Rules:
1. For the purpose of this contest, Flash Fiction is defined as stories of 500 words or less. This limit will be strictly enforced.
2. Submissions are constantly open. There are no deadlines. From time to time, approximately every 1-2 weeks, I will arbitrarily close the round. If you just missed the round's end, worry not, your submission will automatically roll over to the next round.
3. For each round, a public poll thread will be open. Anyone can (and in fact, should) vote, but please don't vote for yourself.
4. There is no theme or prompt to the stories; this may change in future rounds.
5. One submission per person per round, or per 10 days, whichever is less.
So, there you have it. Pretty please, submit!
Round 1 end: post 25
Round 2 end: post 37
Round 3 end: post 50
Round 4 end: post 59
Round 5 end: post 70
Round 6 end: post 77
Round 7 end: post 83
Round 8 end: post 90
Round 9 end: post 98
Round 10 end: post 107
Round 11 end: post 113
Round 12 end: post 120
Round 13 end: post 127
Round 14 end: post 138
I saw pinpoints of radiance on a black canvas and right in its cradling heart, a blue-white jewel of remarkable beauty.
So attractive. So ravishing. So stunning.
It was a sight that sang out to me, beckoning me to it.
It was a rising crescendo of alluring music, consuming my sanity.
How I coveted to reach for it. How I yearned to pluck it out.
Oh, how it enticed me so.
“This one,” I breathed out finally. “I choose this one.”
My lungs relaxed, eagerly taking in the cool stale air of the communion chamber. I took a deep breath in and let it out. Repeat. Repeat.
“You stopped breathing there for a moment,” my companion eyed me critically. “Do not let it happen again. We do no tolerate weakness, even a temporary lapse of it.”
“Of course,” I agreed. It was a slap on the wrist; nothing more, nothing less. Protocols must be observed in a formal conference. I had no doubt the teasing would come after the assembly had ended.
“What is this world called?” I asked. I had to know.
“Earth,” the reply came.
My lips curled faintly in distaste. “Its inhabitants called it Earth? What a boorish, crude, uncouth name.”
“The dominant sentient species is rather undeveloped,” my companion agreed; speculative eyes pinning me. “It is a backwater world after all. I wonder why you are so interested in it.”
“I have never seen a world as lovely as this through our millennia-long travel across the Star Systems yet,” I gushed out, eying the image hungrily. “It is… perfect.”
“No, it’s not. Not for what the Collective had in mind anyway,” the answer came. “I have gone through the data on it. We can definitely do better than this.”
And with that said, my companion left me and went to discuss other options with the rest of the Collective. What a blind idiot.
No matter. I would take this Earth. It would be my precious jewel and mine alone.
I called up the data on it and gazed upon them. The dominant sentient species was a race of small cold-blooded bipedal reptiles. I scorned on them. Inferior things. I twitched my fingers. They must be removed.
Huge scale extinction could be arranged. Weather patterns could be drastically changed. Earth must be cleansed, purified, and made anew.
Then, and then, I shuddered with ecstasy unbounded.
I would remake my jewel. I would reseed it with life. I would guide its evolution.
The new sentient race would be made in the image of its maker, me.
I felt a familiar hand grasp my shoulder, shaking me out of my restless sleep. The trip to Sweden had been a long one, and jet lag did not begin to describe my disoriented exhaustion when I had arrived at the quaint village that Veki had once called home.
My eyes opened, slowly and with great reluctance. In time, my vision focused, and my heart jolted. Standing before me was a tall figure, sheathed entirely in steel, brandishing a large axe. Before I could scream, the apparition spoke, and I was calmed. It was Veki.
He motioned for me to follow him. We crept through the old house as quiet as mice, and after leaving the house, quickly made our way to the town square. The square was glowing with torchlight and loud with the conversations of hundreds. The square was ringed with large speakers, a mocker of stonehenge. Power metal blared from these speakers, but not even the music could deny the pressence of the speaker.
The speeker stood in the center of the crowd. He was a tall, well built man. Like Veki, he was decked in full plate mail, but he looked far more imposing in his. Like a monolith born from steel and glass, he rose above the crowd, on a large wooden platform.
"So it begins again," the man spoke, "so begins the yearly crusade, the night when satan's minions run free, when dragons fly the skies again. The night of crimson thunder!"
His speech was met with thunderous cheers and the clattering of hundreds of gauntleted fists pounding on breastplates.
I looked around me. What was this? These could not be the same villagers I met only hours ago. No, those were friendly. These were crazed zealots.
Suddenly, we heard a great shouting in the distance, identical to the one made moments ago by the crowd, but further off. The speaker's eyes lit up. He smiled.
"Ah! They have come! Onward men! It is time to meet them in battle! For Odin! For Thor! For Freya!"
The crowd echoed his every word, and with a shout started heading southward.
This is madness! What is going on, why is this happening?
I pondered my situation for a moment, but then I noticed the music. Blind Guardian, Iced Earth, Helloween, Dio, I recognized them all. And then, something clicked. They sang of valor, of glory. Of battle.
I looked around at the people surging past me, at the passion in their eyes. And then I noticed Veki. He was handing me a sword, grinning.
"Valhalla's calling."
I smiled.
I think I was finally beginning to understand this rock thing.
Our trench is wet and dank, its walls slowly collapsing in a slimy mudslide. I crouch against it, using my rifle for support. The gaunt and sallow faces of the other men chill me far more than the crisp, cold air ever has. As the wind whistles and blows around us, I enviously watch a man strike a match to light his cigarette. The draft whips through the trench and stings my face before battering my body.
An ancient colonel coughs behind us to get our attention and then lifts his finger, his face a silent apology. He has seen this a hundred times and has no wish to see it yet again.
He raises his flute and his cheeks bulge, and then the shrill whistle pierces the cold air and tears its way across the trench. Each of us mindlessly leaps out of the hole, going because we have no choice. Death awaits us if we stay, death if we go.
Once, long ago, we screamed and yelled as we hurtled over dead man’s land. Now, as we wearily trudge toward the enemy, the air is silent until the shots start.
Oddly, I think of popcorn from back home as the guns begin to crackle; of warm kernels exploding in the oven just as the ground around me explodes now. I quicken my pace and remember that time. Home is a dream now—one I have almost forgotten.
We are closer. I notice how few of us have made it this far. I almost see the eyes of the men that are shooting at me. I lift my voice to give a belated battle yell, but my cry is strangled by a sudden pain in my arm. Another angry wasp bites into my body and spreads fiery needles through my mind. Home is closer now. With its image in my head, the pain fades. At last, the fire is gone. Strangely, so is everything else.
'Honor is but a balance between doing what is right and doing what you must.'
These words are ones to live by, especially when you're nearly 120 and trying to stay alive despite opposition from every corner. Some call me a blaster mage, yet it seems I am the one getting blasted most of the time.
Then there's the annoying necromancer who refuses to argue with me. My personality is such that I would argue with a great wyrm black dragon and most likely walk away unscathed, yet this one absolutely refuses to grant me the satisfaction of letting me know if I'm right or wrong. He does this only because he KNOWS it annoys me, I'm certain. I must hold my tongue instead of blasting him into the next life, though- I owe him several times over, especially considering I gated him in with little warning to assist me with an army of undead led by something more disgusting than I care to describe.
For some reason, he compels me, even if his art is repugnant to me. I can't respect a man who isn't nearly my equal in power and intellect, nor can I allow myself to submit to anyone who would only treat me as chattel- without mind or soul of my own.
Accepting and needing help from those weaker than yourself leaves a bitter taste somewhat like ashes in the mouth- it's always there, and nothing you do can wash it away.
Also, he's an elf- treacherous creatures, bent on twisting the desires and feelings of others to further their own goals. This one also strongly resembles the apotheosis of evil, a dark elf- yet he claims not to be one, and since I have met other subraces who were physically similar yet different, I choose to believe his story until I find out differently.
He does not know much of me or the rather unique circumstances concerning my life- he thinks of me as a young human female, yet I am nearly as old as he is. I wish to know him more, so that I can judge his true character- those who practice the arts of death do not always deal it indiscriminately.
I have found that I am fascinated with who he is, not what he is- maybe I'm finally growing up, after a century of trying.
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.
And with that came the moment I had been waiting for all my life... my first kiss.
I had known Jessica since first grade, and we had been friends in that same timespan. She stuck up for me when I was bullied, and I stuck up for her when she was ostracized. Somehow I knew something special was going to happen.
Then, for a while, nothing happened.
Actually, a lot of things happened. I was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, I had heart surgery, I took a lot of bullying just for who I was. All the while, there was one constant - Jessica. I talked with her about all the things in life that bothered me. She did what any good friend would – she comforted me. She didn't do anything special or go on a pity trip with me. She and I would do something we both enjoyed, like playing a board game or whatever. Just the simple things in life that make a friendship grow. Our friendship grew to the point where I was about to spill my guts at any given moment; at any point I could tell my best friend in the world I was deeply infatuated with her.
I could never do it.
Instead I watched as she went about her ways with her friends and I did the same with mine. Then, while talking to my shrink about this subject, he told me something I should have realized so long ago. He told me that confessing one's feelings is just as simple as saying them – no dramatic buildup, no special setting, none of that crap – just tell her.
Dr. Callahan's advice may have been the best I had ever received. Because when I finally mustered the strength to confess my feelings for her – after seventeen years of coping with and overcoming so much adversity, and watching all my friends around me find love while I felt isolated – she said the same for me, and I was truly the happiest person on Earth.
And then my alarm clock woke me up.
(Author's note: The story is based on the events of my life. If you have questions, I will field them in the discussion thread.)
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Craven and Epic Graphics win the prize for this banner. Shweet.
DCI Rules Advisor and Level 2 Tournament Organizer.
Her name was Oriss; she was the daughter of a hero and a revolutionary. She was a healer and she had sworn to protect them as her mother had. She would protect the people of world as her mother before her had.
She was trying to understand this new disease. Like the pestilence before it, it was devouring the people whom she had sworn to protect, and in an equally vicious way. The pestilence had corroded their bodies from the skin inwards, but this new one burnt the blood from their veins.
The paladins were immune to this new plague as they had been the last, but the deaths were taking a spiritual toll on their order. They had bought the first sufferer into the village so that the medics like her could help. They had not been able too, though they had been able to help one being, the disease, to live on. The paladins had bought it into the village, but the medics had spread the suffering to the people.
She reflected on all of this as she lay surrounded by the dead and charred corpses of all she knew. Her power could help her to stay alive, but she was injured badly and keeping herself alive weakened her greatly. She could not seek help without spreading the disease. She was alive, she could find food and water, and she would one day die a natural death, but what she had was not true life, it was martyrdom. This disease would end with her, and she would do as her mother had done and save the land from a sorrowful death.
Didn’t they know the meaning of the word ‘occupied’?
Chuu gurgled weakly as he tried to orient himself. The airship had hit a patch of turbulence while he was washing his hands; not that surprising given him and his friends’ current luck of airship integrity. But even before the ride turned bumpy, he was certain he had heard a commotion outside the door.
Now that commotion wanted inside the bathroom.
“You’re surrounded! Your friends are all already under arrest, so just come on out, okay?”
Chills ran down Chuu’s spine; Shin was caught? The Dark Lord Shin was caught? Like this? On an airship? No epic battle? After all they’d been through, was he really subdued here? The Boss wasn’t that weak… was he?
Chuu swallowed hard. He wriggled around on the floor and sat up correctly.
“I’m giving you one last warning pal,” the voice boomed, “Come out with your hands up, or we’re coming in. Don’t bother washing your hands; we don’t care.”
The young man’s eyes darted around the tiny compartment: no windows. Such was a downfall in interstellar transport. No other exits; unless he could somehow flush his tall, lanky form down the latrine… No, that was stupid…
“That’s it!” The man spat, “Imako, tear that door down!”
“Eek!” Chuu cried, “WAIT WAIT WAIT~!” He cried, frantically grabbing at the door handle and yanking at it to open. ‘If I give up now, the Boss will definitely be able to figure out an escape plan later!’ He swallowed hard again, and felt it drop all the way to his stomach. ‘Just open the door and surrender. Boss will know what to do next.’ He turned the handle, and pushed the door open. Stepping out, he exhaled deeply and said. “I’m sorry officers. I had to jiggle the…”
He stopped when he looked out into the aisle and noticed none of the twelve masked men that had been restrained were the Boss… or anyone else he knew for that matter.
“Yo!” One of the masked men chimed.
Chuu’s jaw dropped. “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS~?!”
To Be Continued.
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Underling Ethu's 263rd report read simply "Yes, my lord.Overwhelmingly, my lord." This marked the end of the Mirran-Phyrexian War.
Robert the Robot was a gift. His switch was first flicked to ‘On’ during a birthday party. The first thing seen by his photoelectric eyes was a birthday cake, then locks of golden hair.
“Can he talk?” the girl asked. “Hello robot, can you talk?”
“Hello…” said Robert the Robot, pausing for a split-second to zoom in on the cake and read the inscription, “… Jessica. Happy seventh birthday!”
“He’s so cute!” Jessica jumped and clapped her hands. “I’m going to call you Robert the Robot, and we’re going to be best friends forever!”
The other kids hummed appreciatively, even though some of them thought it was a silly name. As did Robert, because his real name was ARTM-811-408, but who was he to argue?
Robert and Jessica did everything together. In the morning, he woke her up, not too early, not too late, but just in time for school. He helped her cross the street, and while she was at school, cleaned up her room, prepared her dinner, and set up the toys for playtime. He picked her up after school, helped with her homework, and when that was done, they played doll-house and dominos. When it rained, he handed her an umbrella, and when she fell and hurt her knee, he always had a band-aid ready.
Then Jessica left the house with her parents, and they didn’t return for quite a while. Robert didn’t get tired of waiting; after all, he was a robot. Then, her parents came back, without Jessica, and her mother was crying. They ignored Robert, who was standing in her room as usual, and didn’t tell him anything. At the end of the night, between the sobs, he managed to compile enough pieces of conversation to realize Jessica had leukemia and needed a bone marrow transplant. Robert didn’t have any bone marrow; he was just a robot, and bone marrow wasn’t the same as band-aid. So he waited.
Six months later, Jessica returned home, changed. She didn’t have her locks of golden hair anymore, and she was also serious. She didn’t want to play doll-house anymore, or anything else for that matter. Her parents tried to appease her with gifts, so many that she ran out of space in her room and Robert had to be moved to the basement. To conserve energy, Jessica’s dad decided to turn his main power off, ‘for now,’ as he said.
“What are we going to do with him?” Jessica’s mom asked. “It’s such a waste, he’s almost brand new.”
“I’ll find something.” Jessica’s dad assured her.
Robert the Robot waited. And waited. And waited. Then, he felt a surge of power inside him. Someone flicked his switch to ‘On’ again. He adjusted his eyes to the light, and saw a group of unfamiliar faces staring at him. Behind them, he saw a birthday cake. A boy approached him.
Its Eyes opened. There were shouts of pain. Pain and anguish. It was in a dark room, lit by volcanic bursts and explosions of fire and rock. The walls were made of stone, with veins of magma coursing through them, pumping heat through the room. A taller one danced near the corner of the room holding a trident made of crystal, and several others that had formed a ring around it were chanting in deep, earth-shaking voices. There were others of its size too, slowly coming together, rock by rock. It looked down as its legs formed from molten lava and hard stone. Its eyes jerked to the top of the chamber as it roared in pain. The chanting intensified as it raised itself to its feet, still roaring, and felt its arms for the first time as they were seared onto its body in a blinding flash of pain. The chanting stopped. It fell to its knees as the full force of gravity came crashing down on its back. It lowered its eyes to the dancing figure, burning with hatred for its suffering. Defiantly, it raised itself up to its full height. It did not care for the other spawn writhing on the floor. It was intent only on stopping the incredible force overcoming its passage to the shaman, who had begun dancing once again, at a feverish pace. The singing began at an increased tempo as rocks flew from the walls to smash and weld themselves onto it. Its siblings disintegrated and flew into its body, weighting it down even more. It could feel the force of the blows compacting its body into increasingly heavy rock. Once again the dancing stopped, and once again it fell to its knees, nearly three tons heavier. It drew on its fury, raging up towards the shaman, preparing to lunge at its torturer. The shaman moved to the wall as the dancing reached a crescendo once again, and it was buried in tons of rock, smashing to the floor. The shaman fell to his knees in exhaustion and relief, using his trident to support the rest of his body. It was the hardest birthing he had ever done. The fledgling lying in front of him had such an awesome presence; how did he manage to get up again and again? The shaman leaned with his hand against the volcano wall, feeling rejuvenating magma seep through his tired veins. He looked down at the boy once again in wonderment. He saw the small movement of the fledgling’s hand, but his reaction was too late. It opened its clenched fist, the last of the shaman’s neck rocks tumbling out of its palm. As the shaman’s head rolled away, it finally succumbed to fatigue as shouting erupted from the other tall ones. Its eyes closed. The shouts faded.
“He could be dangerous”. The messenger was awoken by voices surrounding him. “Who’s there?” he exclaimed, now fully upright and reaching for his sword. He had been warned that bandits roamed these parts but he was not afraid, he had been trained well. “Show yourselves you cowards!” No answer came. Silence, which frightened him much more than any vocal response would have. With a sudden crack of noise, almost as if the air around him were exploding, ropes sprang out of the trees and tied him tight around his chest and midsection. They squeezed him tight for several seconds before he passed out. He had let them get the better of him. He had failed.
Light shined through his closed eyes. The messenger woke but was unable to stand. He was chained in what seemed to be a vast castle hall. He attempted to glean some knowledge of his surroundings from the décor. The walls were stone, old stone, and covered in paintings of epic battles and a large array of weapons. This was no place he had ever seen. “So, you have entered the Forest of Illusion. What is it you wished to find?” whispered a soft voice. The messenger’s heart skipped a beat. How could he not have known he was being watched? He strained to see the man who was addressing him but although he was not 20 feet away, the man’s features were somehow blurred as though he was surrounded by possibly harder air. “I came to seek an audience with Sujetsu, lord of this forest” the messenger answered in a shaky voice. “And what is your reason for seeking such an audience?” asked the man, a hint of interest had crossed his wispy voice. “I have been sent by King Muthor to ask his assistance” replied the messenger. “What type of assistance?” snapped the man suddenly, the interest now replaced by annoyance. Although he was quite afraid of this mysterious man the messenger steeled his mind and said, in the bravest voice he could muster, “I can not reveal that information to anyone but Sujetsu”, his instructions had been quite clear in this area. The man paused for a moment, and although his features were still oddly blurred, the messenger could feel the man staring at him; it felt as though the man could see right through him. Then the moment had passed and the silence was broken, “Speak then, for it is Sujetsu himself whom you are addressing”. All at once, the messenger was freed from his bonds and the man’s features became visible. The messenger stood and surveyed the man who claimed to be Sujestu. He was tall, with long black hair tied in a ponytail. He had a strong face and large muscles which bulged out of his shirt. But it was his eyes that transfixed the messenger, his eyes were black, pitch black, they seemed as if they knew all, they saw all, they were, all...
(Excerpted from a much longer story and slightly modified to fit under 500 words)
The stone temple sarcastically echoed my graceless footwork as I stumbled, nearly falling to an almost certain bump on the knee. “Why are significant artifacts ALWAYS buried in the darkest cavern or submerged in the deepest ocean or entombed in the tallest…” “Yes, yes! We’ve heard this before!” my cynical assistant bellowed from the lead. She threw her arms in the air. “And I told you: ‘Dinosaur fossils; that’s the way to go!’ Cheaper insurance! The only danger is getting sun stroke from digging them up in the Badlands of South Dakota. But no! You’d rather put a claim into the insurance company declaring ‘damage due to a slow-shrinking room with spiked walls and ceiling.’ Let’s go to the most underdeveloped areas of the most unknown parts of the world in search of a gold monkey head (complete with ruby eyes) that was a Mayan king’s most precious procession because he decided that it symbolized prosperity, fertility and sunny weather. You want the artifacts that mad kings hid in snake-infested pits, surrounded by more cliché booby-traps, including chambers that fill up with water and venomous sea snakes, drowning victims in a matter of minutes. Someone’s seen one too many Indiana Jones movies! All you’re missing is the fedora and a…” I stopped walking. Her nagging trails off into the bleakness, thrusting around the cave walls. My lantern swayed lightly, as the un-oiled handle squeaked rhythmically in my hand. Its melody was soon interrupted by a lengthy squeal. The holler was immediately absorbed into the cobweb-coated walls. I continued the stroll through the temple, and the song of the lantern harmonized with my carefully placed footsteps. After a few feet I stopped again, feeling a new variety of air. This atmosphere was chillier and thinner than that of the previous chambers and halls I passed through in the stale temple. I cup my hands around my grinning mouth and pivot my body in the direction of the unending crater my assistant so shrewdly discovered. “At least I like snakes!”
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"I don't know what I'm searching for I never have opened the door, Tomorrow might find me at last, Turning my back on the past..."
~ Justin Hayward
The sound of metal dragging on metal echos in the silence. I stand at the entrance to an abadoned amusement park. Through the fog bank I see a sign. Silent Hill Amusement Park is written across a large sign above the entrance. My head starts to hurt as the sound of sirens fill the empty void around me. I wake up. I was home in my bed, as I should be. For the last week, I've had weird dreams about a town called Silent Hill. I never remember ever going to that town in my entire life. I get up, get dressed, and head down stairs to the kitchen. I find a note on the fridge that says, "We've found a place for a vaction this year. We'll tell you about it later tonight. Love, Mom and Dad". I almost forgot about our vaction this week. I sit down on the couch and watch some T.V. After a while I start to doze off. I wake up in a hospitel bed. A women stands over me with a scapel in hand. She is wearing a normal outfit of a nurse, but as I look up my eyes widen. "What the hell is this", I yell as I notice a faceless head. She starts to come at me with the scapel. I try to move, but my body wouldn't move at all. "Rob", I wake up again to someone calling my name. It was my mom. "Are you ok son?", she asks me, "you're sweeting". "I'm fine mom", I reply as a stretch my arms, "so where are we going on vaction?". She gets out a brochure and hands it to me and says, "I found a great vaction town right outside of Brahms. I've heard so much about it on the radio and we even got a discount for visiting in the off season". I lift up the brochure. It was a brochure for Silent Hill. I start to shake. "Are you sure you're ok Rob?", my mom asks me. "Yaaa, Yaaaa, I'm just so happy", I tell her, "I'll start packing my things right now". I get up off the couch and head up to my room.
That night the dreams start up again. This time I see a man in a rabbit suit looking at me. He is holding an axe that is covered in blood. The next morning I wake up drenched in sweet. I go take a shower before my parents get up and get done packing. We get in the car and head out. My dad decides to stop in Brahms at a gas station. As me and my mom sit in the car, a Brahms police officer comes over to the car. My mom rolls down her window. "So you folks on vaction?", she asks, "I'm guessing that you're going to Silent Hill, right?". "Actually we are", my Mom replies. My dad starts back to the car. "Sir", the lady says to my dad, "you all have a safe trip". We continue on to Silent Hill. When we get in town, we get a room at a small motel next to the lake. "Why don't we go to the amusement park in the morning?", my mom asks. "Sounds good mom", I reply to her. That night the dreams don't come, but instead they come real. I wake up in the motel room. The entire room is covered in metal and gratting. The bed is covered in rust and blood. I look over and see my parents asleep on the other bed. I start over to them to get them up, but I notice something in the corner of my eye. It was the rabbit suit the man was wearing in my dream. There was also an axe next to it. I leave it alone and go over to my parents. I shake both of them, but they wouldn't get up. I notice blood pouing off the bed and lift up the blanket. Both of them were dead. I look at my hands, and both were covered in blood and so was my shirt. I start to look the room over. This is the room in one of my dreams. The one about the man in the rabbit suit. I see a mirror on the wall. I look at it for a while. I notice the rabbit suit again. "I wonder if it fits", I think to myself, "I bet it does". I put on the suit, pick up the axe, and look in the mirror. "A perfect fit", I say with a smile on my face.
In the First World that was made before this one, there was a small village. The people of this village were peaceful farmers who cherished their livestock.
And so it happened that one night, the cow of a poor farmer was left outside for the night. Her name was Sweetgrass, and she gave milk for that his family.
No one knows what happened that night. Perhaps a farm boy made a bit of mischief and switched some cows, not knowing what would happen. But as the farmer strode down to the market the next morning, he was aghast to find his cow, his beloved Sweetgrass, being chopped up at the butcher’s stand.
“Aaagh!” he wailed. “Curse whatever cruel spirit has done this!” He slumped to the ground. What would his wife and children drink now?
The butcher disapproved. “’Tis but a cow, sir. Think of the people she’ll feed. Think of the fertile soil her body will create.”
“But she was my cow!” yelled the farmer. And, struck by a sudden fury, he called to the skies, “Curse Death! I wish that nothing would ever die again, no cows, no men!”
The butler put down his knives. “That’s a dangerous idea, that is. What happens when the land is so choked with people that there’s no food and so choked with beasts that there’s no grass?”
And so they argued, the farmer for immortality all-around and the butcher listing the benefits of death. At last, as the sun grew higher in the sky, the butcher, who was a gaming man, pulled out a deck of playing cards from his leather sleeve. “Let’s play a game, then. Whomever wins, they’re right.”
And the farmer, though he did not know why, agreed.
They retired to a hut and there they played into the night. It was the game War they played, a simple game, they only one both unlearned men knew.
They played and they played, on and on and on. Neither one won that night, or the next, or the next. They played for days and weeks, finding that they thirsted only for the winning of the game.
As they played, a change came over them. Over years, the butcher’s clothing became darker and lengthened, until he wore a black hood and robe. His knives narrowed and turned into scythes.
The farmer’s clothing grew whiter, impossibly clean. His beard lengthened, and his face shined like the sun.
Whenever the farmer scored, a baby was born in the world. But whenever the butcher scored, an old person, or possibly a young one, died.
Sometimes, when it seems that Life will prevail, all the ghosts and imps and demons of Hell will gather together and push upon the wheel of Fate itself. And then Death will gain back cards, scoring more. And when it seems that Death will win, when all of existence will be terminated, the angels of Heaven will do the same.
History is full of warriors who hung heros for rising against them and failed, and history looks bleak while hope tries to prevail. Nations have fought against each other, and tribes have conquered to prove their supiority. One can never tell who will be victorous in a war. Boys have slain giants to save their homes, and Canibals have pillaged towns eating everything that that got in their way. Only one thing is certain of a battle, and as grim as it may seem, death only awaits those who participate, and a long life is not garenteed.
The battle I speak of today is full of grief as much as hope, as two brothers war in a world full of magic, and the unatural mysteries that come with it. Nathal has a heart as black as the onyx on his ring, and Waken has the heart as white as the doves that fly above. They are indeed brothers by birth right, but enemys in every contrast dream that they hold. Nathal seeked to take over an entire country, starting with his home town, and Waken took an oath to protect everything dear to him.
As clear as onyx was on his finger, Nathel's magic was dark and called for his enemys to rise again to fight by his side even after death. Waken caried his fathers sword, the family birth right that once slew a great dragon that threatend everything from one coast to the next. Waken was older than Nathel, so the sword was his, and this fueled Nathel's anger.
Waken met his brother's dark army one mile from his village, forty three villagers stood behind him braving their lives to save their home. Forty three knew that they had no chance in surviving, only one had hope. That one spec of hope carried the small band into battle, and forty three were slain against the undead array of soldeirs. One stood slaying all who came for him, Waken fought his way to his brother. Every hit he landed cleansed and released a soul trapped in an on going battle, and every hit he landed granted him one more step toward his brother. Nathel stood and watched as Waken cleared a path and soon stood in front of him, sweat signifieing that he was scared of his older sibling.
The two fought, as it was said, for hours, neither landing a fatel blow against the other. It seemed that they were evenly matched against one another, but both were eager to kill the opposite. The battle drew on, each dodgeing the swings the other threw at him. As each battle has a beggining, they also must have an end.
Nathel came to tire unlike his brother who had the power of a greater artifact to power his fight, and carelessly let his brother peirce his chest with the blade. Waken then relized that his brother was just like his army of the dead, unable to die with a normal blow. The blades abilty to cleanse didnt affect the same, thanks to the Onyx ring Nathel had on his finger. With two mighty artifacts backing two powerful warriors there seemed no way to end this fued. Waken prayed to the gods to end the fight, and with a flash brighter then the sun itself, both siblings vanished.
The only things that was found at the battle site, were the corpses of forty three villagers, and two little trinkets. A sword that glowed with the purest light any one could stand, and a ring whose onyx center was darker than any shadow that could be found.
You bet. I was blinded by it's radiance onto my presence. It's light casted my shadow through eternity. As I stood there awe struck and quivering, I was calmed by it's warmth and bellowed voice. It spoke in tongue I have never heard, but clearly understood as my own.
The sound reverberated in my mind until it silenced, lying dormant while it spoke again. This time there were no words spoken, no voice in my head. There were just sharp images of the universe we have searched and pondered in our lives.
It was as time stood still in the universe. The faint glow of stars and planets peircing the black lite canopy. I could see light years from my focal point. And yet, not a sound was heard. My vision strolled downward towards where I stood. My feet were covered by darkness and not a shread of light shown through. Then came more verbal acknowledgement.
'Come, for you I will show you the creations I behold.'
A quick snap and my mind was clinched and thrusted forwards. Beams of light glisened as my eyes rolled back. A sudden jerk halted me to a stop. And there I stood looking down on the earth. It's beauty teared my eyes.
'This is your lair as you know it. You are here now, bonded by life. To release your strangle hold one must forfeit their breath. To do so, shall you begin another journey through my path of destiny.'
I was clearly dumbfounded to what I was being told. I just stared and chocked back amazement at the presence of our planet.
I could sense movement, but not by my own self. My visioned blurred. I focused again to find an arrangement in front of me. Planets, beaming with life. I could make out earth being part of this allignment.
'The Path of Life. It is one you all must take. But advise thineself that this is no mere striaght cordinate. You shall inherit your previous deeds, and shameful behavior in your next coming.'
BOOM! It hit like a ton of bricks. Our time on this planet is temporary. A mere step to the collection of forks and arcs in the journey of life.
'For I give this knowledge to use, but I am not ablidge to show you the end result. For certain fools have wondered their path so that time hath no ending nor begining.'
'Speak gently of thine miracle, for you shalt not be welcome to many arms.'
I could fell a tear coming from the back of me. I was wisked away from my current foothold.
I awoke, head pounding from my enlightenment. I could feel my body collasping on itself. I lie for days focusing my energy to conceive the reality of my recent exploration. For hence forth I bring you my word...
Do not be a fool retracing footsteps in the sandy beaches of hell. Good Night.
There are only two options for a jumper: Up, and Down.
It was early April, 10 A.M., at the corner of 57th and 9th, 12 stories up. The wind was brisk and I was ready to begin to end. I was ready to go Down.
I had rented an apartment two blocks away ever since I had dropped out of college and joined The Movement. I worked as a pizza deliverer at Pauli’s on 5th and Main. As far as I knew, my family had moved out of the city, dropped off the face of the earth. It was better for them that way.
It had started in late March. As an Order member of The Movement, I had been blessed with the opportunity to attend the highest council meetings. The Movement was gaining popularity, and after the founder had gone Down, new leaders had been called forth from the masses to discuss decide on the future plans of The Movement.
The founder of The Movement had jumped in early February.
He had told us that the world was rotting from the inside. He had told us that we were the last bastion of strength for a civilized world.
"Money, greed, ambition; these are the tools of pain and anger! The crime of this world is seething onward, and the pure have been consumed!" he had proclaimed. "The Movement is truth! The Movement is purity! The Movement is freedom and happiness! Throw off the shackles of this rotten world, and come forward into the light. We will live forever, and we will destroy what has ruined! We shall rebuild, and then, in the glory granted to us by ourselves, we shall declare this new creation good!"
He had told us that the city was the root of evil. The filth of the city streets, the gothic, windblown alleyways filled with muggers and prostitutes were corrupting the essence of the earth. The skyscrapers and towering buildings had driven spikes into the heart of the world.
He had told us that the blood of the Movement would free the world.
The council, after much debate, had decided to follow the last written instructions of the founder. They had decided that The Movement would begin the cleansing of the world. They had called for jumpers, for purifiers. I had volunteered to destroy the pain, to destroy corruption.
A date was set, a time was chosen, a place for each person. 1024 of us, altogether, at 10:24 A.M.. 1024; the number of the earth, to the 10th degree. We would be the jumpers. We would awaken the world.
I checked my watch; it was 10:23. I watched the seconds hand, watched it click, click, click. I was waiting for destiny. The minutes hand moved. It was 10:24.
There are only two options for a jumper: Up, up into the pain and crime of the world, or Down, down into ecstasy and the eternal.
It was several moments before the messenger realized he had been staring at Sujestu’s eyes with his mouth opened wide. Through these eyes he could see the abyss, he could see the cosmos, and he could see the darkness. It was calming almost, he immediately felt like he had no worries, that this journey meant nothing if he couldn’t stare into these eyes. But Sujetsu broke this trance when he turned to the table behind him. “So you came to ask for my assistance did you, Rathi?” he started, “the warriors of the east are not ones to be sent here and there, fighting the battles of greedy kings, but I will hear you out none the less”. The messenger stared once again, this time at Sujetsu’s back because he seemed to be busying himself at the table. “How did you know my name?” asked Rathi. Sujetsu paused, “We searched your belongings in an attempt to find out more about your travels through our forest” replied Sujetsu nonchalantly, but Rathi had a suspicion that this was not the truth, perhaps this Sujetsu could read minds…he would not be surprised based on the stories he had heard back in Tehruge.
“So what is it you wish to ask me?” Rathi was staring again. “Uh…the great King Muthor requests your assistance…” he began. “Yes you have told me that much already, but what reason has he given you to convince me? Why should I help Muthor feed his obsession with war?” Rathi blustered. “King Muthor has no such obsession!” Sujestu turned, his eyes closed in relaxation a smug smile crossing his face, “the war with Dirtheuse over 20 pigs and 10 horses…” “Blatant thievery!” cried Rathi. “…the war with Farute because he forgot to remove his hat in Muthor’s presence…” “A matter of honor!” Rathi interrupted. “…It’s all together possible that is what he has convinced himself of but I see the truth upon his heart and he is a greedy, selfish, unworthy ruler who should be content with the good fortune he has been given.” “I will not stand for these slanders against my king!” Rathi almost screamed as he began to lunge at Sujetsu. “Then you will sit” replied Sujetsu calmly and he slammed his staff on the floor. The power which exuded from the point of this staff was breathtaking and Rathi was sent skidding backwards to meet a hard wooden chair traveling towards him. He fell into it and regained his bearings just in time to see Sujetsu take a seat in a similar hard uncomfortable chair behind the table. “Now enough of this foolishness, let’s get to the real issues at hand.”
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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.
“Here,” I slammed the stack of photos on the table. “These will tell you everything you want to know.”
“Everything I want to know…” Evelyn picked up the top one, carefully, as if it was a vial of poison, and drank it with her eyes. “What if I don’t want to know?”
“Then you’re paying me five hundred a day for nothing, Mrs. Morton.”
Evelyn Morton groaned, dropped the photo on the table and slumped in her chair. I took a good look of her. I knew her kind. Forty years old, could be forty-five, given the effort she puts into looking younger than her age. A nice car, a nice house in the suburbs, a handbag whose contents are a carry-on guide to the North American cosmetic industry, two or three teenage children, and a husband who likes young blondes and late-night parties.
I didn’t notice the blinking red light on the phone until a buzzer joined it. My receptionist got a call she couldn’t screen.
“Yes, Carol?”
“Your wife is on line one.”
“Tell her I’m with a customer.” But I could. I turned back to Mrs. Morton, who by now was quietly sobbing into her silk handkerchief. Emotions be damned, I was determined to close this in a professional manner. I started flipping the photos one by one, going over them like a laundry list.
“Wednesday, 9:45 PM, they meet in a Broadway café. There is some hand-holding and physical proximity. 10:25, they leave and take a cab to her apartment. We couldn’t get past the concierge, so…”
“I don’t want to know anyway.”
“Thursday, 9:30 PM, he’s in Rocko’s Bar. Hooks up with a different woman, not clear whether by appointment or chance encounter. They share a dance and some drinks, then have a fight. 10:10, she leaves. 10:20, he picks up another woman, 11:00, they leave together, him clearly intoxicated…”
“And all that time, he told me he was working late, meeting deadlines. And I believed him.” She sobbed.
“11:30, they check into a hotel. That’s all.” I flipped the last of the photos.
Evelyn stood up. “Fine. I understand. He’s weak, prone to temptation, like any other man. When he’s done with his midlife crisis, he’ll crawl back to me. I know it.”
I kept my mouth shut and avoided eye contact. I’m a private investigator, not a therapist. She continued, “Your services, I believe, were paid in advance. Thank you for your work, goodbye.” She left, keeping the last shred of dignity to herself, but leaving the photos on the table.
I packed them back into the envelope, and made a brief phone call. Then I buzzed Carol on the intercom and asked her to come in.
“Hey,” She said, carrying her shapely body through the doorway, “What’s the plan?”
“Well,” I beckoned her to come closer and inhaled her sweet perfume, “We have the night all to ourselves. I told my wife I have to work late.”
Darkness.
And yet...
No. There is only silence, in this forsaken void. "You will return..."
That...that was my imagination. Words of a tortured soul, cast aside like a meaningless, broken promise; doomed to spend the blind enternities encapsulated within this cursed scroll, brewing, hating and wishing for redemption!
And yet... a whisper on the wind, a caress on my brow-these are not the faint longings of a tired hero. "You will return."
Stronger now, hark! A summons from outside of the chasm in which my soul and body have been entwined for nigh on eight years...
A glimmer of light in the distance? Blinding in its magnificence, radiating glory from its pure, heart of life; the faintest of heartbeats, crying to be reborn! "You will return!
That voice? The only one who knew-could it be? I fight my way to the shining soul, the desperation of a madman pumping adrenaline and hollow hope through my body.
My body?
My body has been...restored? "YOU WILL RETURN!"
The dry earth beneath my coarse feet, the smell of blackened pumice in the air; "Welcome home, champion."
"Rianna..."
Josh Miller, 30, waved good-bye to his wife, Harriet, and three-year-old daughter, Maggie, as he boarded flight 117 from JFK to Atlanta. The conference in Atlanta would be his first since his promotion to division director at Comm USA, one of New York's many communications firms. It would also be his first time flying, the fear of which overtook him as he stepped through the wide aisle of the 747.
Josh never talked about his fear. It had always brooded inside him, waiting to be released until the time was right. He did not kid himself, however. Flight was a necessity these days, not in the least for an employee at a communications firm. But at his core he felt unease about putting his life in danger. Harriet's cancer had relapsed, and Maggie, without a stable mother to take care of her, would soon need a sitter. Surgery, sitter...
Money. Josh's hands gripped his armrests in tight disquietude as the plane detached from the airport gate.
He then rubbed his face, mashing his cheeks together and squeezing some tension out of his pores. How he wished he could be on the ground at that moment, safe from risk. What if there were a malfunction? What if the turbulence was so violent that it threw the plan into a nosedive? What about terrorists? The captain's voice did sound Middle Eastern.
Josh watched the luggage cars float across the terminal as the behemoth moved into position on the runway. Its engines roared. And for just a moment, as the din filled the cabin, Josh felt nothing but suspended hope--as if the plane was not going to take off after all. He thought about his family, about God, about life and death, about pain, the pain of dying in midair, while everything around him became overshadowed by a fury propelling him suddenly forward, forcing his back to his seat. He was dizzy; everything was. He felt blood trickle down his lips and chin as his breath left him, sucked from his lungs as if by the jets themselves. He looked outside his window and vertigo took control, sending him unconscious.
....
He woke up and barely blinked an eye before he saw the cabin explode into flames. Josh thought only that he was to die.
They all assumed he was brave in his last moments, as was assumed of everyone aboard the flight. And the firm thought of him fondly, and established an annual day of remembrance in his name. And his parents held each other wistfully after receiving the call from Harriet, and they, too, must have thought he had been brave through it all.
And the pastor spoke at his wake solemnly, "Simple is a man's life when weighed against God's force, and great his fear when he realizes this truth." Harriet cried and dreamed he was still alive.
It was nearly midnight when General Thomas J. Douglas finally walked through the door into his home. He had been traveling all day, but it was worth it: after several months of constant work, he had no wish to spend another minute on base. After locking the door behind him, the general removed his coat and made for the den. It took only a second for him to sense something was off. General Douglas had started his career nearly thirty years earlier, on the frontlines of Iraq. It had been a long time since he’d seen combat, but, even years after that constant alert for signs of danger had subsided, he could still tell that something just wasn’t right. Slowly, quietly, he returned to the coat he had just discarded over the banister. Carefully, he removed from inside the inner pocket a small pistol. He was about to turn on the light when he caught the slightest hint of movement in his peripheral vision. He whirled, bringing his gun to bear… only to let out a startled yelp as he was pinned against the wall by a dark figure. In a panic, the general jerked the trigger, only to realize that his assailant had grabbed the gun’s slide and jerked it back just enough that the hammer would not strike the bullet’s casing. It was only then that he noticed the attacker’s other hand had a blade at his throat. “No shouts or sudden movements, General. It would be most unfortunate if our discussion were to be interrupted by the police.” Though the darkness obscured his attacker’s physical features, the general recognized his voice immediately, and the realization him go pale: Typhon. “Typhon, what’s the meaning of this?” A beam of moonlight through a nearby window illuminated the man’s eerily wide grin. “Come now, General, you certainly saw this coming. Surely you foresaw that I would not be content to be your lapdog all my life.” “But… I’ve been as a father to you. Why, why kill me?” Typhon’s grin suddenly turned to a frown. “I know not how one would categorize our relationship, sir, but I can tell you that father certainly is not the word. A father does not train his son for combat from the moment he is born. A father does not use subliminal messages to manipulate his son’s dreams, engineering him to be the perfect killer. No, General Douglas, you have been my mentor, my advisor, but… one who was grown in a vat does not have a father. As for why I must kill you, sir… you instilled in me a sense of efficiency all my life. You know all the details of my creation, and may know how they may be exploited: that knowledge is a liability. As efficient as I am, there is only one logical course I may pursue. Goodbye, General. I only regret that you will not see the empire I have already begun to create.” The blade struck. (Fragment of a longer piece, also, I posted once in this thread and then deleted that post. The post was identical to this, only the text was screwed up, I had to make the document single-spaced to fix it)
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Quote from CherryBoom! »
It mostly consists of a napalm filled trench around my house and a stack of 1994 pornography in my basement.
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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.
Rules:
1. For the purpose of this contest, Flash Fiction is defined as stories of 500 words or less. This limit will be strictly enforced.
2. Submissions are constantly open. There are no deadlines. From time to time, approximately every 1-2 weeks, I will arbitrarily close the round. If you just missed the round's end, worry not, your submission will automatically roll over to the next round.
3. For each round, a public poll thread will be open. Anyone can (and in fact, should) vote, but please don't vote for yourself.
4. There is no theme or prompt to the stories; this may change in future rounds.
5. One submission per person per round, or per 10 days, whichever is less.
So, there you have it. Pretty please, submit!
Round 1 end: post 25
Round 2 end: post 37
Round 3 end: post 50
Round 4 end: post 59
Round 5 end: post 70
Round 6 end: post 77
Round 7 end: post 83
Round 8 end: post 90
Round 9 end: post 98
Round 10 end: post 107
Round 11 end: post 113
Round 12 end: post 120
Round 13 end: post 127
Round 14 end: post 138
First contest Winner - Robert the Robot by Alx2
Second contest Winner - Sisyphus by erikg88
Third contest Winner - Pie by FunkyNunja
Fourth contest Winner - Some Vintages by FunkyNinja
Fifth contest Winner - Goodbye Master by Danny
Sixth contest Winners - Deathless by Avatar of Kokusho and Wolf by jylichan
Seventh contest Winner - Elevator Music by FunkyNinja
Eighth contest Winner - A Child's Sins by daivos
Ninth contest Winner - Tobias Flaps has a dismal time by turnip_song
Tenth contest Winners - The Passing by daivos and The first cut isn't always the deepest by imopen2
Eleventh contest Winner - Watching the Patterns by Dodavehu
Twelfth contest Winners - Spork by Sam111111 and Godlessspeed by Danny
Thirteenth contest Winners - Style by Infinitive, Untitled by erikg88 and The Night Democracy Fell by daivos
I saw pinpoints of radiance on a black canvas and right in its cradling heart, a blue-white jewel of remarkable beauty.
So attractive. So ravishing. So stunning.
It was a sight that sang out to me, beckoning me to it.
It was a rising crescendo of alluring music, consuming my sanity.
How I coveted to reach for it. How I yearned to pluck it out.
Oh, how it enticed me so.
“This one,” I breathed out finally. “I choose this one.”
My lungs relaxed, eagerly taking in the cool stale air of the communion chamber. I took a deep breath in and let it out. Repeat. Repeat.
“You stopped breathing there for a moment,” my companion eyed me critically. “Do not let it happen again. We do no tolerate weakness, even a temporary lapse of it.”
“Of course,” I agreed. It was a slap on the wrist; nothing more, nothing less. Protocols must be observed in a formal conference. I had no doubt the teasing would come after the assembly had ended.
“What is this world called?” I asked. I had to know.
“Earth,” the reply came.
My lips curled faintly in distaste. “Its inhabitants called it Earth? What a boorish, crude, uncouth name.”
“The dominant sentient species is rather undeveloped,” my companion agreed; speculative eyes pinning me. “It is a backwater world after all. I wonder why you are so interested in it.”
“I have never seen a world as lovely as this through our millennia-long travel across the Star Systems yet,” I gushed out, eying the image hungrily. “It is… perfect.”
“No, it’s not. Not for what the Collective had in mind anyway,” the answer came. “I have gone through the data on it. We can definitely do better than this.”
And with that said, my companion left me and went to discuss other options with the rest of the Collective. What a blind idiot.
No matter. I would take this Earth. It would be my precious jewel and mine alone.
I called up the data on it and gazed upon them. The dominant sentient species was a race of small cold-blooded bipedal reptiles. I scorned on them. Inferior things. I twitched my fingers. They must be removed.
Huge scale extinction could be arranged. Weather patterns could be drastically changed. Earth must be cleansed, purified, and made anew.
Then, and then, I shuddered with ecstasy unbounded.
I would remake my jewel. I would reseed it with life. I would guide its evolution.
The new sentient race would be made in the image of its maker, me.
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
"Wake up! Wake up! It's starting."
I felt a familiar hand grasp my shoulder, shaking me out of my restless sleep. The trip to Sweden had been a long one, and jet lag did not begin to describe my disoriented exhaustion when I had arrived at the quaint village that Veki had once called home.
My eyes opened, slowly and with great reluctance. In time, my vision focused, and my heart jolted. Standing before me was a tall figure, sheathed entirely in steel, brandishing a large axe. Before I could scream, the apparition spoke, and I was calmed. It was Veki.
He motioned for me to follow him. We crept through the old house as quiet as mice, and after leaving the house, quickly made our way to the town square. The square was glowing with torchlight and loud with the conversations of hundreds. The square was ringed with large speakers, a mocker of stonehenge. Power metal blared from these speakers, but not even the music could deny the pressence of the speaker.
The speeker stood in the center of the crowd. He was a tall, well built man. Like Veki, he was decked in full plate mail, but he looked far more imposing in his. Like a monolith born from steel and glass, he rose above the crowd, on a large wooden platform.
"So it begins again," the man spoke, "so begins the yearly crusade, the night when satan's minions run free, when dragons fly the skies again. The night of crimson thunder!"
His speech was met with thunderous cheers and the clattering of hundreds of gauntleted fists pounding on breastplates.
I looked around me. What was this? These could not be the same villagers I met only hours ago. No, those were friendly. These were crazed zealots.
Suddenly, we heard a great shouting in the distance, identical to the one made moments ago by the crowd, but further off. The speaker's eyes lit up. He smiled.
"Ah! They have come! Onward men! It is time to meet them in battle! For Odin! For Thor! For Freya!"
The crowd echoed his every word, and with a shout started heading southward.
This is madness! What is going on, why is this happening?
I pondered my situation for a moment, but then I noticed the music. Blind Guardian, Iced Earth, Helloween, Dio, I recognized them all. And then, something clicked. They sang of valor, of glory. Of battle.
I looked around at the people surging past me, at the passion in their eyes. And then I noticed Veki. He was handing me a sword, grinning.
"Valhalla's calling."
I smiled.
I think I was finally beginning to understand this rock thing.
GAYMERS, the cause of, and solution to, all life's problems.
Our trench is wet and dank, its walls slowly collapsing in a slimy mudslide. I crouch against it, using my rifle for support. The gaunt and sallow faces of the other men chill me far more than the crisp, cold air ever has. As the wind whistles and blows around us, I enviously watch a man strike a match to light his cigarette. The draft whips through the trench and stings my face before battering my body.
An ancient colonel coughs behind us to get our attention and then lifts his finger, his face a silent apology. He has seen this a hundred times and has no wish to see it yet again.
He raises his flute and his cheeks bulge, and then the shrill whistle pierces the cold air and tears its way across the trench. Each of us mindlessly leaps out of the hole, going because we have no choice. Death awaits us if we stay, death if we go.
Once, long ago, we screamed and yelled as we hurtled over dead man’s land. Now, as we wearily trudge toward the enemy, the air is silent until the shots start.
Oddly, I think of popcorn from back home as the guns begin to crackle; of warm kernels exploding in the oven just as the ground around me explodes now. I quicken my pace and remember that time. Home is a dream now—one I have almost forgotten.
We are closer. I notice how few of us have made it this far. I almost see the eyes of the men that are shooting at me. I lift my voice to give a belated battle yell, but my cry is strangled by a sudden pain in my arm. Another angry wasp bites into my body and spreads fiery needles through my mind. Home is closer now. With its image in my head, the pain fades. At last, the fire is gone. Strangely, so is everything else.
Trade Thread
'Honor is but a balance between doing what is right and doing what you must.'
These words are ones to live by, especially when you're nearly 120 and trying to stay alive despite opposition from every corner. Some call me a blaster mage, yet it seems I am the one getting blasted most of the time.
Then there's the annoying necromancer who refuses to argue with me. My personality is such that I would argue with a great wyrm black dragon and most likely walk away unscathed, yet this one absolutely refuses to grant me the satisfaction of letting me know if I'm right or wrong. He does this only because he KNOWS it annoys me, I'm certain. I must hold my tongue instead of blasting him into the next life, though- I owe him several times over, especially considering I gated him in with little warning to assist me with an army of undead led by something more disgusting than I care to describe.
For some reason, he compels me, even if his art is repugnant to me. I can't respect a man who isn't nearly my equal in power and intellect, nor can I allow myself to submit to anyone who would only treat me as chattel- without mind or soul of my own.
Accepting and needing help from those weaker than yourself leaves a bitter taste somewhat like ashes in the mouth- it's always there, and nothing you do can wash it away.
Also, he's an elf- treacherous creatures, bent on twisting the desires and feelings of others to further their own goals. This one also strongly resembles the apotheosis of evil, a dark elf- yet he claims not to be one, and since I have met other subraces who were physically similar yet different, I choose to believe his story until I find out differently.
He does not know much of me or the rather unique circumstances concerning my life- he thinks of me as a young human female, yet I am nearly as old as he is. I wish to know him more, so that I can judge his true character- those who practice the arts of death do not always deal it indiscriminately.
I have found that I am fascinated with who he is, not what he is- maybe I'm finally growing up, after a century of trying.
"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.
“I love you, Jessica.”
“I love you too, Ryan.”
And with that came the moment I had been waiting for all my life... my first kiss.
I had known Jessica since first grade, and we had been friends in that same timespan. She stuck up for me when I was bullied, and I stuck up for her when she was ostracized. Somehow I knew something special was going to happen.
Then, for a while, nothing happened.
Actually, a lot of things happened. I was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, I had heart surgery, I took a lot of bullying just for who I was. All the while, there was one constant - Jessica. I talked with her about all the things in life that bothered me. She did what any good friend would – she comforted me. She didn't do anything special or go on a pity trip with me. She and I would do something we both enjoyed, like playing a board game or whatever. Just the simple things in life that make a friendship grow. Our friendship grew to the point where I was about to spill my guts at any given moment; at any point I could tell my best friend in the world I was deeply infatuated with her.
I could never do it.
Instead I watched as she went about her ways with her friends and I did the same with mine. Then, while talking to my shrink about this subject, he told me something I should have realized so long ago. He told me that confessing one's feelings is just as simple as saying them – no dramatic buildup, no special setting, none of that crap – just tell her.
Dr. Callahan's advice may have been the best I had ever received. Because when I finally mustered the strength to confess my feelings for her – after seventeen years of coping with and overcoming so much adversity, and watching all my friends around me find love while I felt isolated – she said the same for me, and I was truly the happiest person on Earth.
And then my alarm clock woke me up.
(Author's note: The story is based on the events of my life. If you have questions, I will field them in the discussion thread.)
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Her name was Oriss; she was the daughter of a hero and a revolutionary. She was a healer and she had sworn to protect them as her mother had. She would protect the people of world as her mother before her had.
She was trying to understand this new disease. Like the pestilence before it, it was devouring the people whom she had sworn to protect, and in an equally vicious way. The pestilence had corroded their bodies from the skin inwards, but this new one burnt the blood from their veins.
The paladins were immune to this new plague as they had been the last, but the deaths were taking a spiritual toll on their order. They had bought the first sufferer into the village so that the medics like her could help. They had not been able too, though they had been able to help one being, the disease, to live on. The paladins had bought it into the village, but the medics had spread the suffering to the people.
She reflected on all of this as she lay surrounded by the dead and charred corpses of all she knew. Her power could help her to stay alive, but she was injured badly and keeping herself alive weakened her greatly. She could not seek help without spreading the disease. She was alive, she could find food and water, and she would one day die a natural death, but what she had was not true life, it was martyrdom. This disease would end with her, and she would do as her mother had done and save the land from a sorrowful death.
-The End
Avatar and Banner by CharlieD of Midnight Graphics
Chuu gurgled weakly as he tried to orient himself. The airship had hit a patch of turbulence while he was washing his hands; not that surprising given him and his friends’ current luck of airship integrity. But even before the ride turned bumpy, he was certain he had heard a commotion outside the door.
Now that commotion wanted inside the bathroom.
“You’re surrounded! Your friends are all already under arrest, so just come on out, okay?”
Chills ran down Chuu’s spine; Shin was caught? The Dark Lord Shin was caught? Like this? On an airship? No epic battle? After all they’d been through, was he really subdued here? The Boss wasn’t that weak… was he?
Chuu swallowed hard. He wriggled around on the floor and sat up correctly.
“I’m giving you one last warning pal,” the voice boomed, “Come out with your hands up, or we’re coming in. Don’t bother washing your hands; we don’t care.”
The young man’s eyes darted around the tiny compartment: no windows. Such was a downfall in interstellar transport. No other exits; unless he could somehow flush his tall, lanky form down the latrine… No, that was stupid…
“That’s it!” The man spat, “Imako, tear that door down!”
“Eek!” Chuu cried, “WAIT WAIT WAIT~!” He cried, frantically grabbing at the door handle and yanking at it to open. ‘If I give up now, the Boss will definitely be able to figure out an escape plan later!’ He swallowed hard again, and felt it drop all the way to his stomach. ‘Just open the door and surrender. Boss will know what to do next.’ He turned the handle, and pushed the door open. Stepping out, he exhaled deeply and said. “I’m sorry officers. I had to jiggle the…”
He stopped when he looked out into the aisle and noticed none of the twelve masked men that had been restrained were the Boss… or anyone else he knew for that matter.
“Yo!” One of the masked men chimed.
Chuu’s jaw dropped. “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS~?!”
To Be Continued.
“Can he talk?” the girl asked. “Hello robot, can you talk?”
“Hello…” said Robert the Robot, pausing for a split-second to zoom in on the cake and read the inscription, “… Jessica. Happy seventh birthday!”
“He’s so cute!” Jessica jumped and clapped her hands. “I’m going to call you Robert the Robot, and we’re going to be best friends forever!”
The other kids hummed appreciatively, even though some of them thought it was a silly name. As did Robert, because his real name was ARTM-811-408, but who was he to argue?
Robert and Jessica did everything together. In the morning, he woke her up, not too early, not too late, but just in time for school. He helped her cross the street, and while she was at school, cleaned up her room, prepared her dinner, and set up the toys for playtime. He picked her up after school, helped with her homework, and when that was done, they played doll-house and dominos. When it rained, he handed her an umbrella, and when she fell and hurt her knee, he always had a band-aid ready.
Then Jessica left the house with her parents, and they didn’t return for quite a while. Robert didn’t get tired of waiting; after all, he was a robot. Then, her parents came back, without Jessica, and her mother was crying. They ignored Robert, who was standing in her room as usual, and didn’t tell him anything. At the end of the night, between the sobs, he managed to compile enough pieces of conversation to realize Jessica had leukemia and needed a bone marrow transplant. Robert didn’t have any bone marrow; he was just a robot, and bone marrow wasn’t the same as band-aid. So he waited.
Six months later, Jessica returned home, changed. She didn’t have her locks of golden hair anymore, and she was also serious. She didn’t want to play doll-house anymore, or anything else for that matter. Her parents tried to appease her with gifts, so many that she ran out of space in her room and Robert had to be moved to the basement. To conserve energy, Jessica’s dad decided to turn his main power off, ‘for now,’ as he said.
“What are we going to do with him?” Jessica’s mom asked. “It’s such a waste, he’s almost brand new.”
“I’ll find something.” Jessica’s dad assured her.
Robert the Robot waited. And waited. And waited. Then, he felt a surge of power inside him. Someone flicked his switch to ‘On’ again. He adjusted his eyes to the light, and saw a group of unfamiliar faces staring at him. Behind them, he saw a birthday cake. A boy approached him.
“Hello robot, can you talk?”
There were shouts of pain. Pain and anguish.
It was in a dark room, lit by volcanic bursts and explosions of fire and rock. The walls were made of stone, with veins of magma coursing through them, pumping heat through the room. A taller one danced near the corner of the room holding a trident made of crystal, and several others that had formed a ring around it were chanting in deep, earth-shaking voices. There were others of its size too, slowly coming together, rock by rock. It looked down as its legs formed from molten lava and hard stone. Its eyes jerked to the top of the chamber as it roared in pain. The chanting intensified as it raised itself to its feet, still roaring, and felt its arms for the first time as they were seared onto its body in a blinding flash of pain. The chanting stopped. It fell to its knees as the full force of gravity came crashing down on its back. It lowered its eyes to the dancing figure, burning with hatred for its suffering. Defiantly, it raised itself up to its full height. It did not care for the other spawn writhing on the floor. It was intent only on stopping the incredible force overcoming its passage to the shaman, who had begun dancing once again, at a feverish pace. The singing began at an increased tempo as rocks flew from the walls to smash and weld themselves onto it. Its siblings disintegrated and flew into its body, weighting it down even more. It could feel the force of the blows compacting its body into increasingly heavy rock. Once again the dancing stopped, and once again it fell to its knees, nearly three tons heavier. It drew on its fury, raging up towards the shaman, preparing to lunge at its torturer. The shaman moved to the wall as the dancing reached a crescendo once again, and it was buried in tons of rock, smashing to the floor.
The shaman fell to his knees in exhaustion and relief, using his trident to support the rest of his body. It was the hardest birthing he had ever done. The fledgling lying in front of him had such an awesome presence; how did he manage to get up again and again? The shaman leaned with his hand against the volcano wall, feeling rejuvenating magma seep through his tired veins. He looked down at the boy once again in wonderment. He saw the small movement of the fledgling’s hand, but his reaction was too late.
It opened its clenched fist, the last of the shaman’s neck rocks tumbling out of its palm. As the shaman’s head rolled away, it finally succumbed to fatigue as shouting erupted from the other tall ones. Its eyes closed. The shouts faded.
One of Maro's secret fetishes
No, but seriously, this is the actual fetish. I really mean it this time.
"John first, Spike second."
Rules Advisor-capable since 2010.
By Ben
Light shined through his closed eyes. The messenger woke but was unable to stand. He was chained in what seemed to be a vast castle hall. He attempted to glean some knowledge of his surroundings from the décor. The walls were stone, old stone, and covered in paintings of epic battles and a large array of weapons. This was no place he had ever seen. “So, you have entered the Forest of Illusion. What is it you wished to find?” whispered a soft voice. The messenger’s heart skipped a beat. How could he not have known he was being watched? He strained to see the man who was addressing him but although he was not 20 feet away, the man’s features were somehow blurred as though he was surrounded by possibly harder air. “I came to seek an audience with Sujetsu, lord of this forest” the messenger answered in a shaky voice. “And what is your reason for seeking such an audience?” asked the man, a hint of interest had crossed his wispy voice. “I have been sent by King Muthor to ask his assistance” replied the messenger. “What type of assistance?” snapped the man suddenly, the interest now replaced by annoyance. Although he was quite afraid of this mysterious man the messenger steeled his mind and said, in the bravest voice he could muster, “I can not reveal that information to anyone but Sujetsu”, his instructions had been quite clear in this area. The man paused for a moment, and although his features were still oddly blurred, the messenger could feel the man staring at him; it felt as though the man could see right through him. Then the moment had passed and the silence was broken, “Speak then, for it is Sujetsu himself whom you are addressing”. All at once, the messenger was freed from his bonds and the man’s features became visible. The messenger stood and surveyed the man who claimed to be Sujestu. He was tall, with long black hair tied in a ponytail. He had a strong face and large muscles which bulged out of his shirt. But it was his eyes that transfixed the messenger, his eyes were black, pitch black, they seemed as if they knew all, they saw all, they were, all...
The stone temple sarcastically echoed my graceless footwork as I stumbled, nearly falling to an almost certain bump on the knee.
“Why are significant artifacts ALWAYS buried in the darkest cavern or submerged in the deepest ocean or entombed in the tallest…”
“Yes, yes! We’ve heard this before!” my cynical assistant bellowed from the lead. She threw her arms in the air. “And I told you: ‘Dinosaur fossils; that’s the way to go!’ Cheaper insurance! The only danger is getting sun stroke from digging them up in the Badlands of South Dakota. But no! You’d rather put a claim into the insurance company declaring ‘damage due to a slow-shrinking room with spiked walls and ceiling.’ Let’s go to the most underdeveloped areas of the most unknown parts of the world in search of a gold monkey head (complete with ruby eyes) that was a Mayan king’s most precious procession because he decided that it symbolized prosperity, fertility and sunny weather. You want the artifacts that mad kings hid in snake-infested pits, surrounded by more cliché booby-traps, including chambers that fill up with water and venomous sea snakes, drowning victims in a matter of minutes. Someone’s seen one too many Indiana Jones movies! All you’re missing is the fedora and a…”
I stopped walking. Her nagging trails off into the bleakness, thrusting around the cave walls. My lantern swayed lightly, as the un-oiled handle squeaked rhythmically in my hand. Its melody was soon interrupted by a lengthy squeal. The holler was immediately absorbed into the cobweb-coated walls.
I continued the stroll through the temple, and the song of the lantern harmonized with my carefully placed footsteps. After a few feet I stopped again, feeling a new variety of air. This atmosphere was chillier and thinner than that of the previous chambers and halls I passed through in the stale temple. I cup my hands around my grinning mouth and pivot my body in the direction of the unending crater my assistant so shrewdly discovered.
“At least I like snakes!”
I never have opened the door,
Tomorrow might find me at last,
Turning my back on the past..."
~ Justin Hayward
by Frog_Master
The sound of metal dragging on metal echos in the silence. I stand at the entrance to an abadoned amusement park. Through the fog bank I see a sign. Silent Hill Amusement Park is written across a large sign above the entrance. My head starts to hurt as the sound of sirens fill the empty void around me. I wake up. I was home in my bed, as I should be. For the last week, I've had weird dreams about a town called Silent Hill. I never remember ever going to that town in my entire life. I get up, get dressed, and head down stairs to the kitchen. I find a note on the fridge that says, "We've found a place for a vaction this year. We'll tell you about it later tonight. Love, Mom and Dad". I almost forgot about our vaction this week. I sit down on the couch and watch some T.V. After a while I start to doze off. I wake up in a hospitel bed. A women stands over me with a scapel in hand. She is wearing a normal outfit of a nurse, but as I look up my eyes widen. "What the hell is this", I yell as I notice a faceless head. She starts to come at me with the scapel. I try to move, but my body wouldn't move at all. "Rob", I wake up again to someone calling my name. It was my mom. "Are you ok son?", she asks me, "you're sweeting". "I'm fine mom", I reply as a stretch my arms, "so where are we going on vaction?". She gets out a brochure and hands it to me and says, "I found a great vaction town right outside of Brahms. I've heard so much about it on the radio and we even got a discount for visiting in the off season". I lift up the brochure. It was a brochure for Silent Hill. I start to shake. "Are you sure you're ok Rob?", my mom asks me. "Yaaa, Yaaaa, I'm just so happy", I tell her, "I'll start packing my things right now". I get up off the couch and head up to my room.
That night the dreams start up again. This time I see a man in a rabbit suit looking at me. He is holding an axe that is covered in blood. The next morning I wake up drenched in sweet. I go take a shower before my parents get up and get done packing. We get in the car and head out. My dad decides to stop in Brahms at a gas station. As me and my mom sit in the car, a Brahms police officer comes over to the car. My mom rolls down her window. "So you folks on vaction?", she asks, "I'm guessing that you're going to Silent Hill, right?". "Actually we are", my Mom replies. My dad starts back to the car. "Sir", the lady says to my dad, "you all have a safe trip". We continue on to Silent Hill. When we get in town, we get a room at a small motel next to the lake. "Why don't we go to the amusement park in the morning?", my mom asks. "Sounds good mom", I reply to her. That night the dreams don't come, but instead they come real. I wake up in the motel room. The entire room is covered in metal and gratting. The bed is covered in rust and blood. I look over and see my parents asleep on the other bed. I start over to them to get them up, but I notice something in the corner of my eye. It was the rabbit suit the man was wearing in my dream. There was also an axe next to it. I leave it alone and go over to my parents. I shake both of them, but they wouldn't get up. I notice blood pouing off the bed and lift up the blanket. Both of them were dead. I look at my hands, and both were covered in blood and so was my shirt. I start to look the room over. This is the room in one of my dreams. The one about the man in the rabbit suit. I see a mirror on the wall. I look at it for a while. I notice the rabbit suit again. "I wonder if it fits", I think to myself, "I bet it does". I put on the suit, pick up the axe, and look in the mirror. "A perfect fit", I say with a smile on my face.
The battle I speak of today is full of grief as much as hope, as two brothers war in a world full of magic, and the unatural mysteries that come with it. Nathal has a heart as black as the onyx on his ring, and Waken has the heart as white as the doves that fly above. They are indeed brothers by birth right, but enemys in every contrast dream that they hold. Nathal seeked to take over an entire country, starting with his home town, and Waken took an oath to protect everything dear to him.
As clear as onyx was on his finger, Nathel's magic was dark and called for his enemys to rise again to fight by his side even after death. Waken caried his fathers sword, the family birth right that once slew a great dragon that threatend everything from one coast to the next. Waken was older than Nathel, so the sword was his, and this fueled Nathel's anger.
Waken met his brother's dark army one mile from his village, forty three villagers stood behind him braving their lives to save their home. Forty three knew that they had no chance in surviving, only one had hope. That one spec of hope carried the small band into battle, and forty three were slain against the undead array of soldeirs. One stood slaying all who came for him, Waken fought his way to his brother. Every hit he landed cleansed and released a soul trapped in an on going battle, and every hit he landed granted him one more step toward his brother. Nathel stood and watched as Waken cleared a path and soon stood in front of him, sweat signifieing that he was scared of his older sibling.
The two fought, as it was said, for hours, neither landing a fatel blow against the other. It seemed that they were evenly matched against one another, but both were eager to kill the opposite. The battle drew on, each dodgeing the swings the other threw at him. As each battle has a beggining, they also must have an end.
Nathel came to tire unlike his brother who had the power of a greater artifact to power his fight, and carelessly let his brother peirce his chest with the blade. Waken then relized that his brother was just like his army of the dead, unable to die with a normal blow. The blades abilty to cleanse didnt affect the same, thanks to the Onyx ring Nathel had on his finger. With two mighty artifacts backing two powerful warriors there seemed no way to end this fued. Waken prayed to the gods to end the fight, and with a flash brighter then the sun itself, both siblings vanished.
The only things that was found at the battle site, were the corpses of forty three villagers, and two little trinkets. A sword that glowed with the purest light any one could stand, and a ring whose onyx center was darker than any shadow that could be found.
You bet. I was blinded by it's radiance onto my presence. It's light casted my shadow through eternity. As I stood there awe struck and quivering, I was calmed by it's warmth and bellowed voice. It spoke in tongue I have never heard, but clearly understood as my own.
"Frendicallicoaletion howthern uthrain fortilier combatant."
For you are the soldier of God.
The sound reverberated in my mind until it silenced, lying dormant while it spoke again. This time there were no words spoken, no voice in my head. There were just sharp images of the universe we have searched and pondered in our lives.
It was as time stood still in the universe. The faint glow of stars and planets peircing the black lite canopy. I could see light years from my focal point. And yet, not a sound was heard. My vision strolled downward towards where I stood. My feet were covered by darkness and not a shread of light shown through. Then came more verbal acknowledgement.
'Come, for you I will show you the creations I behold.'
A quick snap and my mind was clinched and thrusted forwards. Beams of light glisened as my eyes rolled back. A sudden jerk halted me to a stop. And there I stood looking down on the earth. It's beauty teared my eyes.
'This is your lair as you know it. You are here now, bonded by life. To release your strangle hold one must forfeit their breath. To do so, shall you begin another journey through my path of destiny.'
I was clearly dumbfounded to what I was being told. I just stared and chocked back amazement at the presence of our planet.
I could sense movement, but not by my own self. My visioned blurred. I focused again to find an arrangement in front of me. Planets, beaming with life. I could make out earth being part of this allignment.
'The Path of Life. It is one you all must take. But advise thineself that this is no mere striaght cordinate. You shall inherit your previous deeds, and shameful behavior in your next coming.'
BOOM! It hit like a ton of bricks. Our time on this planet is temporary. A mere step to the collection of forks and arcs in the journey of life.
'For I give this knowledge to use, but I am not ablidge to show you the end result. For certain fools have wondered their path so that time hath no ending nor begining.'
'Speak gently of thine miracle, for you shalt not be welcome to many arms.'
I could fell a tear coming from the back of me. I was wisked away from my current foothold.
I awoke, head pounding from my enlightenment. I could feel my body collasping on itself. I lie for days focusing my energy to conceive the reality of my recent exploration. For hence forth I bring you my word...
Do not be a fool retracing footsteps in the sandy beaches of hell. Good Night.
There are only two options for a jumper: Up, and Down.
It was early April, 10 A.M., at the corner of 57th and 9th, 12 stories up. The wind was brisk and I was ready to begin to end. I was ready to go Down.
I had rented an apartment two blocks away ever since I had dropped out of college and joined The Movement. I worked as a pizza deliverer at Pauli’s on 5th and Main. As far as I knew, my family had moved out of the city, dropped off the face of the earth. It was better for them that way.
It had started in late March. As an Order member of The Movement, I had been blessed with the opportunity to attend the highest council meetings. The Movement was gaining popularity, and after the founder had gone Down, new leaders had been called forth from the masses to discuss decide on the future plans of The Movement.
The founder of The Movement had jumped in early February.
He had told us that the world was rotting from the inside. He had told us that we were the last bastion of strength for a civilized world.
"Money, greed, ambition; these are the tools of pain and anger! The crime of this world is seething onward, and the pure have been consumed!" he had proclaimed. "The Movement is truth! The Movement is purity! The Movement is freedom and happiness! Throw off the shackles of this rotten world, and come forward into the light. We will live forever, and we will destroy what has ruined! We shall rebuild, and then, in the glory granted to us by ourselves, we shall declare this new creation good!"
He had told us that the city was the root of evil. The filth of the city streets, the gothic, windblown alleyways filled with muggers and prostitutes were corrupting the essence of the earth. The skyscrapers and towering buildings had driven spikes into the heart of the world.
He had told us that the blood of the Movement would free the world.
The council, after much debate, had decided to follow the last written instructions of the founder. They had decided that The Movement would begin the cleansing of the world. They had called for jumpers, for purifiers. I had volunteered to destroy the pain, to destroy corruption.
A date was set, a time was chosen, a place for each person. 1024 of us, altogether, at 10:24 A.M.. 1024; the number of the earth, to the 10th degree. We would be the jumpers. We would awaken the world.
I checked my watch; it was 10:23. I watched the seconds hand, watched it click, click, click. I was waiting for destiny. The minutes hand moved. It was 10:24.
There are only two options for a jumper: Up, up into the pain and crime of the world, or Down, down into ecstasy and the eternal.
I was a jumper.
Downward to freedom. Downward to life.
Anything below this line, will go into next week's poll. Feel free to post more stories, people! Keep up the good work!
By Ben
It was several moments before the messenger realized he had been staring at Sujestu’s eyes with his mouth opened wide. Through these eyes he could see the abyss, he could see the cosmos, and he could see the darkness. It was calming almost, he immediately felt like he had no worries, that this journey meant nothing if he couldn’t stare into these eyes. But Sujetsu broke this trance when he turned to the table behind him. “So you came to ask for my assistance did you, Rathi?” he started, “the warriors of the east are not ones to be sent here and there, fighting the battles of greedy kings, but I will hear you out none the less”. The messenger stared once again, this time at Sujetsu’s back because he seemed to be busying himself at the table. “How did you know my name?” asked Rathi. Sujetsu paused, “We searched your belongings in an attempt to find out more about your travels through our forest” replied Sujetsu nonchalantly, but Rathi had a suspicion that this was not the truth, perhaps this Sujetsu could read minds…he would not be surprised based on the stories he had heard back in Tehruge.
“So what is it you wish to ask me?” Rathi was staring again. “Uh…the great King Muthor requests your assistance…” he began. “Yes you have told me that much already, but what reason has he given you to convince me? Why should I help Muthor feed his obsession with war?” Rathi blustered. “King Muthor has no such obsession!” Sujestu turned, his eyes closed in relaxation a smug smile crossing his face, “the war with Dirtheuse over 20 pigs and 10 horses…” “Blatant thievery!” cried Rathi. “…the war with Farute because he forgot to remove his hat in Muthor’s presence…” “A matter of honor!” Rathi interrupted. “…It’s all together possible that is what he has convinced himself of but I see the truth upon his heart and he is a greedy, selfish, unworthy ruler who should be content with the good fortune he has been given.” “I will not stand for these slanders against my king!” Rathi almost screamed as he began to lunge at Sujetsu. “Then you will sit” replied Sujetsu calmly and he slammed his staff on the floor. The power which exuded from the point of this staff was breathtaking and Rathi was sent skidding backwards to meet a hard wooden chair traveling towards him. He fell into it and regained his bearings just in time to see Sujetsu take a seat in a similar hard uncomfortable chair behind the table. “Now enough of this foolishness, let’s get to the real issues at hand.”
“Everything I want to know…” Evelyn picked up the top one, carefully, as if it was a vial of poison, and drank it with her eyes. “What if I don’t want to know?”
“Then you’re paying me five hundred a day for nothing, Mrs. Morton.”
Evelyn Morton groaned, dropped the photo on the table and slumped in her chair. I took a good look of her. I knew her kind. Forty years old, could be forty-five, given the effort she puts into looking younger than her age. A nice car, a nice house in the suburbs, a handbag whose contents are a carry-on guide to the North American cosmetic industry, two or three teenage children, and a husband who likes young blondes and late-night parties.
I didn’t notice the blinking red light on the phone until a buzzer joined it. My receptionist got a call she couldn’t screen.
“Yes, Carol?”
“Your wife is on line one.”
“Tell her I’m with a customer.” But I could. I turned back to Mrs. Morton, who by now was quietly sobbing into her silk handkerchief. Emotions be damned, I was determined to close this in a professional manner. I started flipping the photos one by one, going over them like a laundry list.
“Wednesday, 9:45 PM, they meet in a Broadway café. There is some hand-holding and physical proximity. 10:25, they leave and take a cab to her apartment. We couldn’t get past the concierge, so…”
“I don’t want to know anyway.”
“Thursday, 9:30 PM, he’s in Rocko’s Bar. Hooks up with a different woman, not clear whether by appointment or chance encounter. They share a dance and some drinks, then have a fight. 10:10, she leaves. 10:20, he picks up another woman, 11:00, they leave together, him clearly intoxicated…”
“And all that time, he told me he was working late, meeting deadlines. And I believed him.” She sobbed.
“11:30, they check into a hotel. That’s all.” I flipped the last of the photos.
Evelyn stood up. “Fine. I understand. He’s weak, prone to temptation, like any other man. When he’s done with his midlife crisis, he’ll crawl back to me. I know it.”
I kept my mouth shut and avoided eye contact. I’m a private investigator, not a therapist. She continued, “Your services, I believe, were paid in advance. Thank you for your work, goodbye.” She left, keeping the last shred of dignity to herself, but leaving the photos on the table.
I packed them back into the envelope, and made a brief phone call. Then I buzzed Carol on the intercom and asked her to come in.
“Hey,” She said, carrying her shapely body through the doorway, “What’s the plan?”
“Well,” I beckoned her to come closer and inhaled her sweet perfume, “We have the night all to ourselves. I told my wife I have to work late.”
And yet...
No. There is only silence, in this forsaken void.
"You will return..."
That...that was my imagination. Words of a tortured soul, cast aside like a meaningless, broken promise; doomed to spend the blind enternities encapsulated within this cursed scroll, brewing, hating and wishing for redemption!
And yet... a whisper on the wind, a caress on my brow-these are not the faint longings of a tired hero.
"You will return."
Stronger now, hark! A summons from outside of the chasm in which my soul and body have been entwined for nigh on eight years...
A glimmer of light in the distance? Blinding in its magnificence, radiating glory from its pure, heart of life; the faintest of heartbeats, crying to be reborn!
"You will return!
That voice? The only one who knew-could it be? I fight my way to the shining soul, the desperation of a madman pumping adrenaline and hollow hope through my body.
My body?
My body has been...restored?
"YOU WILL RETURN!"
The dry earth beneath my coarse feet, the smell of blackened pumice in the air;
"Welcome home, champion."
"Rianna..."
Josh Miller, 30, waved good-bye to his wife, Harriet, and three-year-old daughter, Maggie, as he boarded flight 117 from JFK to Atlanta. The conference in Atlanta would be his first since his promotion to division director at Comm USA, one of New York's many communications firms. It would also be his first time flying, the fear of which overtook him as he stepped through the wide aisle of the 747.
Josh never talked about his fear. It had always brooded inside him, waiting to be released until the time was right. He did not kid himself, however. Flight was a necessity these days, not in the least for an employee at a communications firm. But at his core he felt unease about putting his life in danger. Harriet's cancer had relapsed, and Maggie, without a stable mother to take care of her, would soon need a sitter. Surgery, sitter...
Money. Josh's hands gripped his armrests in tight disquietude as the plane detached from the airport gate.
He then rubbed his face, mashing his cheeks together and squeezing some tension out of his pores. How he wished he could be on the ground at that moment, safe from risk. What if there were a malfunction? What if the turbulence was so violent that it threw the plan into a nosedive? What about terrorists? The captain's voice did sound Middle Eastern.
Josh watched the luggage cars float across the terminal as the behemoth moved into position on the runway. Its engines roared. And for just a moment, as the din filled the cabin, Josh felt nothing but suspended hope--as if the plane was not going to take off after all. He thought about his family, about God, about life and death, about pain, the pain of dying in midair, while everything around him became overshadowed by a fury propelling him suddenly forward, forcing his back to his seat. He was dizzy; everything was. He felt blood trickle down his lips and chin as his breath left him, sucked from his lungs as if by the jets themselves. He looked outside his window and vertigo took control, sending him unconscious.
....
He woke up and barely blinked an eye before he saw the cabin explode into flames. Josh thought only that he was to die.
They all assumed he was brave in his last moments, as was assumed of everyone aboard the flight. And the firm thought of him fondly, and established an annual day of remembrance in his name. And his parents held each other wistfully after receiving the call from Harriet, and they, too, must have thought he had been brave through it all.
And the pastor spoke at his wake solemnly, "Simple is a man's life when weighed against God's force, and great his fear when he realizes this truth." Harriet cried and dreamed he was still alive.
General Douglas had started his career nearly thirty years earlier, on the frontlines of Iraq. It had been a long time since he’d seen combat, but, even years after that constant alert for signs of danger had subsided, he could still tell that something just wasn’t right. Slowly, quietly, he returned to the coat he had just discarded over the banister. Carefully, he removed from inside the inner pocket a small pistol.
He was about to turn on the light when he caught the slightest hint of movement in his peripheral vision. He whirled, bringing his gun to bear… only to let out a startled yelp as he was pinned against the wall by a dark figure. In a panic, the general jerked the trigger, only to realize that his assailant had grabbed the gun’s slide and jerked it back just enough that the hammer would not strike the bullet’s casing. It was only then that he noticed the attacker’s other hand had a blade at his throat.
“No shouts or sudden movements, General. It would be most unfortunate if our discussion were to be interrupted by the police.” Though the darkness obscured his attacker’s physical features, the general recognized his voice immediately, and the realization him go pale: Typhon.
“Typhon, what’s the meaning of this?” A beam of moonlight through a nearby window illuminated the man’s eerily wide grin.
“Come now, General, you certainly saw this coming. Surely you foresaw that I would not be content to be your lapdog all my life.”
“But… I’ve been as a father to you. Why, why kill me?” Typhon’s grin suddenly turned to a frown.
“I know not how one would categorize our relationship, sir, but I can tell you that father certainly is not the word. A father does not train his son for combat from the moment he is born. A father does not use subliminal messages to manipulate his son’s dreams, engineering him to be the perfect killer. No, General Douglas, you have been my mentor, my advisor, but… one who was grown in a vat does not have a father. As for why I must kill you, sir… you instilled in me a sense of efficiency all my life. You know all the details of my creation, and may know how they may be exploited: that knowledge is a liability. As efficient as I am, there is only one logical course I may pursue. Goodbye, General. I only regret that you will not see the empire I have already begun to create.” The blade struck.
(Fragment of a longer piece, also, I posted once in this thread and then deleted that post. The post was identical to this, only the text was screwed up, I had to make the document single-spaced to fix it)
Many thanks to ChibiSwan of The Ugly Swan for the great banner!