something tells me that even should all arcane casters in the world unite, that the Grease spell would NOT be sufficient.
On my first day at work, I was told to meet with Alex Sanford at the lobby at 9:00. I arrived at 8:50 and dutifully waited, until I saw a bald middle-aged bespectacled man walking in my direction. He was closely followed by a twenty-something chatty blonde, probably his secretary. They stood in front of me, and I waited for the girl to finish her chitchat and leave. Then, she said to the man, “Well, see you later, Peter, I have someone to meet.” “Later, Alex,” he said, and left. By the time Alex Sanford turned to face me, I have barely managed to wipe the stupid grin off my face.
After giving me a tour of the office and showing me my desk, Alex led me into an elevator-sized room, which could best be described as a shrine to the art of stapling. Staplers of all shapes and sizes lined up the shelves. “So,” she asked, “Do you know where we are?” “The stapling room?” I gave Occam a try. “Good enough for first approximation. This is the project status monitoring room.” She leaned on a closet, presumably containing more staplers, and began lecturing. “The status of the project is best measured by the thickness of its documentation, and the appropriate stapler needs to be used. When the project is young and tender, we can get away with Tiny Tim.” She pointed out a small stapler, and then went across the shelf. “As the project develops, we move on to Little Lizzie, Midsize Madeleine, Big Bertha, Giant Joe, and finally, Hugo.” She waved at a huge industrial-size stapler I have ignored previously, thinking it to be a closet. “Just Hugo?” I asked, “Not Huge Hugo or Humongous Hugo?” She squinted at me. “Are you trying to be funny? You think making up names for office equipment is funny?” “No, no, I just thought that...,” and, in attempt to alleviate the embarrassment, asked the first thing that came to mind, “So which stapler is my project using?” “None. Come on,” Alex walked quickly to her desk, me and my raised eyebrows in tow. “Your project’s document consists, as of now, of a single page.” She handed me a sheet of paper, which I had to turn over three times before gathering the courage to utter the next question. “Isn’t it empty?” “It’s in development. Good luck.”
I think I’m going to like this job. If nothing else, my new boss excels at the art of goal setting. And now, I must stop writing and get back to work; we have a Little Lizzie deadline this week.
"Here's to here-and-there and back again, here's to doing it when you get to it, for if you don't do it, when you get to it, you will never get there to do it again," they said in unison as the small single shot glasses clinked together.
Mike and Jenny headed off into the crowd. Jenny tugged at Jessica as she went, who then grabbed Omar's hand.
"Come'on Sean," Jessica said. "We're going to go dance."
"No, you guys go ahead," said Sean.
Sean looked at his watch. It was 12:02 AM. The window was open. Any earlier, and denial could be expected. In half-an-hour, the window would close, and only couples would remain. Timing was everything.
Sean weaved through the crowd; in one room, up the stairs, through that room, and then down the stairs on the other side. Music changed with each room. Faces came and went.
Then he saw her. She was alone against the wall, stirring a glass of ice, staring into the crowd. Young, cute and petite. Her dress was sexy but conservative.
"Hi," he said. "Can I buy you another? I'm Sean."
"I'd love for you to, but I can't go anywhere, I'm waiting for my girlfriends to get back from the restroom."
"Yea, I saw them," he said. "They sent me over here to buy you a drink."
"Is that right?" she said with a wry smile.
"No worries, I'll buy them one too," he said. "Do you like to dance?"
"I love to dance," she said.
"Great, let's get that drink," he said.
He awoke to a pink comforter and lace pillows nine hours later.
Nine years later, he would open a box in the attic and find that same pink comforter packed away.
Some may think that travelling to a floating city from which a small army of supposedly long forgotten dragons is crazy, suicidal, or otherwise just stupid. For myself and two of my friends, it's just another day's work.
I'll describe the two: Yuina, who chose to become a creature of the air, turning her skin pale blue and her hair the color of a cloud...she'd be more effective if she didn't try to stand next to me and play spellcaster. The rogue is a bit better- he stays out of the way, at least, jumping from shadows as if he'd been born in them. My intended, the other member of our insane group, could not be present- he chose to stay with the city, defending against the dragons and those who command them.
So I teleported us up, where we were promptly attacked by several brutes wearing smelly armor. Raising an eyebrow, I beat one over the head with my staff and he just looked at me, stunned. I then smiled and said, "Congratulations. You've just been beaten down by a wizard. Care to try again?" He ran away, cursing me and all my line. Yawn..if I had a gold piece for each time someone's cursed me, I'd own half the continent.
After we dealt with them, we scouted the terrain. It seemed as if most the people were either in hiding or gone down to the surface, and the only activity was from the large building in the center of the floating city...exactly where I figured the Warlord was.
We didn't do the smart thing and leave; we barged in as if we owned the place. Inside, it was dark...and resembled an arena. A low growling could be heard over the crackling of the torches, and I immediately went on my guard. Unfortunately, the other two left me there, alone. They have not yet learned the lesson of "Never leave the sight of the healer!" I have tried to impress this upon them, but no one wants to listen to me. Perhaps that's because I order, not ask, but that isn't the issue...
A loud shriek of pain interrupted my thoughts. I contacted Yuina's mind, and could only sense a maelstrom of rage, pain, and surprise. She could not answer me, so I cursed softly and moved down the path, only to find her pinned to the stone by the biggest wolf I have ever seen in my life. Backing against the wall, I mumbled the words to a protective incantation, and my eyes widened at the sight of the rogue standing against the other wall, trying to defend himself against a huge man, painted with what looked like blood. The man swung his huge axe high over the rogue's head, and he dodged the attack, rolling under the man's legs and ducking into a shadow on the wall. The only thing in between me and the Warlord (I presumed) was dead air. Not a good place for a wizard, no sir.
With a roar, the Warlord rushed me, swinging both his axe and a longsword I had failed to note earlier. The axe missed me by a thread, but the force behind his charge sent me flying backward. I hit the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of me. In a low, gravelly voice, he said, "I will give you a choice...your friends' lives, or you stay here, with me." I told him to go to Hell. This only angered him further, and he spoke to the wolf. "Kill them." The wolf answered in perfect speech. "Yesss." It ripped into Yuina before she had a chance to get up. I soon felt the severing of the mental link we had, and the rogue was long gone through the shadows. It was just the warlord and myself. So I did what any sensible 'caster would do. I moved swiftly, rolling under the huge wolf, grabbing Yuina's bleeding body as I rolled, and used my special ability to short-range teleport us as far away as I could get; outside the door. There was the rogue; he seemed to be waiting for us. Inside the castle, I could hear the Warlord shouting for his wolf to get us, and the door began to open.
I don't have many friends, but the ones I do have, I'll do anything for...
And yes, no incantatrix for you. Or anyone. That class makes puppies cry. Mostly because they are the former Big Bads who have been Baleful Polymorphed into said puppies. By you. Because you're an incantatrix.
Quote from Yukora »
This is Deraxas we're talking about.
Remember, the girl that just killed an aspect of herself before literally consuming her?
Yeah, I don't see her handling a pissing match in any way other than a duel.
Quote from RedDwarfian »
Yes mistress...
Quote from About epic-level D&D »
There are only so many epic, psuedonatural barbarian/blackguard half-dragon akutenshai vampire balor paragons they can throw at you, right?
Quote from Concerning breeding habits of humans in fantasy games »
I suppose it's true. Though the logistics implied in a human/Great Wyrm Prismatic Dragon pairing makes me shudder.
...Something tells me that even should all arcane casters in the world unite, that the Grease spell would NOT be sufficient.
“Supper at eight! Bedtime at nine! One hour of TV top!” Uttering these words of encouragement, my wife left for her hospital night shift. My daughter and I were left alone.
After consuming some dairy and cartoons, I made Emily ready for bed. But before laying her head on the pillow, came a request, “Daddy, I want a story!” I skimmed over the loaded bookshelves, until I found one that seemed fitting. I grabbed the book, sat on the bed besides her and started reading out loud. Everything went fine, until…
“Odysseus sharpened the stake with his knife. He put the tip of the stake into the burning charcoal to make it red-hot. Then he stealthily approached the Cyclops and…” And I began to stutter. Does a five-year old girl really need to hear of eye-gouging?
“Daddy, what happened next?” “Next? Well, Odysseus hit the Cyclops over the head with the stake. Yeah, that’s it. And while the Cyclops was in pain, Odysseus escaped to his ship and sailed home. The end.” “Daddy, what happened to the Cyclops?” “He got a nasty bruise on his head, but he got better. G’night honey, daddy loves you.”
For hours, I couldn’t fall asleep, the double bed so empty with only one occupant. Starlight fell gently on the sheets, and suddenly a cloud passed across the sky and all went dark. I buried my face in the pillow.
“Thanks, pal.” The booming voice made me jump. My fingers fumbled toward the switch, and only with great effort did I manage to turn on the light. At my bedside, stood a humanoid creature, head almost reaching the 11’ ceiling, wearing only a girdle made of several crudely sewn skins. His right hand was clutching his forehead, and below it, a single enormous eye gazed.
“What’s this? Who are you?” I tried to shuffle away. The monster ignored my panic and reached for a handshake. On his forehead, I noticed a teapot-sized lump. “It’s a drag, being blinded by a burning stake every night. Finally, I can get a good night sleep! Just wanted to drop by and say I appreciate it.” “You’re welcome.” I mumbled. “Do you mind,” he asked, “If I’ll spread the word?” Having no idea what he was talking about, I only nodded meekly and watched his enormous form vanish into thin air. Two hours later, I managed to fall asleep.
Waking at dawn, I turned to the female figure beside me. “Honey, that was some dream I had!” “I know,” The woman faced me, and I shrieked at the view. Her skin was old and wrinkled. The nose sported a huge wart. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, and her hair dirty-white.
“Have no fear, I’m here to ask for a favor,” continued the Wicked Witch of the West, “Do I really have to melt when Dorothy showers me with that bucket of water? Can’t I just, you know, get soaking wet?”
“Supper at eight! Bedtime at nine! One hour of TV top!” Uttering these words of encouragement, my wife left for her hospital night shift. My daughter and I were left alone.
After consuming some dairy and cartoons, I made Emily ready for bed. But before laying her head on the pillow, came a request, “Daddy, I want a story!” I skimmed over the loaded bookshelves, until I found one that seemed fitting. I grabbed the book, sat on the bed besides her and started reading out loud. Everything went fine, until…
“Odysseus sharpened the stake with his knife. He put the tip of the stake into the burning charcoal to make it red-hot. Then he stealthily approached the Cyclops and…” And I began to stutter. Does a five-year old girl really need to hear of eye-gouging?
“Daddy, what happened next?” “Next? Well, Odysseus hit the Cyclops over the head with the stake. Yeah, that’s it. And while the Cyclops was in pain, Odysseus escaped to his ship and sailed home. The end.” “Daddy, what happened to the Cyclops?” “He got a nasty bruise on his head, but he got better. G’night honey, daddy loves you.”
For hours, I couldn’t fall asleep, the double bed so empty with only one occupant. Starlight fell gently on the sheets, and suddenly a cloud passed across the sky and all went dark. I buried my face in the pillow.
“Thanks, pal.” The booming voice made me jump. My fingers fumbled toward the switch, and only with great effort did I manage to turn on the light. At my bedside, stood a humanoid creature, head almost reaching the 11’ ceiling, wearing only a girdle made of several crudely sewn skins. His right hand was clutching his forehead, and below it, a single enormous eye gazed.
“What’s this? Who are you?” I tried to shuffle away. The monster ignored my panic and reached for a handshake. On his forehead, I noticed a teapot-sized lump. “It’s a drag, being blinded by a burning stake every night. Finally, I can get a good night sleep! Just wanted to drop by and say I appreciate it.” “You’re welcome.” I mumbled. “Do you mind,” he asked, “If I’ll spread the word?” Having no idea what he was talking about, I only nodded meekly and watched his enormous form vanish into thin air. Two hours later, I managed to fall asleep.
Waking at dawn, I turned to the female figure beside me. “Honey, that was some dream I had!” “I know,” The woman faced me, and I shrieked at the view. Her skin was old and wrinkled. The nose sported a huge wart. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, and her hair dirty-white.
“Have no fear, I’m here to ask for a favor,” continued the Wicked Witch of the West, “Do I really have to melt when Dorothy showers me with that bucket of water? Can’t I just, you know, get soaking wet?”
I took my first blood at the age of 18. She thought me charming. I thought her delicious. And in this I found the joy of my curse. The finest wines paled in comparison. The years after were filled with drinks from English girls redolent of soap and work, Greek women tasting of lemon, and Italians swelled with wine and piety. And the French!
But I get ahead of myself.
At first I chased youth, searching all the world for the freshest and most pure. But all changed when I returned to Europe after the war. The first taste I had, a widow in Brighton, stung. It was bitter, but with just a hint of hope. I craved more. And more was forthcoming. Widows, daughters without fathers, mothers with lost children. Europe had changed and my palate with it. No more did I crave innocence. Experience tasted so much richer!
There was a region in France that was particularly savory. One in ten men made it home. It tasted of emptiness, loss and despair. I drank most of the town in a week. But I saved one for last. Suzette was hope embodied. She escaped the town, and I let her. Some vintages are better with age.
As years passed I would often see her, as immortality made a small world smaller for me. But I could never bring myself to harvest, knowing that another year would add so much to her taste. I followed her life, watched her gain wealth, a husband, and a family. I found myself making excuses to be where she was, to see what she’d done. I was fascinated. The sight of her brought out an unspeakable hunger, matched only by my patience. When she began to fail I knew I had to feast, as her time was drawing short.
She knew me on sight. I had followed her so closely how could she not? I expected a fight, but she just smiled a sad little smile.
She pulled white hair off the paper skin of her neck.
I bit.
The whole of her experience flowed into me. Love and loss and hope and joy all danced together. And a taste unfamiliar and unpleasant. So much so that I spat the blood out and left her lying on the floor.
-War-
in war gunshots are all that's heard
an olive branch preposition - absurd
lesser-known men shooting others for glory
and redemption obtained through fire
ten years before - an allegory
some destruction wrought through others' armies
the world on the strings of this one liar
he'd deceived them all through pride
the one whom all the others admired
wanted truth to shine - a pedestal - higher
but he'd attain it with no war - a guide
to make earth have some sort of peace
but war stands firmly on death's side
to life's end - entropy on rising tides -
confidentiality - death - was breached
quickly they moved - bombs swarming like birds
ten years have passed since our last reach
to new tomorrows - a war to whitewash - bleach -
the world anew - destroy differences - create herds -
we're doomed to repeat without learning the story
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
"Too far?" said Jack incredulously. "That logic is going to sink us for sure. Too far? That’s why you’ll never be Captain."
"Fine then," said Butch. "Ask the Captain. It should be his choice anyways."
"I don’t think the Captain is in any shape to make a ruling," said Kevin. "Look at him."
"The sun must have done him in," said Butch.
"No," said Kevin looking at the captain, slumped in a comatose state. "I think it was the alcohol that got to him, not the sun"
"True, true. Ok, so what do you think Kev?" Butch asked.
"Oh no, don’t look at me," said Kevin. "I’m not weighing in on this one. It doesn’t matter which one anyways. We’ll screw up either way, and if I make the decision, that screw up will come back on me. This one is completely on the two of you."
"I’m worried about the water," said Butch.
"The water!" cried Jack. "You’re a piece of work, you know that. Does your mamma know she raised a coward? If we have to take on a little bit of water, then so be it. No guts, no glory. Besides, we have four chances."
"Three," said Kevin.
"Three, I stand corrected."
"I don’t know," said Butch. "That’s a lot of water between us."
"Would you prefer a sandy beach?" asked Jack.
"Yea, I might."
"HEY, MAKE A DECISION!" came a call from behind.
"The natives are getting restless," said Kevin. "I think you need to make a decision. Just pick one."
"Why don’t we just play it safe, then it doesn’t matter which one we pick," said Butch.
Jack stared at him in silence.
"Ok, this one is fine I guess," Butch finally admitted.
"I’ll take over captain duties," said Jack. "All in agreement, say ‘aye’."
"Aye," said Jack and Kevin in unison.
"I hate you guys," said Butch.
"The ayes have it," said Jack. "Kevin, you take the first shot."
"Four-iron?" asked Kevin.
"Yea, four-iron sounds good. I think we’re right at 200 yards. Don’t go in the water. I don’t have any more balls to give you, especially after that debacle on Eleven. Butch, you might want to hit a wood."
"Yea, I’ve got your wood. How about a wood up side of your captain-sized head?"
“After we returned you to your home, we expected you would someday contact us with the communicator we left you… but I am curious, why this? Why did you want us to do this?” Jason swallowed once and looked at Thalinox’s disguised form. He had initially been shocked when he saw the alien, his holographic human form had been improved vastly since Jason’s initial encounter with his race, and, had Jason not known his Thlainox’s true nature, he would never have been able to tell the difference. The language synthesizer, on the other hand, though now perfect grammatically, still sounded off. “It’s for the best. When you dropped me back on Earth, all those years ago, you told me that when I thought humanity was ready, you would return, and use your technology to help our society evolve, and you have.” The alien, still shrouded in the dynamic hologram, was obviously confused, as the hologram represented his state by cocking its head to one side. “You can imagine that this is not what I had in mind when I made that promise. That said, I told you that we would answer your call, and we have, I simply don’t comprehend the reasoning behind your request.” Jason sighed and looked out of the viewport again, his expression grim as he looked down upon his world, judging it. “My people have always been divided, and not just geographically. Our history has been permeated with wars, horrible wars. In fact, the only thing that has ever been able to unite different cultures is a common enemy.” “We are the common enemy.” It was a statement, not a question. Jason swallowed and nodded sullenly. “When I saw your world, the unity of your people, I knew I could never accept the trivialities that divide my planet. I tried for years to think of an alternative, but I couldn’t. I sincerely believe this to be the only way.” He gestured to a viewscreen, a magnified view of a current battle. “Look at that. United Nations soldiers and former insurgents, putting aside their differences, fighting side by side… united in hatred.” “Will it last though? Once we retreat, will the coalitions your people have formed remain?” Jason shook his head, and suddenly couldn’t bring himself to face Thalinox. “I… I don’t know. But even if it doesn’t, the possibility alone makes their sacrifices worthwhile. As for your people… I only hope they can forgive me.” Thalinox reached out and touched Jason’s hand. The hologram appeared as a hand, but it could not hide the alien’s slimy texture. “Do not worry about us, we made a promise, we have honored it. You, however… you understand it would be too dangerous to return you to your home?” Jason nodded again. “Yes.” “You will… live with us? What of your friends and family?” Jason looked up at Thalinox, a tear running down his cheek. “I will be casualty of war… I can only hope I will be the last.”
Private Mod Note
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Many thanks to ChibiSwan of The Ugly Swan for the great banner!
Quote from CherryBoom! »
It mostly consists of a napalm filled trench around my house and a stack of 1994 pornography in my basement.
Quote from HandwrittenHero »
As much as I'm against the OTT view that this card is going to solo tournaments, cure cancer and make Susan Boyle attractive I'm not really a fan of the opposing camp who think it slaughters puppies and sired Justin Bieber.
========== End Of Round 4, Round 5 Begins ==========
And this time, we have a twist! This round of contest will be prompted, rather than free-writing. I've let FunkyNinja, the winner of round 3, choose the prompt:
Elizabeth Bishop had a lovely poem about loss called "One Art", which you can read here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212. The poem explores lost hope, memory, and love in an elegant little package. Why should you care? Your mission is to write a story of loss in an elegant little package. A lost mind, loved one, or anything else at all. Summed up in 500 words. Good luck.
“How would you like to go to the comic shop today, George?” asked the man with the yellow hat. “Maybe we can buy you some comic books.”
George loved comic books so he was eager for the chance to buy new ones.
Later that afternoon the man with the yellow hat took George to John’s comic shop. John McGwire, the shop owner greeted them.
“Hello George,” said the Mr. McGwire. “We’ve got a Magic the Gathering tournament running right now, maybe you could watch.”
George was so excited. He’d never seen or heard of Magic the Gathering.
“You stay here George, and I’ll be right back. Don’t get in to trouble,” said his friend.
The room smelled funny and it was crowded. Many people were wearing black and he saw lots of people wearing funny jewelry. George thought a couple of them needed a good bath. But everyone seemed to be having a very good time.
Each person was playing with a deck of cards. Some cards were blue, some were red, some were green, some were black and some were white. Some didn’t have any color at all.
Mr. McGwire gave George a card called a Black Lotus.
“This is the most valuable card in the game, George. Everyone wants one of these.”
George liked it because it had a picture of a flower.
George sat down beside two people playing a game of Magic.
For some reason, a boy named Jack kept referring to his opponent as Timmy, but his name was not Timmy, it was Stephen. George was confused.
After watching for a while, George started to wonder if he could play Magic.
So he went to another table and shuffled a deck of cards. He tried to place cards on the table face-up exactly like he saw everyone else do. He turned some sideways.
Suddenly George realized he no longer had the Black Lotus and he started looking around frantically.
He went back to the table where he had been watching a game, but they were no longer there. George looked under backpacks and he looked under binders, but he couldn’t find the Black Lotus anywhere!
What was he going to do? He didn’t want to tell the shop owner he had lost his most valuable card.
He would have to find another one.
He found another game and while they were playing, he picked up the deck and started sifting through their cards.
“George, what are you doing!” cried a boy. “We’re playing a game.”
George was scared, so he ran off.
That’s when the man with the yellow hat returned.
“Did you have fun George?” asked the man.
George shook his head and looked down. He tried to explain to his friend that he had lost the Black Lotus.
That’s when the shop owner said, “It’s ok George. That card had a gold border. It wasn’t a true Black Lotus. I can give you another one.”
It had just been one of those days at the office, the phone rang non-stop and I was just drained. Thankfully, I was on my way home from work. The problem is that I catch the bus home. This means that at 5:30 on a Tuesday I'm standing on the bus surrounded by smelly people on their way home.
The ride was pretty rough and I was bumped a few times as the bus went around the corners. I didn’t think much of it as the rough travel was pretty much par for the course on the bus. Then, I noticed that my wallet wasn't in my left jacket pocket, where I usually keep it. "****", I thought, "I haven't lost my wallet have I?".
As I thought about the last time I had my wallet, I realised that I had paid for my ticket home and had my wallet then. I thought back to those seemingly innocent bumps and was suddenly suspicious of everyone around me. Had I been pickpocketed?
I took a closer look at the other passengers. On my right was an older man who looked about 70. His was bald with just a fringe of grey hair around his head. He had a crooked back and looked quite frail. I immediately felt sorry for the guy. Why was he forced to stand up at his age? Why didn’t someone stand for him? This sympathy was followed by suspicion. What if he chose to stand and it was all a ruse. After all, he might have long years of practice at theft.
On my left was an attractive woman of about 25. She was dressed very business chick - black jacket and skirt over a conservative blue blouse. Her blond hair was pulled tightly together in a pony tail. In all, the look was quite severe and professional looking. Either she knew her stuff and copied the look flawlessly or it wasn't her.
Across from me was the most likely crook of the lot. He was a teenager dressed in ripped black jeans and a My Chemical Romance tee-shirt. He looked like a likely suspect. I remembered that he had collided with me quite heavily earlier in the trip and that bump took on new meaning.
The bus stopped at the next stop and I took my opportunity to go up to the guy. "I know you did it." I said to him. "Oh yeah? What's that then?" he said with an English accent. He looked a bit scared but defiant as he said it and I moved closer, ready for a confrontation.
At that moment, the bus driver said over the noise of the crowd, "Ah, folks, it looks like someone has left their wallet up here. Please make sure that you have yours."
As I collected my wallet from the bus driver, I could only think, "It's one of those days."
So up the boulder rolled, since time immemorial, pushed and shoved at the behest of his shoulder, his hands, his back. Fighting the thing every inch, straining with it at every moment, each muscle afire as he searched within himself for a reservoir of strength he knew he did not have. And just when he reached the summit, without fail, it would roll back down. And, also without fail, every time he made the trek, Sisyphus fostered a little hope that it wouldn't. It hurt just as bad each time he watched the great boulder go skipping and hurtling down the hill and roll to an angle of repose, asking him, taunting him, goading him, to come down and try it again. Why? Why this punishment? Sometimes if he managed to hold his breath and listen for a moment, he could hear Tantalus screaming. Sisyphus did not know why, but he was sure he would trade places with him.
Because Sisyphus was tired of that silent agony, tired of the sweat in his eyes and tired of the fire in his lungs. The monotony, the sound of his own labored breath and the relentless grind of rock on rock - he wanted none of it. The summit was in sight again, and like always, that blossom of hope opened its petals in a place that had seen no light for thousands of years. Push, the damned man thought. Just a few more feet and... there. The top. The boulder ground to a halt, like it always did. In a few seconds it would teeter and tumble down again. Sisyphus blew his long hair out of his eyes and wiped his forehead, waiting. Seconds stretched out, and suddenly the light let in, and the blossom stretched its petals. The boulder was still. It had no intention of falling down.
Sisyphus looked about, confused. Had he finally won his rest? There was no sign. He plucked that blossom, and drew deep its sweet scent. He stretched his back, marvelling at the absolute stillness of the great boulder, perched delicately as Athena on her pedestal. And the moment stretched on. There was no noise, just a sea of silence; even Tantalus could not be bothered to scream at this moment. Sisyphus tried sitting down, but the silence was roaring in his ears. A few more minutes longer, and Sisyphus stood up again. "Am I free, Hades?" The only reply was his own echo.
Sisyphus circled his old nemesis, inspecting its impossibly smooth sides, noting its feel, almost slick with the years of oils of his fingers. Another long exhalation. Sisyphus laid a hand on the boulder, and gave it a light shove. There was something in his heart akin to joy as he watched it clatter downhill.
There is no light, here.
The shadows seem to engulf the sliver of light that slips into the crack between the wall and the floor of my hidden prison, yet this time the shadows have substance- the shade above me makes certain that I realize this. I have just enough wit left to be frightened thanks to the band around my forehead- and barely enough to recognize my tormentor.
Ah, Saryn, I cared for you once. Now I would give everything that I have just to see you dead.
His laugh chills me, his touch drains the last of my hope for a rescue...as if anyone cared enough to discover where I have been led. The Stygian cold seeps through the thin white robe I am covered in, and the voice of my captor echoes from the room next door, where he seems to be having an auction. The merchandise, of course, is me.
Then the light comes in the form of darkness. Saryn cowers from the light brought by my protector, the last one I expected to enter Hell itself to find me. My cat, Hairball, rests comfortably on his shoulder, looking smug at the fact that he managed to convince him to come. I almost disbelieve that it's really him- that's how I got caught in the first place.
Saryn falls to the killing magic of my protector, life stripped from him with the wave of a hand.
My protector says, "I made them an offer to die for." Nine bodies, faces contorted by terror, lie motionless on the floor of the rakshasa's chamber. The rakshasa, would-be lord of Stygia, snarls his rage at the necromancer before me and vows to cause his death.
I'll bring down the castle first. With my bare hands.
He rips the headband from my forehead, spitting the words of a spell as if they offended him, and I felt the knowledge flow back into me.
I won't be fooled this time.
The rakshasa moves swiftly, faster than I have ever seen a cat move, and I cry out-
"Lucien, look out!"
He looks towards the treacherous creature, hastily moves one hand in a series of arcane gestures, and a gate opens, releasing a solar straight from Celestia. The rakshasa swings his blade of darkness at the archangel, who takes the hit stoically...and then falls away, its essence seemingly stolen by the blade itself. The evil creature turned to Lucien as if to strike.
Not on MY watch, you bastard.
I released the power within me, one of the most potent augmentations I know, and a ray of cold that seems to be twice its normal strength emanates from my hand and freezes it solid.
Take that, you damned cat. You wanted to rule over a frozen section of Hell, and I've given it to you.
"I am in the arcane, and the arcane is in me."
Official Matron Mother of Clan Planar Chaos
Awesome Avatar and signature by DarkNightCavalier
Deraxas, Dark Maiden of Shimia,, still oddly obsessed with a mindmage.
==== Please submit to round 3, will'ya? ====
She was not, in any sense of the word, domestic. She tried to be, because she knew that a woman with three kids was supposed to be, but try as she might she could not get the switch to flip. She didn't even like baking. She was terrible at it, and it showed. But baking pies on Thursday was what she thought a mother did, and what she lacked in domesticity she made up for in effort.
So on Thursdays our mother made pie.
We used to feed it to the dog when she wasn't looking. Eventually the dog got smart. We'd smash it on the plate and move it around, but Mom figured that quick and out came the small plates. She'd smile when she ate her bit, even though she had to know what it tasted like. She'd ask about our day, or our friends, all the while eating that terrible pie. We'd sit there dreading each bite, dragging out the conversation and washing away the taste with milk. One rhubarb monstrosity stretched our normal hour into three. But an hour a week was the price of harmony in the home, and if that was the price we'd pay it.
When I was in fifth grade I accidentally brought a flier for a bake sale home. My mother was interested. My sisters were furious, as we'd had an unspoken rule to never let her see such things. But the damage was done, and mom dropped the pie off herself. My history teacher put my mother's name on the pie, at a dollar a slice. I waited until mom left then came up with twelve dollars my sisters and I had scrounged together and bought the whole damn thing.
I wanted to throw it away. To this day I'm not sure if it was morbid curiosity or a little bit of hope the made me try a bit. And it was wonderful, warm and flaky, with sweet and tart apples mated together perfectly. I ate the whole pie in five minutes. Then I threw up. I wanted to confront her. I also wanted a toothbrush. But I didn't.
On Thursdays mother made pie. And it was still terrible. But as long as we sat for an hour she no longer made us eat it. It would just sit in the middle of the table, getting cold. Before I went off to college Mom showed me how to make a decent pie. She also showed me how to make a terrible one. When she died I made ten good pies for the funeral. I made one bad one for me and my sisters.
Now I have kids of my own. They get older, they get independent, and they disappear. It happens too fast and you can’t stop it and it gets so you hardly see them at all. Except on Thursdays, when I make pie.
By Ben
When you think of darkness; you think of fear. Figures lurking in the shadows, ready to steal, rape, kill. The darkness scares you; it is all that is unknown. It dares you to confront it, but the thought terrifies you. The darkness engulfs your soul along with your body. It dampens your spirits and heavies your heart. It weakens you for me; for I am not like you. I draw power from the darkness. It sends me to a place where pain is strength. Sadness is energy. Despair is dominance. I am immortal in the dark. You are not like me, but I want you to be. To see the light and come to the dark. To fear nothing and be feared by everything. When they run, we follow. When they fall, we conquer. When they scream, we laugh. When they die, we rejoice. They will return to us soon. Who are we? We are the minions of the dark. We are the vampires.
It had never been brighter than it was that day at the bazaar. Nor had it been any more deserted. Edwín had had an “emergency meeting” that morning to attend, leaving Rajmi and Sélima to their pearl stand by themselves. The few other families selling that day were scattered about the town square in front of the church, the women gossiping, their children playing with stray stones. A baby’s cry could heard in the background, echoing from stand to stand, swallowing the pearls in its shrillness. Then, the church loudspeaker suddenly came on: "Praise God in our darkest hour! He is our savior and he alone can save!" The pastor's voice loomed ominously
I heard a loud boom in the distance, then two successive booms, the din reverberating, making the stand quake under my hands. Sélima was playing games with a little boy two stands over. I called her name—Sélima! But it was already too loud for her to hear me. I saw a woman running down the hill towards us with only a white shirt on, and behind her, thirty meters back, appeared armed men in formation, much like those I’d seen in my dreams. But they did not look like us—they were white and green, and did not shine like the pearls. They shot at the woman, who was screaming and crying out the name of God as had Father Inam. "God will save us! God and no one else!" she shouted as she ran down the hill, faster and faster like a rolling boulder. She ran towards us, and towards our pearls. Blood shot out of her arm, then her leg, until she was only meters from us. She touched a device on her stomach before our eyes just as a bullet pierced her chest, and while still praising Him, she exploded. The force of the explosion sent pearls bursting into the air while bullets rained down from the hilltop, creating a mixture of body, blood and pearls glistening horribly in the light, echoing the carnage that was yet to come. I called for Sélima.
As she searched for her child she saw dead bodies lying against the church, shrapnel pearls on clothes, in their eye sockets, in their mouths. But not all of them were dead. Some cried out, “What God is this?” Others cried for their families, as Rajmi now cried out for her daughter.
SÉLIMAAAAA! she screamed through the smoke and fire and bullets. She was bleeding from her left leg, but she paid it no attention.
She was somehow alive, squatting under the half-broken stand by which she’d been playing with the boy before. He was next to her, dead. A pearl—or a bullet, Rajmi couldn’t tell—had struck his skull. She grabbed Sélima’s arm and lifted her into her own in one long, titanic arch, running into the distance as the pastor continued his incantation: "God is great! He alone can save!"
Eye of the Storm
by Joshua Gerber (spiderboy4)
The night has befallen the land. An Icy breeze sweeps through our encampment. The only sound is the whispering of the leaves synching up with the restlessness of my troops. My breath leaves my body sporadically and sinks heavy onto my hands. I know what lies beyond the foliage. I have seen what death awaits us.
Markus is less than a mile away, more than likely, encompassed by a hoarde of brainwashed men ready to die for a cause they know nothing about. I can see his face clearly in my mind, he is laughing with his followers. They are on the forefront of this war now and there is no turning back. He is giving them their last rites as I had done hours before. I would like nothing more than to walk through the trees and face him in the ring. I do not need my men as spectators for I would bring sure proof of my victory back to them. What real cause is there for my men to die in this slaughter that will reach us eventually. I am a pawn thrown into this game of war. I am not willing to die for this, not yet.
My nerves are momentarilly interrupted by the soft hand of innocence tugging on my cloak. I turn my stare from the darkness and smile at the kid standing besides me. It is a genuine smile that shines through the dread overwhelming the situation. I make eye contact and reassure him of a false safety. He hasn't spoken a word to anyone since we rescued him days before, but his lips form words and utter a response.
Just as the sound and the moment fade, a crossbow bolt streaks across the clearing and cuts the thick air. It finds rest in the boy's forehead. A streak of blood trickles down his face and he falls back. The is no time for mourning, no time for anger. A soldier rallies our attention skyward.
A volley of fiery arrows cascade like falling stars towards us from behind the trees..
The sun was shining, birds were chirping. What a fantastic day. I got up out of my bed, savoring the warmth, and looked out the window. Holy crap! Is that a Meteor? HOLY CRAP, IT'S A METEO---
One time, a long time ago, in a time long since past ... I was walking like Little Red Riding Hood through something that was distinctly like a forest, only with houses. It seemed as though I was in the Shire; the houses were normal houses, and the people normal people, but it had that feeling. Everyone would help everyone else, and the distinct sound of magic - that smell of azure creativity - was emanating through the neighborhood always, as though the world was not a bystander to what the people within were doing, but instead an active and willing participant: that there were strands of magic flowing through all of us that we could all call forth as will.
As I walked in one direction, a man walked past in the other, arguing with somebody; he looked just like a wizard, with a beard he was stroking. More impressive was the fact that he had just killed the person he was arguing with with a wave of his hand and a flash. It occured to me that this occurance showed that realities may be merging, alternate realities becoming truths. A voice cut in, out of nothing, and I looked around for the source as it spoke, moving to and from to gauge it, but nothing helped.
"Undone symphonies rise, like black onyx, solid and unmoving, ready to judge all before them. A lesser-known man would have wilted in the face of incredible adversity, but instead, this one soldiered on. A respite from black magic, an introduction of white: merging the two, it was believed, would cause nothingness, or destruction, an absence of power in both cases. But in the end, isn't everything - all power - shades of gray?"
The man in gray must have told me, somehow, what he wanted me to know of him and his exploits. What are you, I thought; and why are you here? He seemed to know my query and responded emphatically, his wizard-hat falling off and revealing a head devoid of hair, his teeth becoming crooked, his beard becoming impossibly dirty, and everything suddenly falling into a bizarre sense of clarity:
"I'm a Pastafarian!"
I have been afraid to eat pasta of all kinds since then. What has probably been more helpful, however, is staying out of my grandmother's pill-box.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Aya was a crow.
Her beady black eyes were piercing straight ahead.
Her smooth obsidian feathers were ruffling slightly in agitation.
Her curved wicked talons were gouging long shallow trenches on the polished white skull on which she was perched.
Before her, squat a toad.
He blinked his large bulbous eyes at her.
Irritation flashed across Aya’s features. Her gray beak snapped forward in a resoundingly loud clap.
“Do be polite,” warbled the toad.
“Don’t you polite me,” squawked the crow fiercely, eying the toad’s mottled brown coarse skin with distaste. “What are you doing here?”
“As you may have surmised, I am your new… partner,” he rasped in response. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“The feelings are not mutual,” snorted Aya, flexing one of her talons.
The toad gave the twitching limb a glance but said nothing.
“I have had eight partners before you,” crooned the crow in an oddly satisfied tone, gazing at the toad smugly. “All of them died… tragically.”
A delicate eyebrow would have been raised if the toad had one.
“Either they are extremely incompetent… or you have had a hand…” he paused. “…in their demise.”
“What do you think?” drawled out Aya, smirking nastily. “Are you feeling the dread?”
“On the contrary,” the toad smirked back. “I relish the challenge.”
“Bold words coming from the mouth of a cold-blooded amphibian,” hissed Aya.
“I would say the same of you, you warm-blooded birdbrain,” replied the toad evenly.
There lasted a solid five minutes where beady black eyes drilled into large bulbous eyes and were drilled in turn.
“What is your name, toad?” asked Aya, breaking the silence first. “It is only fitting that I know your name first before I deal with you… permanently.”
“You may call me… Mr. Toad,” answered the toad, puffing up as if daring her to comment on that.
Aya was never one to back down.
“So Mr. Toad, why do you have such an uninspired dull boring name?” challenged the crow.
Mr. Toad was never one to back down either.
“Why don’t you come over here and find out, Ms. Birdbrain?” stated the toad in a bored languid tone.
“The name is Aya, you fat quivering mass of pustules,” snarled Aya, flapping her wings immediately to stay upright in the air.
“You’ve got to admit you are a bird and you have a brain,” Mr. Toad continued to taunt, expanding himself in preparation for combat. “Unless you are implying the latter part is false?”
A shriek of rage. Her talons arched downward, scratching out glyphs of power onto the surface of the polished skull.
A grunt of concentration. Fountains of mist erupted from his back, intermingling with eldritch energies commanded to exist.
The skull glowed from within. Flames exploded outward from its orifices in a burning stream.
The mist surged forward. A thick latticework of layered ice erected in a split second.
There was in fact, an explosion.
And thus, the love-hate relationship between a witch’s two familiars began.
We'll make you an offer you can't refuse.
Hosting: Vista Mafia
Hosted: Intrigue Mafia (Mini), Seance #43 (Basic), Conflux Mafia (Normal), Goo Mafia (FTQ), Experiment #26 (Basic)
Ongoing/Completed - 0/41
Town/Mafia/SK/Survivor - 30/6/4/1
NKed/Lynched/Survived - 15/11/15
The inscription on the door said it all:
"Seeker of Knowledge, take care not to mire yourself in the past, for if you lose yourself in the past, you forget your present. Without your present, there is no future. Without your future, the past no longer has meaning. Time is a wheel, traveller; beware its path."
Time...a concept misunderstood by many, quantified by few. Largely subjective, it is: it's the old question about five minutes with your hand on a hot stove versus five minues with someone you love. I've tried to explain this to people, and no one gets it- but then again, I have a somewhat unique perspective on the subject.
If time is a wheel, then one must be able to circumnavigate it. One must also be careful in this; paradox isn't what I would call easy to wrap your mind around. I tried to explain this, too, to my companions, and yet they still don't get it.
It's enough to make a grown wizard cry, I tell you.
I tried to give them an example of this, using the last relic from my past that I still own- it's called a phone...it works without wires, lines, or anything else. Of course, here it doesn't work at all- a lightning bolt in a jar won't power much, if anything. Certainly not a cellular phone, even if there were satellites to run it. If I tried to explain how it worked, I'd probably give even Lucien a coronary- electrical engineering is far beyond him.
We finally entered the tower behind the inscription, the same tower I went to before- and it seems to have changed. Last time I had to admit my feelings for him in front of four other people, and it wasn't easy, especially since I've professed hatred for his kind for about eighty years now. Maybe it's different for each person who enters to learn and grow, maybe not...but there were three mirrors, one for each member of our group, instead of an overpowered kobold with a nasty disposition.
Through the mirrors was a vision of what could be- I could be alone for the next sixteen thousand years, providing I didn't finally piss off something meaner than I am,; or I could die trying to accomplish some fool act designed to save the world I should hold no allegiance to...or I could spend my life with him, providing he'd actually have me.
I reached for the third possibility. So did he.
"I am in the arcane, and the arcane is in me."
Official Matron Mother of Clan Planar Chaos
Awesome Avatar and signature by DarkNightCavalier
Deraxas, Dark Maiden of Shimia,, still oddly obsessed with a mindmage.
On my first day at work, I was told to meet with Alex Sanford at the lobby at 9:00. I arrived at 8:50 and dutifully waited, until I saw a bald middle-aged bespectacled man walking in my direction. He was closely followed by a twenty-something chatty blonde, probably his secretary. They stood in front of me, and I waited for the girl to finish her chitchat and leave.
Then, she said to the man, “Well, see you later, Peter, I have someone to meet.”
“Later, Alex,” he said, and left. By the time Alex Sanford turned to face me, I have barely managed to wipe the stupid grin off my face.
After giving me a tour of the office and showing me my desk, Alex led me into an elevator-sized room, which could best be described as a shrine to the art of stapling. Staplers of all shapes and sizes lined up the shelves.
“So,” she asked, “Do you know where we are?”
“The stapling room?” I gave Occam a try.
“Good enough for first approximation. This is the project status monitoring room.” She leaned on a closet, presumably containing more staplers, and began lecturing.
“The status of the project is best measured by the thickness of its documentation, and the appropriate stapler needs to be used. When the project is young and tender, we can get away with Tiny Tim.” She pointed out a small stapler, and then went across the shelf. “As the project develops, we move on to Little Lizzie, Midsize Madeleine, Big Bertha, Giant Joe, and finally, Hugo.” She waved at a huge industrial-size stapler I have ignored previously, thinking it to be a closet.
“Just Hugo?” I asked, “Not Huge Hugo or Humongous Hugo?”
She squinted at me. “Are you trying to be funny? You think making up names for office equipment is funny?”
“No, no, I just thought that...,” and, in attempt to alleviate the embarrassment, asked the first thing that came to mind, “So which stapler is my project using?”
“None. Come on,” Alex walked quickly to her desk, me and my raised eyebrows in tow. “Your project’s document consists, as of now, of a single page.” She handed me a sheet of paper, which I had to turn over three times before gathering the courage to utter the next question.
“Isn’t it empty?”
“It’s in development. Good luck.”
I think I’m going to like this job. If nothing else, my new boss excels at the art of goal setting. And now, I must stop writing and get back to work; we have a Little Lizzie deadline this week.
Mike and Jenny headed off into the crowd. Jenny tugged at Jessica as she went, who then grabbed Omar's hand.
"Come'on Sean," Jessica said. "We're going to go dance."
"No, you guys go ahead," said Sean.
Sean looked at his watch. It was 12:02 AM. The window was open. Any earlier, and denial could be expected. In half-an-hour, the window would close, and only couples would remain. Timing was everything.
Sean weaved through the crowd; in one room, up the stairs, through that room, and then down the stairs on the other side. Music changed with each room. Faces came and went.
Then he saw her. She was alone against the wall, stirring a glass of ice, staring into the crowd. Young, cute and petite. Her dress was sexy but conservative.
"Hi," he said. "Can I buy you another? I'm Sean."
"I'd love for you to, but I can't go anywhere, I'm waiting for my girlfriends to get back from the restroom."
"Yea, I saw them," he said. "They sent me over here to buy you a drink."
"Is that right?" she said with a wry smile.
"No worries, I'll buy them one too," he said. "Do you like to dance?"
"I love to dance," she said.
"Great, let's get that drink," he said.
He awoke to a pink comforter and lace pillows nine hours later.
Nine years later, he would open a box in the attic and find that same pink comforter packed away.
There is a last time for everyone.
Some may think that travelling to a floating city from which a small army of supposedly long forgotten dragons is crazy, suicidal, or otherwise just stupid.
For myself and two of my friends, it's just another day's work.
I'll describe the two: Yuina, who chose to become a creature of the air, turning her skin pale blue and her hair the color of a cloud...she'd be more effective if she didn't try to stand next to me and play spellcaster. The rogue is a bit better- he stays out of the way, at least, jumping from shadows as if he'd been born in them. My intended, the other member of our insane group, could not be present- he chose to stay with the city, defending against the dragons and those who command them.
So I teleported us up, where we were promptly attacked by several brutes wearing smelly armor. Raising an eyebrow, I beat one over the head with my staff and he just looked at me, stunned. I then smiled and said, "Congratulations. You've just been beaten down by a wizard. Care to try again?"
He ran away, cursing me and all my line. Yawn..if I had a gold piece for each time someone's cursed me, I'd own half the continent.
After we dealt with them, we scouted the terrain. It seemed as if most the people were either in hiding or gone down to the surface, and the only activity was from the large building in the center of the floating city...exactly where I figured the Warlord was.
We didn't do the smart thing and leave; we barged in as if we owned the place. Inside, it was dark...and resembled an arena. A low growling could be heard over the crackling of the torches, and I immediately went on my guard.
Unfortunately, the other two left me there, alone. They have not yet learned the lesson of "Never leave the sight of the healer!" I have tried to impress this upon them, but no one wants to listen to me. Perhaps that's because I order, not ask, but that isn't the issue...
A loud shriek of pain interrupted my thoughts. I contacted Yuina's mind, and could only sense a maelstrom of rage, pain, and surprise. She could not answer me, so I cursed softly and moved down the path, only to find her pinned to the stone by the biggest wolf I have ever seen in my life.
Backing against the wall, I mumbled the words to a protective incantation, and my eyes widened at the sight of the rogue standing against the other wall, trying to defend himself against a huge man, painted with what looked like blood. The man swung his huge axe high over the rogue's head, and he dodged the attack, rolling under the man's legs and ducking into a shadow on the wall.
The only thing in between me and the Warlord (I presumed) was dead air. Not a good place for a wizard, no sir.
With a roar, the Warlord rushed me, swinging both his axe and a longsword I had failed to note earlier. The axe missed me by a thread, but the force behind his charge sent me flying backward. I hit the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of me. In a low, gravelly voice, he said, "I will give you a choice...your friends' lives, or you stay here, with me."
I told him to go to Hell.
This only angered him further, and he spoke to the wolf.
"Kill them."
The wolf answered in perfect speech. "Yesss."
It ripped into Yuina before she had a chance to get up. I soon felt the severing of the mental link we had, and the rogue was long gone through the shadows. It was just the warlord and myself. So I did what any sensible 'caster would do.
I moved swiftly, rolling under the huge wolf, grabbing Yuina's bleeding body as I rolled, and used my special ability to short-range teleport us as far away as I could get; outside the door. There was the rogue; he seemed to be waiting for us. Inside the castle, I could hear the Warlord shouting for his wolf to get us, and the door began to open.
I don't have many friends, but the ones I do have, I'll do anything for...
"I am in the arcane, and the arcane is in me."
Official Matron Mother of Clan Planar Chaos
Awesome Avatar and signature by DarkNightCavalier
Deraxas, Dark Maiden of Shimia,, still oddly obsessed with a mindmage.
“Supper at eight! Bedtime at nine! One hour of TV top!” Uttering these words of encouragement, my wife left for her hospital night shift. My daughter and I were left alone.
After consuming some dairy and cartoons, I made Emily ready for bed. But before laying her head on the pillow, came a request, “Daddy, I want a story!” I skimmed over the loaded bookshelves, until I found one that seemed fitting. I grabbed the book, sat on the bed besides her and started reading out loud. Everything went fine, until…
“Odysseus sharpened the stake with his knife. He put the tip of the stake into the burning charcoal to make it red-hot. Then he stealthily approached the Cyclops and…” And I began to stutter. Does a five-year old girl really need to hear of eye-gouging?
“Daddy, what happened next?”
“Next? Well, Odysseus hit the Cyclops over the head with the stake. Yeah, that’s it. And while the Cyclops was in pain, Odysseus escaped to his ship and sailed home. The end.”
“Daddy, what happened to the Cyclops?”
“He got a nasty bruise on his head, but he got better. G’night honey, daddy loves you.”
For hours, I couldn’t fall asleep, the double bed so empty with only one occupant. Starlight fell gently on the sheets, and suddenly a cloud passed across the sky and all went dark. I buried my face in the pillow.
“Thanks, pal.” The booming voice made me jump. My fingers fumbled toward the switch, and only with great effort did I manage to turn on the light. At my bedside, stood a humanoid creature, head almost reaching the 11’ ceiling, wearing only a girdle made of several crudely sewn skins. His right hand was clutching his forehead, and below it, a single enormous eye gazed.
“What’s this? Who are you?” I tried to shuffle away.
The monster ignored my panic and reached for a handshake. On his forehead, I noticed a teapot-sized lump. “It’s a drag, being blinded by a burning stake every night. Finally, I can get a good night sleep! Just wanted to drop by and say I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” I mumbled.
“Do you mind,” he asked, “If I’ll spread the word?”
Having no idea what he was talking about, I only nodded meekly and watched his enormous form vanish into thin air. Two hours later, I managed to fall asleep.
Waking at dawn, I turned to the female figure beside me. “Honey, that was some dream I had!”
“I know,” The woman faced me, and I shrieked at the view. Her skin was old and wrinkled. The nose sported a huge wart. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, and her hair dirty-white.
“Have no fear, I’m here to ask for a favor,” continued the Wicked Witch of the West, “Do I really have to melt when Dorothy showers me with that bucket of water? Can’t I just, you know, get soaking wet?”
After consuming some dairy and cartoons, I made Emily ready for bed. But before laying her head on the pillow, came a request, “Daddy, I want a story!” I skimmed over the loaded bookshelves, until I found one that seemed fitting. I grabbed the book, sat on the bed besides her and started reading out loud. Everything went fine, until…
“Odysseus sharpened the stake with his knife. He put the tip of the stake into the burning charcoal to make it red-hot. Then he stealthily approached the Cyclops and…” And I began to stutter. Does a five-year old girl really need to hear of eye-gouging?
“Daddy, what happened next?”
“Next? Well, Odysseus hit the Cyclops over the head with the stake. Yeah, that’s it. And while the Cyclops was in pain, Odysseus escaped to his ship and sailed home. The end.”
“Daddy, what happened to the Cyclops?”
“He got a nasty bruise on his head, but he got better. G’night honey, daddy loves you.”
For hours, I couldn’t fall asleep, the double bed so empty with only one occupant. Starlight fell gently on the sheets, and suddenly a cloud passed across the sky and all went dark. I buried my face in the pillow.
“Thanks, pal.” The booming voice made me jump. My fingers fumbled toward the switch, and only with great effort did I manage to turn on the light. At my bedside, stood a humanoid creature, head almost reaching the 11’ ceiling, wearing only a girdle made of several crudely sewn skins. His right hand was clutching his forehead, and below it, a single enormous eye gazed.
“What’s this? Who are you?” I tried to shuffle away.
The monster ignored my panic and reached for a handshake. On his forehead, I noticed a teapot-sized lump. “It’s a drag, being blinded by a burning stake every night. Finally, I can get a good night sleep! Just wanted to drop by and say I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” I mumbled.
“Do you mind,” he asked, “If I’ll spread the word?”
Having no idea what he was talking about, I only nodded meekly and watched his enormous form vanish into thin air. Two hours later, I managed to fall asleep.
Waking at dawn, I turned to the female figure beside me. “Honey, that was some dream I had!”
“I know,” The woman faced me, and I shrieked at the view. Her skin was old and wrinkled. The nose sported a huge wart. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, and her hair dirty-white.
“Have no fear, I’m here to ask for a favor,” continued the Wicked Witch of the West, “Do I really have to melt when Dorothy showers me with that bucket of water? Can’t I just, you know, get soaking wet?”
I took my first blood at the age of 18. She thought me charming. I thought her delicious. And in this I found the joy of my curse. The finest wines paled in comparison. The years after were filled with drinks from English girls redolent of soap and work, Greek women tasting of lemon, and Italians swelled with wine and piety. And the French!
But I get ahead of myself.
At first I chased youth, searching all the world for the freshest and most pure. But all changed when I returned to Europe after the war. The first taste I had, a widow in Brighton, stung. It was bitter, but with just a hint of hope. I craved more. And more was forthcoming. Widows, daughters without fathers, mothers with lost children. Europe had changed and my palate with it. No more did I crave innocence. Experience tasted so much richer!
There was a region in France that was particularly savory. One in ten men made it home. It tasted of emptiness, loss and despair. I drank most of the town in a week. But I saved one for last. Suzette was hope embodied. She escaped the town, and I let her. Some vintages are better with age.
As years passed I would often see her, as immortality made a small world smaller for me. But I could never bring myself to harvest, knowing that another year would add so much to her taste. I followed her life, watched her gain wealth, a husband, and a family. I found myself making excuses to be where she was, to see what she’d done. I was fascinated. The sight of her brought out an unspeakable hunger, matched only by my patience. When she began to fail I knew I had to feast, as her time was drawing short.
She knew me on sight. I had followed her so closely how could she not? I expected a fight, but she just smiled a sad little smile.
She pulled white hair off the paper skin of her neck.
I bit.
The whole of her experience flowed into me. Love and loss and hope and joy all danced together. And a taste unfamiliar and unpleasant. So much so that I spat the blood out and left her lying on the floor.
I think now that taste was pity.
But why pity me?
in war gunshots are all that's heard
an olive branch preposition - absurd
lesser-known men shooting others for glory
and redemption obtained through fire
ten years before - an allegory
some destruction wrought through others' armies
the world on the strings of this one liar
he'd deceived them all through pride
the one whom all the others admired
wanted truth to shine - a pedestal - higher
but he'd attain it with no war - a guide
to make earth have some sort of peace
but war stands firmly on death's side
to life's end - entropy on rising tides -
confidentiality - death - was breached
quickly they moved - bombs swarming like birds
ten years have passed since our last reach
to new tomorrows - a war to whitewash - bleach -
the world anew - destroy differences - create herds -
we're doomed to repeat without learning the story
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
"I disagree," said Butch. "That one is too far."
"Too far?" said Jack incredulously. "That logic is going to sink us for sure. Too far? That’s why you’ll never be Captain."
"Fine then," said Butch. "Ask the Captain. It should be his choice anyways."
"I don’t think the Captain is in any shape to make a ruling," said Kevin. "Look at him."
"The sun must have done him in," said Butch.
"No," said Kevin looking at the captain, slumped in a comatose state. "I think it was the alcohol that got to him, not the sun"
"True, true. Ok, so what do you think Kev?" Butch asked.
"Oh no, don’t look at me," said Kevin. "I’m not weighing in on this one. It doesn’t matter which one anyways. We’ll screw up either way, and if I make the decision, that screw up will come back on me. This one is completely on the two of you."
"I’m worried about the water," said Butch.
"The water!" cried Jack. "You’re a piece of work, you know that. Does your mamma know she raised a coward? If we have to take on a little bit of water, then so be it. No guts, no glory. Besides, we have four chances."
"Three," said Kevin.
"Three, I stand corrected."
"I don’t know," said Butch. "That’s a lot of water between us."
"Would you prefer a sandy beach?" asked Jack.
"Yea, I might."
"HEY, MAKE A DECISION!" came a call from behind.
"The natives are getting restless," said Kevin. "I think you need to make a decision. Just pick one."
"Why don’t we just play it safe, then it doesn’t matter which one we pick," said Butch.
Jack stared at him in silence.
"Ok, this one is fine I guess," Butch finally admitted.
"I’ll take over captain duties," said Jack. "All in agreement, say ‘aye’."
"Aye," said Jack and Kevin in unison.
"I hate you guys," said Butch.
"The ayes have it," said Jack. "Kevin, you take the first shot."
"Four-iron?" asked Kevin.
"Yea, four-iron sounds good. I think we’re right at 200 yards. Don’t go in the water. I don’t have any more balls to give you, especially after that debacle on Eleven. Butch, you might want to hit a wood."
"Yea, I’ve got your wood. How about a wood up side of your captain-sized head?"
“After we returned you to your home, we expected you would someday contact us with the communicator we left you… but I am curious, why this? Why did you want us to do this?” Jason swallowed once and looked at Thalinox’s disguised form. He had initially been shocked when he saw the alien, his holographic human form had been improved vastly since Jason’s initial encounter with his race, and, had Jason not known his Thlainox’s true nature, he would never have been able to tell the difference. The language synthesizer, on the other hand, though now perfect grammatically, still sounded off.
“It’s for the best. When you dropped me back on Earth, all those years ago, you told me that when I thought humanity was ready, you would return, and use your technology to help our society evolve, and you have.” The alien, still shrouded in the dynamic hologram, was obviously confused, as the hologram represented his state by cocking its head to one side.
“You can imagine that this is not what I had in mind when I made that promise. That said, I told you that we would answer your call, and we have, I simply don’t comprehend the reasoning behind your request.” Jason sighed and looked out of the viewport again, his expression grim as he looked down upon his world, judging it.
“My people have always been divided, and not just geographically. Our history has been permeated with wars, horrible wars. In fact, the only thing that has ever been able to unite different cultures is a common enemy.”
“We are the common enemy.” It was a statement, not a question. Jason swallowed and nodded sullenly.
“When I saw your world, the unity of your people, I knew I could never accept the trivialities that divide my planet. I tried for years to think of an alternative, but I couldn’t. I sincerely believe this to be the only way.” He gestured to a viewscreen, a magnified view of a current battle. “Look at that. United Nations soldiers and former insurgents, putting aside their differences, fighting side by side… united in hatred.”
“Will it last though? Once we retreat, will the coalitions your people have formed remain?” Jason shook his head, and suddenly couldn’t bring himself to face Thalinox.
“I… I don’t know. But even if it doesn’t, the possibility alone makes their sacrifices worthwhile. As for your people… I only hope they can forgive me.” Thalinox reached out and touched Jason’s hand. The hologram appeared as a hand, but it could not hide the alien’s slimy texture.
“Do not worry about us, we made a promise, we have honored it. You, however… you understand it would be too dangerous to return you to your home?” Jason nodded again.
“Yes.”
“You will… live with us? What of your friends and family?” Jason looked up at Thalinox, a tear running down his cheek.
“I will be casualty of war… I can only hope I will be the last.”
Many thanks to ChibiSwan of The Ugly Swan for the great banner!
And this time, we have a twist! This round of contest will be prompted, rather than free-writing. I've let FunkyNinja, the winner of round 3, choose the prompt:
George loved comic books so he was eager for the chance to buy new ones.
Later that afternoon the man with the yellow hat took George to John’s comic shop. John McGwire, the shop owner greeted them.
“Hello George,” said the Mr. McGwire. “We’ve got a Magic the Gathering tournament running right now, maybe you could watch.”
George was so excited. He’d never seen or heard of Magic the Gathering.
“You stay here George, and I’ll be right back. Don’t get in to trouble,” said his friend.
The room smelled funny and it was crowded. Many people were wearing black and he saw lots of people wearing funny jewelry. George thought a couple of them needed a good bath. But everyone seemed to be having a very good time.
Each person was playing with a deck of cards. Some cards were blue, some were red, some were green, some were black and some were white. Some didn’t have any color at all.
Mr. McGwire gave George a card called a Black Lotus.
“This is the most valuable card in the game, George. Everyone wants one of these.”
George liked it because it had a picture of a flower.
George sat down beside two people playing a game of Magic.
For some reason, a boy named Jack kept referring to his opponent as Timmy, but his name was not Timmy, it was Stephen. George was confused.
After watching for a while, George started to wonder if he could play Magic.
So he went to another table and shuffled a deck of cards. He tried to place cards on the table face-up exactly like he saw everyone else do. He turned some sideways.
Suddenly George realized he no longer had the Black Lotus and he started looking around frantically.
He went back to the table where he had been watching a game, but they were no longer there. George looked under backpacks and he looked under binders, but he couldn’t find the Black Lotus anywhere!
What was he going to do? He didn’t want to tell the shop owner he had lost his most valuable card.
He would have to find another one.
He found another game and while they were playing, he picked up the deck and started sifting through their cards.
“George, what are you doing!” cried a boy. “We’re playing a game.”
George was scared, so he ran off.
That’s when the man with the yellow hat returned.
“Did you have fun George?” asked the man.
George shook his head and looked down. He tried to explain to his friend that he had lost the Black Lotus.
That’s when the shop owner said, “It’s ok George. That card had a gold border. It wasn’t a true Black Lotus. I can give you another one.”
And that’s what he did.
By trattman
"What a day", I thought to myself.
It had just been one of those days at the office, the phone rang non-stop and I was just drained. Thankfully, I was on my way home from work. The problem is that I catch the bus home. This means that at 5:30 on a Tuesday I'm standing on the bus surrounded by smelly people on their way home.
The ride was pretty rough and I was bumped a few times as the bus went around the corners. I didn’t think much of it as the rough travel was pretty much par for the course on the bus. Then, I noticed that my wallet wasn't in my left jacket pocket, where I usually keep it. "****", I thought, "I haven't lost my wallet have I?".
As I thought about the last time I had my wallet, I realised that I had paid for my ticket home and had my wallet then. I thought back to those seemingly innocent bumps and was suddenly suspicious of everyone around me. Had I been pickpocketed?
I took a closer look at the other passengers. On my right was an older man who looked about 70. His was bald with just a fringe of grey hair around his head. He had a crooked back and looked quite frail. I immediately felt sorry for the guy. Why was he forced to stand up at his age? Why didn’t someone stand for him? This sympathy was followed by suspicion. What if he chose to stand and it was all a ruse. After all, he might have long years of practice at theft.
On my left was an attractive woman of about 25. She was dressed very business chick - black jacket and skirt over a conservative blue blouse. Her blond hair was pulled tightly together in a pony tail. In all, the look was quite severe and professional looking. Either she knew her stuff and copied the look flawlessly or it wasn't her.
Across from me was the most likely crook of the lot. He was a teenager dressed in ripped black jeans and a My Chemical Romance tee-shirt. He looked like a likely suspect. I remembered that he had collided with me quite heavily earlier in the trip and that bump took on new meaning.
The bus stopped at the next stop and I took my opportunity to go up to the guy. "I know you did it." I said to him.
"Oh yeah? What's that then?" he said with an English accent. He looked a bit scared but defiant as he said it and I moved closer, ready for a confrontation.
At that moment, the bus driver said over the noise of the crowd, "Ah, folks, it looks like someone has left their wallet up here. Please make sure that you have yours."
As I collected my wallet from the bus driver, I could only think, "It's one of those days."