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Fanky Malloons posted:poo poo, Martello, look what you've done, I'm going to actually have to go lift a weight or something now. You jerk. I did Week 1/Workout 1 of Alfalfa's Workout Program for Strength and Size a few hours ago and barely dropped any weight despite not lifting for almost thirty days. My biceps especially seem to have a long shelf life.  We really need :swolesmug: and :swolebert: ASAP.
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Oct 19, 2012 03:00
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ETA on the submission? Is it 2AM on Saturday Morning or 2AM tomorrow morning (the 19th).
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Oct 19, 2012 03:57
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It's 2 AM Saturday morning PDT. So basically you have just over a day for submissions. Entries close in about 3.5 hours.
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Oct 19, 2012 04:26
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My head is chock full of bleakness and gently caress, but for some reason I just don't feel like I'm channeling it. Closer to Mother - 598 words Sometimes I’d set the children to work on the mine clearing. Their emaciated frames would look like short strands of hair on the bleak horizon. "We need to take some of them across the city," said Vander, droning it into collar and clenching jaw audibly every time he hit a consonant. I could hear teeth cracking a little more every time he spoke. "For what?" A child went up in flames. Dull, brown explosion flashed. The blood would stick to the air, and the bits which rained down would look like they'd spent a thousand years in the desert. "It's for the best. It's good for them, good for something." "Across the field lies the mother. They'll find peace there." "They'll find death. She'll make them one with this thrice-damned country. They deserve better." I drew my hand across my mouth, dry skin stung and cracked. Six years since I'd tasted water, five years since I'd seen it. "The children, more than any of them, belong to this country." They were getting closer to her throne every day. Like a slow shadow, the rest of the people followed. Ranks upon ranks of specters, anticipating release. We could see her in the horizon. I knew her so well. She waited for us in anticipation, ready to embrace her children. "You don't know her," he said, "You think you do, but what you know isn't true." "I've seen her. I know her." "I hunted her once. Threaded the minefield. Nothing like what your flock is doing now. I came across her as she devoured another flock." "She liberates them." "No, no she doesn't. She was like a factory. Do you remember them? How they were? She was like a factory as she took them and turned them to dust. We breathe them right now." A pair went up at the same time. Dust drifted towards us. I could feel the urge and thirst so much more. The animal inside me which had starved and died chose to stir, and I wanted to crush Vander. Break his skull and feed him to the children. "This country is us. We will always be part of it, and if she can make us into the very air, it's an honor greater than any." "Fine," he said, and waited until another flash before he struck me down. The ringing in my ears which had followed me for years turned into a choir, and the prickling dots of light in the corners of my eyes turned into pillars. I hit the ground, tasted ash. Few noticed, none cared. I was the northern wind, pushing them towards their goal, but only nature, nothing more. Enter south. A thousand voices begged for attention in my head, but at the end of the day, they were all me. None stronger than I, and they crawled into the corners and waited for death. Just like me. The southern wind spoke. Louder than the ringing in my ears, louder than the earthquakes. Like grass, the flock turned and followed, towards the city and the darkness of arches and toppled monoliths. I wanted them to stay on the plains, under the dull light. There was a finite amount of freedom to be found in this country, and to be dust on the plains the best I could think of. And they would meet her. Instead, they would crawl into the corners of the city, lose themselves in the dark cracks and bask in the claustrophobia. I couldn't save a single one. At least I stayed on the plains. 
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Oct 19, 2012 10:29
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Sitting Here posted:It's 2 AM Saturday morning PDT. So basically you have just over a day for submissions. Entries close in about 3.5 hours. Think my entry slipped through the cracks on the last page. I am writing something.
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Oct 19, 2012 11:59
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Jerusalem (1292) The camp fires were just beginning to die as the swollen star began to rise eastward and the slave master's bones ached. The marrow inside was like rotten ice as the memory of some biological function was faintly remembered; his heart beat a single, weak pulse. Muscles like ancient stones rolled across each other, overlapping, sticking together, as his form assembled into some new shape. The slaves watched him silently, their hungry eyes having witnessed this reconfiguration every morning since their capture. With a snapping of his spine he stood, rags he'd worn the day before were now unsupported and slid off him. He stood naked in the desert and turned toward the slaves. "Rise." he whispered. They began to walk. The march was slow and unsteady. The ones that fell were left. The oldest slaves had been first, then the children. Some of the mothers had wanted to stay behind with them but the slave master did not tolerate such things. They needed to reach the citadel. The slaves walked beneath the slate sky and thought about where they had been and where they were going. There was no escape as there was nowhere to go. A few days back a young couple had made a run for it and the master just watched, his face betraying no emotion as he looked through dead eyes at the man and woman. That was perhaps the worst thing about the enslavement, that they could leave any time. They didn't see the couple again and the march went on. The slave master stopped and allowed them each a drink from the urn he carried in his pack. None of them saw any signs of water yet the strange man never seemed to run out. Instead he busied himself casting bones and chunks of alabaster onto the dirt, though none knew for what purpose. By the afternoon they could make out the citadel. A black spire in the East rose from the ground like a doorway through the sky. Some of the slave master's internal structures began to churn in anticipation. They would be there by tomorrow. The miserable group then came upon the first of the corpses, sun-bleached carcasses that lay in the dirt. At first they could be mistaken for rocks, though upon closer look they could see that these were creatures. Some were almost human, with the desert wind whistling through their eyeless skulls. Others were biological agonies, skeleton and muscles put together inside a nightmare and spat out onto the godless plain. The slaves and the master walked through this open graveyard silently, none daring to speak of the atrocities that lay around them. They sat whilst the master played his violin. There was no tune, he slowly drew the bow across the strings randomly whilst the slaves unpacked the last of the fire wood. One of the slaves watched him play, the last feelings of resistance stirring in his chest like the faint kick of an unborn. They had all tried to fight at first. They had heard about the things in the desert and knew they were strong and hardy but they had tried anyway. The biggest warriors in the village were broken before the slave master like a child kills an insect. Though the master was more insect that man. He played his violin as the fires were lit, they were made from the wood that had once been their homes. The slave listened to the screeching of the strings and looked around at the people from his village before standing up. The slaves watched him walk across the little camp towards the figure, though the master seemed more occupied with the violin than anything else. The slave grabbed the violin from his hands and smashed it against the floor, stamping a bare foot through the ancient instrument. The slave master sat cross-legged, holding the bow like a rapier blade. "Why?" he said. The slave gave a war cry and began to punch and kick at the sitting thing, who slowly began to unfold himself as he stood, unperturbed by the blows. He took the man's head in both hands and began to squeeze. The scream was punctuated by the cracking of bone and it was quiet once more. The slaves huddled as close as they could to the fires and waited for something like sleep. The slaves woke, something had changed. Off in the distance they could see the fires of the citadel flickering like quasars, they matched the feeble embers that were struggling to feed themselves on the last of the house wood. The slave master wasn't where he usually was, sitting in the centre of them all, watching. He had gone. The slaves whispered amongst themselves, wondering what had happened when they heard running in the night around them, the drumming of feet onto earth. The slave master condensed from the blackness. "Get up." he said. The slaves obeyed. The slave master was animated, his neck twisting this way and that as he looked into the darkness. They could hear more footsteps. "Stay near." he whispered, lighting a torch from the camp fires and then setting off towards the citadel. Most of the slaves followed immediately, though some stayed put, waiting in the darkness, hoping for the end. The slave master ignored them as he steadily made his way through the night, holding the torch aloft to guide the slaves behind him. Occasionally the fire light would catch the outline of a dead body, though no details could be made. The slaves kept focusing on the flame ahead of them, glancing at each others faces and seeing terror contorting each into something primal. Footsteps ran in the night. And all of a sudden they met the hunters. Seven men stood in front of them. They looked human, dressed in grey uniforms and carrying the long muskets of soldiers long since dead. All of them had whiskers and cold, black eyes encrusted into dirty faces like sinewy gargoyles. "Give us the slaves." said one. His lips and nose had been torn off once, it seemed as if his face was held together by a bit of stitching. "No." said the slave master. He lifted his torch up to better illuminate the surroundings. More men were dotted around them. "We'll kill you." said the man. The slave master was about to say something else but two slaves had ran forward, clutching him around each knee. With a fist like a hammer he swung down and cracked one about the head and was about to do the other when a rifle shot flashed in the darkness. The bullet zipped through the slave master's arm. "We'll kill you." Now all of the slaves stood around the master, unsure what was going to happen. "Have them." rasped the slave master. He nudged one forward and they slowly began to drift away from the raggedy man. Now he stood alone, the torch light playing against his face so that it always looked to be churning. There was a clicking of metal and a rustle of clothing then a volley of shots were fired. The iron bullets ripped through flesh, shattered ribs, sprayed dry viscera out from exit wounds the size of plates. The slave master fell to his knees and another shot inverted his head. The slaves looked down at the body of the one who had brought them across the desert and felt nothing. The men with the guns turned to the slaves. "Follow us." said one. They walked off into the darkness as the torch spluttered out, the only light left in the wasteland was from distant citadel. The things inside continued to wait. 
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Oct 19, 2012 12:09
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RIP my dog he died as things do I had a terrier once. Jack Russel named Jack, hah! He tried to jump a barbed-wire fence like the big farm dogs did and tore his stomach open. The vet made me touch him while the syringe emptied, crushing out his little doggy heartbeat and leaving no room for love. When I got home, I took my knit-jumper out of the closet for the first time in six years. No point having wool-knit with Jack in the house- he’d grab a thread and pull and pull until the whole drat thing fell apart. Such ends the world, come apart like a wool sweater hidden for love’s own sake. Now I am a kite, tethered to the world by bone and wool. As the world falls apart in her old age my have her eyes gotten rheumy I find myself further and further from her. I do not call. I visit occasionally but it smells of death and that makes me cry, though I put on a brave face for I owe her so much. Where would you go, that the stone takes ahold? The cassolette of old bones fallen under the concrete leviathan. The men in red, mamma! They were so beautiful, I wanted to cry. With a pontifical hand, they sing the death of nations. The trees here have no shelter, no sympathy and no devil. Gift me a pox that my guts melt before my face has the chance to become bone. I am bones, all the bones and I will not die in such a sense- my dog’s buried bones will not be rid of me so easily. They make a paste, which tastes like a cassolette of old bones fallen beneath sympathy, beneath shelter, beneath boxes of poxes and a cassolette of old bones. Jack pulls and pulls and such ends the world. It crushed the love from him, you know. The vet made me touch him. I felt his loyal doggy heart shudder to a stop. They the men in red crushed his little doggy heart with their song. I had to touch him. I felt him stop breathing and until that moment I did not realise I had felt him breathing at all. I put on my jumper but without him to unravel it, it had no purpose and fell apart on its own accord. Such ends the world, in a ragged pile of wool and bones, with the love crushed from it by a master’s hand.
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Oct 19, 2012 12:49
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Of History and Fear Word Count: 1099 Franz stepped off the jeep and landed on the soft sand. The desert wind danced in his hair and caught the collar of his uniform. Franz pulled his collar back down, and dusted the sand off of the Nazi eagle pin on his chest. There was nothing on the horizon, with the yellow sea hiding the town from which he and his guest had come. There was one exception to the rule, however, and that was the monolith that stood a few hundred feet in front of the car. "How unnatural." Franz's passenger jumped out of the car a short and pudgy archaeologist by the name of Reginald Wolfgate. He wore a loose shirt and a Woseley pith helmet that threatened to blow off in the breeze. "You know, we're very lucky that the wind had blown this dune elsewhere, otherwise we might not have found this magnificently preserved ruin." Franz grunted, and the two left the jeep for the entrance to the ruin, a plain archway surrounded by foreign designs. As soon as Reginald saw these designs, he resumed his blabbering. "Odd, odd, odd indeed. This isn't consistent with anything from around here, that's for certain. Apparently the ancient Aryan Empire reached very far for it to have such strange markings. I think my next report to the Reich will be quite a doozy." Reginald entered the ruin, and his muttering bounced off the walls to reach Franz's ears. Franz reached for his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He leaned on the monolith and exhaled a puff of smoke. Perhaps escorting a lone British defector wasn't the most glorious job, but it certainly beat the slog that was managing the puppet states. A clicking sound echoed from inside the monolith, and a gust of wind blew Franz's hat from his head and cigarette from his hand. As he walked over to pick his hat from the ground, Franz noticed that a large sandstorm was blowing in. He barked over to the entrance of the cave, "Time to leave!" The muttering stopped, but the clicking continued. Franz yelled again, this time just outside of the entrance. There was still no response. Franz sighed, and entered the dimly lit cave. It was a small ruin, just a set of stairs that lead to a room at the top. Despite the extravagant exterior, this watchtower was even less adorned than the pillboxes back in Germany. Ahead of him, he could see the dim light of the top of the watchtower. In fact, the walls were unnaturally smooth, although that was probably a product of the sand. Franz climbed the final step and was greeted by Reginald's sitting form hastily moving something from Franz's view. The room square and was empty of adornment and objects. There were a few square holes that offered a view off into the distance. Franz could see that the sandstorm was still fast approaching. He turned to Reginald. "What are you hiding?" Franz voice was icy calm, which only served to make Reginald tremble even more. Reginald quickly slid himself back to the wall, just below a peephole. Franz could hear the sound of metal on stone as he slid backwards. He pulled his pistol from his coat pocket, and switched his grip to pistol whip Reginald. "What are you hiding!" Reginald squeaked, and quickly tried to throw a contraption through the window. Franz recognized it as a radio transmitter. He tried to explain, his voice fumbling over the words, "I-I-I found it sitting here, I swear I didn't use it but I was afraid I would, you know-" Franz didn't ask questions. He simply fired the pistol three times and Reginald slumped over, his rapid speaking turning into gurgling. Franz waited until the gurgling stopped, and then picked up Reginald's hand, dragging the body like an oversized trash bag. As he descended the stairs, and earsplitting whine filled the air, causing Franz to drop Reginald's body to grip his ears. He could hear the roar of the wind pick up outside. The sandstorm was here. At first, Franz thought he would wait the storm out in the ruin, but the ear-splitting ringing became louder. Franz tried to block the noise out but it was nearly impossible. It was a noise that was impossibly precise, a single, whining pitch that steadily lowered without wavering or shaking. Slowly, the pitch grew more piercing. Franz tried to stand up on the stairs and nearly fell down. The ringing made it nearly impossible to think. He had to focus on each individual muscle to coax it into moving. Franz fell to the ground again as the tone continued to grow in volume. It was too painful to listen to, more painful than any experience he had in boot camp, or during the war. He needed to get out. As Franz staggered out of the ruin, the ringing pitch turned into screeching. It almost sounded like microphone feedback. Franz looked desperately for the jeep, and it took a few seconds to pick it out in the storm. He had to squint to keep from getting an eyeful of sand. His nose could barely draw any air. Franz sneezed, and his mouth became filled with sand. Still, he staggered on, slowly moving towards the form of the jeep in the storm. The pitch had slowly lowered from microphone feedback to a demonic moan. Franz tried to spit out the sand in his mouth, but that only served to fill it with more sand. He felt a gnawing thirst as his throat became more and more sandy. Franz reached the jeep, and tried to climb in. His foot slipped, and he held himself up with his other hand, which was gripping the edge of the windshield. Franz turned the keys, which he had left in the ignition. The engine refused to start. A gust of wind blew Franz from the seat back to the sand, and he saw a massive black form silhouetted against the blocked out sun. He watched through barely opened eyes as the humming finally stopped, and saw the beast in its terrible beauty. Its immense form blocked out the sun, and the monolith Reginald had tried to explore was but a small spike on its back, one of many that seemed to protrude from the beast at impractical angles. It had a dark, cavernous mouth that seemed to fill the horizon as it swallowed impossible amounts of sand. Franz closed his eyes and saw the bright day turn black behind his eyelids as the creature descended upon him. 
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Oct 19, 2012 19:03
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I like where this week is going. We need to do image prompts more often. I updated the OP so the weeks are linked in a more sensible and concise fashion. Credit to toanoradian for the idea and doing the actual link-work. He's p. much the Best 'Domer right now.
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Oct 19, 2012 19:07
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My Brother's Keeper - Word Count: 1450 Tempting black slumber laps at my heels, inky seductress. I pay her no heed - she is not what I have come for. I leave her and the sullen souls already swallowed by her clutches. Quick to anger in life, I am wiser now in death. Patience and temperance watch over me; steel my hand and hold my tongue.  See there! Already the city walls loom darkly ahead, rearing out of the gloaming like nightmares. The haunting majesty of la città. I am grimly pleased, enough to crack a crooked, mirthless smile. Behind those crumbling bituminous turrets and abyssal gates I can hear the groans of innumerate once-humans suffering their unending torment. I am used to it, I realise. I have changed much on my journey. I pass unmolested through one of the city's many derelict portcullis'. I am unsurprised. You may enter freely. But you should not hope to leave so easily. Flailing hands reach out for me from inside infernal cages that flank my path. Their groans become wails and screams as they see me approach. Some even remember words, and they spit them at me in any language they can produce. Always I am accosted by such piteous pleas and sobs. When there is nobody to scream to or for, they only burble and weep. But visitors are rare and each one offers the tiniest glimmer of hope. Heretics. Such benighted fools in life and still they cannot face the consequences of their actions in death. I almost pity them. No doubt the Fallen placed them near the entranceways with exactly this in mind. Still, they have a long time to learn.  It is not long before I leave behind the smell of searing flesh that fills my nostrils. I am beginning my descent now. I can hardly feel the decline but I see the way the ground slopes down beneath the umbrous horizon. The city stretches on. It is built in many tiers, each more massive than mighty Rome itself. For the most part it is devoid of life. Mockeries of cathedrals jut from the earth in varied states of ruination. There are things that might be streets and suburbs, twisted but recognisable. Close enough to spark wistful remembrance. Sunny days fogged by time rise up from the ancient past and sing to me. Splashing in the La Terrina with my younger brother Riccio, laughing up and down the Aurelian Walls, lazy and languid fishing in the murky Tevere. Signs of activity start once more. The Malebolge. The sin of violence, how well I know thee. A misspent, misguided youth. I had waited two long years, apprenticed to that cobbler Vittorio, waiting for my brother to be of age. I remember the day we got our first commissions together. The way our father wept tears of pride and embraced us both. Soon my steps dog the progress of an unholy river. A gushing flow of never-clotting blood, that boils and fumes like brimstone. It casts a wicked light to reveal my path. There are people in the flow, writhing, forever scalding, over and over. A perpetual reminder that violence begets violence. The virtuous man never turns to retribution. The words of old Padre Giovanni as I broke down at his feet, unworthy. Forgiveness I begged and forgiveness I received. But never forgiveness from myself. Overhead, harpies screech. I hear the sound of the Malebranche howling somewhere out of sight. I say a little prayer that they will not confront me, though I doubt whether He can hear me this deep.  After a time, I enter what might be a park. Only thorn trees grow from the crimson soil, unlike any I have ever seen. Some of them have people coiled around them, or as part of them. Somewhere among the crucified would be my first adjutant, whose name I cannot recall, poor fellow. After that battle at Brescia I had found him in his tent, dressed in his finest, having drawn his sabre across his own throat. He wrote me a note exhorting me to tell his family that he had died in battle At the time I thought it was senseless, couldn't understand it. It had been a glorious and hard-fought victory. A time for celebration. I celebrated many more such victories in my time. In the end I had even the ear of the Pope, along with my brother. An unshakable bond of trust between us, sealed in blood – both that which ran in our veins and that which we had spilled together.  The further I walk, the darker it gets. Denizens of the night reside here, thieves and tricksters. Their punishment is ingenious and horrifying in equal measure. Their features are distorted. They mutate into monstrosities, extra limbs and extra eyes. Their pallid skin hangs off their impossible frames. Their minds erode. In place of that which they stole, their identity is stolen in return. Material possessions irrelevant beyond the grave it is all they have left to be taken. A limbless, worm-like lump sloughs into my way. It is disgusting. Its skin is smeared in the offal-like mulch in which it wriggles. Somehow it senses me and curls towards me. There is a semblance of a face, though it has no eyes. It squeals at me and flails. I make to move around it. From nowhere, a winged demon lands astride me. It has skin like black-dyed leather. It bares long wolfish fangs at me and hisses. In its thick clawed hands it holds some jagged implement. I am ready to fight; have fought my fair share to reach these levels, but it turns and slices the thing deep into the worm-man. It shrieks and tries to escape as fast as it can. With large, easy strides, the demon maintains pace with it and continues cleaving and adjusting its form according to whatever artistry it subscribes. Once more, I am alone. Such grotesquery would have driven most men to madness long ago. Perhaps I am already mad. It matters little at this point. They called me mad when I gave up all I owned. When I had a chain of thirty silvered links forged into my flesh. Contrition. Before me is a sheer cliff. I can just about make out the other side. It is a circular hole, a sinkhole to the deepest, most forlorn place that exists and will ever exist. A chill wind rises up from down there. Tartarus. Satan's domain, the heart of darkness itself. There is no easy way down other than jumping, and surely there is no way back out. The sharp obsidian rocks are like daggers, nicking and cutting my fingers,. Still, I do not let go. The climb takes hours. How many I cannot say. At some point, my legs hang in empty air. I see no other way. I let go.  I hit ground a few seconds later with a painful crunch. My hands are ruined, blood dripping rags and ribbons. The first thing I notice is that there is light. A soothing blue light. I am on an island of black sand, like soft ashes. The light emits from a body of water which seems infinite. The liquid pastures of Hell, where Satan personally tends his closest flock. The lake of traitors. It is bone-chilling down here, compared to the the blistering heat of all the Hell above. There is no noise here. It is almost peaceful. Only the sound of my chains dragging behind. In a surreal vision of normality, there is a rowboat moored on the island. I know that I must board it. I push off and begin to move across the placid water. The boat fairly glides over its gelid black surface. I see little icebergs. Each one has a face, each bearing their unique rictus of remorse. The further I go, the more there are until at last they are so dense they form a vast sheet. I step off upon it, them. It creaks but no more, able to support my weight. After icy miles of bitter progress, there comes a hole. Space for another. And I know that it is mine. I feel the ecstatic grin of Satan upon me, unseen. I take a deep breath. Forgive me O Lord and forgive me my brother. Such tender mercies I am not worthy of. I condemn myself. The water takes me quickly, without sound. The ice reforms above. Only my bloodied hands are raised above the ice, a warning. It is blood that will not be washed off. My stigmata for thee my brother. For if blood should run cold as mine did, it should not run at all. -------- Apologies for having tons of pictures, I kind of took general inspiration from the art and then when I came to finding one that encapsulated the story I found them to be a lot more coincidental to details within the story. Probably helped that the dude has a massive body of work. (If this many pictures is forbidden or unfair etc. I will remove.)
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Oct 19, 2012 19:21
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Rainmaker (405 words) I held his heart in my still-beating hand. My love. My one and only. “Now you see how the magic works,” he said smiling still. They had called him the Rainmaker once. The last. A ridiculous story, sewn to breed hope in a hopeless time. Yet it had not rained in so many years we would believe anything. That in his blood churned the miracle that would save us. That our salvation might be secured with a single sin. We had one bullet. One shot. Dust exhaled the marksman, aged rifle in his hands. Said he could not miss. Swore it. He Would Not Miss. Only someone had to bring him closer. Just in case. And so I was chosen. The gods were silent that day and all days thereafter. In their placed echoed the gunshot forever. The bullet burst through his chest, his lungs punctured and filling with blood. He faltered, stumbled, but did not scream. His face remained calm and adamant. “Now you see how the magic works.” I held his hand and remembered him as he was, as he had been, tall and strong when I so weak. They had crippled me, an accident I was supposed to say. I required assistance. My village was not far. He listened and said nothing. Only smiled. He reached down and lifted me from the earth. His muscles were tanned and raw, clothes stitched together with his own skin. To his back he grafted what few possessions he still held dear. Memories of a younger world he'd said when I asked, splintered now and torn asunder. I felt the shoulder where I had rested, where he had laid me, carried me, as though I were nothing. As though I were everything. I had looked into his eyes then. They were cool and clear. Like distant stars. I had forgotten my mission. Myself. I asked him if it were true. The Rainmaker. Was he? He laughed and said he might be. He laughed again as he lay dying in the sand, the blood a gentle trickle. “Now you see how the magic works.” I felt his breath on my face. He raised a finger to my cheek, bleached and dried, and shut his eyes. His soul dissipated into that eternal bronze sky. It was my turn to hold him. I wept. For the first time and last time. It was the only rain we deserved. 
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Oct 19, 2012 21:55
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Jeza posted:Apologies for having tons of pictures, I kind of took general inspiration from the art and then when I came to finding one that encapsulated the story I found them to be a lot more coincidental to details within the story. Probably helped that the dude has a massive body of work. Nah I think that's neat. Proceed, warrior.
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Oct 19, 2012 22:01
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 <gonna submit this> (http://i.imgur.com/w2xdM.jpg from the prompt post is also appropriate, but secondary)
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Oct 19, 2012 22:08
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I'll have to write more stuff based on this art, it's given me too many ideas. The King's Price (748 words)  The world had been green once. The rider remembered playing in the grass and watching white clouds float in a sapphire sky, listening to birdsong other than the harsh cry of crows. Now he was as skeletal as his horse when he dismounted before the king's fortress. This, too, had once been brilliant, shining white and blue and gold in a sea of green grass and scattered gems of gardens. Now he trod a path of flagstone to the great doors, all the monochrome color of dust and worn bone, unchanged in the months he'd been away. Vor was tired of that color, tired of this dry, monochrome world. Skin hung off his bones. His fingers curled like claws. Still he entered those dust-pale doors, ushered into the throne room by servants whose bones didn't show through their skin. He inclined his head, but didn't kneel. His knees already hurt. "I have returned." King Aldman sat his throne with no company other than his guards. He was still hale, still whole after all this time. "And what have you brought me?" "The head of the traitor, my lord." Vor opened the sack at his hip and lifted out a skull, a head still with black hair, skin desiccated. The king squinted as it landed on the floor at Vor's feet, until realization struck him like a bolt. He slammed to his feet. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried, in horror and rage. "What have you done?" "I have served you, my lord." Vor's smile cracked his face. "You tasked me to bring back the traitor, no matter who he was. Even kin. Did you not?" Aldman stared into his son's lifeless eyes. Remembered the strength they’d once held. He sank onto his throne. "That's impossible. Impossible. Naman would never-" He choked, covered his eyes. "Guards, take it away. Take it all away. I can't bear to see it." "Oh, but you must." Vor raised his hand, and the guards fell dead where they stood. The king snapped his head up and found Vor smiling. Blood tinged the cracks of his skin. His voice rasped like the dry wind over the wasteland outside the fortress's walls. "You must see what you have wrought, what your rule has led to." "What are you saying?" Trembling, Aldman rose, hands tight on his scepter. "You were loyal to me! Naman was loyal to me!" His voice rose, a building tempest. "What is the meaning of this, Vor? Answer me!" Vor kept smiling. The dead guards rose on ungainly legs, puppets controlled by broken strings. They formed lines as Vor walked toward the throne, dragging each step with care. He was so very weary. "This is your doing, my lord, all of it. Do you not see the desert? The corpses that rise on their own where they fall, yet continue to carry your bidding?" The smile widened into something manic. Aldman backed away until his legs pressed against the edge of his throne. "My sister was among them. Your son pulled her strings. He made her dance like a puppet until he grew tired, and threw her away. She was a broken toy to him. As your subjects are to you." He stopped at the foot and leered up the steps, the guards flanking the throne. "I found the traitors, my great, noble king. They all started with you." Sweat ran down Aldman's forehead. "No," he said weakly. "You're wrong. If I-" He swallowed, straightened his back. "If you put the blame on me, then who is controlling them now?" Vor glanced toward the guards. "I am, of course." His eyes danced. "Your kin are no longer the only necromancers in this land, lord." Aldman paled. "No-" "Monster." "No, I-" "Demon." Vor stretched out his bony hand. Runes flared. The king felt the death spell that had taken his guards tighten around him; he shattered it with a cry and a burst of the same power. But he could not take his guards back, and he was no longer their master. "Ah," Vor whispered. "There it is. My lord." He smiled. He knelt with creaking bones at his liege's feet. He prostrated himself, as the guards moved in on their quarry, trapped as helplessly as Vor's sweet sister had been, and laughed into the yellow dust like a dry wind through screaming gale. Two heads lay on the floor. Vor sat in Aldman's throne and made the king dance. 
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Oct 20, 2012 00:14
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 Soul Ruster Words: 960 A strong wind blows. Dust picks up and casts about, the last vestige of whimsy. Towers of desiccated flesh stand defiant against the dust. Hideous, pupil-less eyeballs roll about in the sockets atop the towers. An eyeball quivers and blinks, the sound of giant lips smacking echoes below. They shout praises, hymns and collect their buckets, these husks of men in rags at the base of the towers. The eyeball quivers again and blinks, tears form at the edges. The men shout in orgasmic delight, their mouths split apart at the seams. The eyeball shudders, shakes and blinks the tear away and it falls through the dust. A man below is crushed as the tear drop errantly lands, the others hold their rotted buckets above their heads to collect the splash. Their screams carry on the wind. “You told me the Lookers were closed,” Garret says. “I reckon’ I did,” Tuvult, his brother, responds. Garret and Tuvult stand a few yards from each other. Tuvult ahead of Garret. Garret does not move. Black, charred corpses form a line that separates Garret and Tuvult. Brown-red dirt collects on the bones and faces, locked in their last moments of agony. “And you have my money,” Garret says. “I reckon’ I do.” Wind rips through their jackets. Garret pulls his brimmed hat closer to his skull. He edges a foot closer to Tuvult. The closest eyeball pauses and the lids peel all the way back. It rolls in blinding speed and locks onto Garret. The sycophants below freeze and then smile at one another gleefully. All is silent. Garret pulls his foot back. “The woes of a wanted man,” Tuvult says. He smiles. Tuvult’s fingers clutch the strap of the leather bag tighter. “I just want what’s mine, fair is fair,” Garret says. “No can do, brother. This ain’t mine neither. Ol’ Soul Ruster made that very clear to me.” “You’re making an enemy today.” “I’ve made many,” Tuvult says. “I will come back for what’s mine,” Garret says. “We’ll see,” Tuvult says and turns. The dust obscures Tuvult’s retreat. Garret moves his jaw back and forth until it pops. He turns and leaves. The eyeball relaxes and a sigh of disappointment springs forth from the sycophants. Garret returns to the edge of charred corpses, behind him dozens of slow moving metal monstrosities follow. Each made of jagged metal, treads, bristling spikes and a large cannon on top. Garret holds his hand up and the behemoths groan to a stop. Out of a porthole, a figure pops up, covered in rags and wearing a pair of heavy duty goggles. “Captain?” “Fire when ready. All of them. Kill all of them,” Garret says. The man in the tank nods, and escapes back into the metal hell. The tanks spread out, flanking Garret on either side. Roaring booms crash through the wind. A shell whistles through the air, piercing a Looker. Dried flesh and bone blast out the back side, blood flows from the popped eyeball like a burst balloon. The sycophants scream in terror. Their wailing grows louder and louder as more and more cannons fire. Blood coats the base of the towers, sticky and sludge-like. Garret watches atop a tank as the sycophants as they crawl through the muck, pounding the earth. Garret waves the tank line into the city the Lookers protected. Crumbling buildings ring an enormous expanse of land. There is no activity. The only sound is a disjointed chorus of moans. Thousands of men, broken upon wheels, stick out the ground. Macabre lollipops, collecting dust and regret. Garret’s tanks halt. Garret steps down from one and inspects the field of wheels in front of him. Days pass before he finally finds what he wants. “Hello, brother,” Tuvult says. His head is upside down, lolled over the edge of a wheel. His elbows and knees broken and twisted around the dried timber. Garret looks up at him. “It has been a long time,” Garret says. “A thousand years. I bite my tongue every day to remind myself, and I count the scars,” Tuvult laughs. “Soul Ruster did not keep his end of the bargain?” Tuvult face scrunches. Rare spittle forms at his mouth. “Mock all you want! I had no other choice.” “We all have choices,” Garret says. Tuvult tries to spit. Hoarseness and dust are all that come out. “You never would have helped me if you knew what I was in. I could only count on you to look out for yourself. Don’t talk to me about choices,” Tuvult shouts. “Tuvult, you are my brother,” Garret says. “Yet here you are, full of vengeance and righteousness. I see it in your eyes, take what you have come for. End this existence of mine.” “No, brother. I am not here to punish you. Not anymore. I can see it now that Soul Ruster has taken from me what he has taken from you. I do not harbor hate for you, brother. Only pity now. For that, I will inflict my wrath upon the thief of my thief.” “You are a fool, Garret, a fool! My fate will pale to yours! Go home brother, there is nothing for you anymore!” “Goodbye brother, I will consider your advice, but I will not heed it. I will not make your mistakes. I have cherished our times together, please wait for me where the sun will shine, and the grass will grow. I love you.” Garret walks away and signals for an aide. Behind him his brother shrieks and prophecies doom. “We move. Level this forsaken place, and erect an edifice for my brother. Conscript those madmen out front and then kill them. We make pursuit for the Soul Ruster.”
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Oct 20, 2012 00:18
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Sitting Here posted:Wordcount 1500 or less. This is what I've got so far. About 8 hours until submissions close.
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Oct 20, 2012 02:02
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 The Trial Pohl stepped out of his cell into the Passage. The Heilt Sacah, the steady dry wind of the Passage, blew as always from his right hand side, the Upwind side. You had once been able to see forever down this hall. People like mice against the vastness; traders moving Downwind and other acolytes running chores. As a dare he had once walked Upwind as far as he could. The Heilt Sacah was not strong, but it was relentless. After four hours he was panting. After six hours he was exhausted, slumped down on the red stone of the floor. A Trader passing by had snorted at his foolishness. After he caught his breath he stood up, defeated, and headed back Downwind to the dormitory. That had been an age ago. Now the Passage was dark and utterly deserted. Pohl looked Downwind and saw Nym, the only other acolyte stepping out of her cell a few doors down, dressed in the same gray robe. ‘Well’ she said. ‘It’s time.’ Pohl fell in next to her and they began to walk Downwind together. Pohl glanced across at Nym. Her brown hair sat short and rough. ‘You sliced your hair?’ Nym looked at him. ‘I didn’t want long hair getting caught up in the Trial’ ‘We don’t know what the Trial is, maybe long hair might help’. Nym snorted. Pohl didn’t know what else to say. They continued on in silence. Ten minutes later as they reached the Crest, Pohl felt Nym’s body tense. Downwind from the Crest was the only short slope in the known Passage. The floor dropped by only a foot over a hundred yards, but in the unrelenting flatness of the Halls, this was vertiginous. It was great sport amongst the acolytes to sprint down it. Even today, of all days, Pohl knew Nym could not resist racing. As they touched the Crest Nym cuffed Pohl on the shoulder yelling ‘shalat’ and sprinted down the slope. Pohl raced after her, his longer legs catching up easily. As they reached the bottom, Pohl shortened his stride slightly, and Nym crossed ahead of him. She turned to him, eyes bright and breathing heavily. ‘I knew I could beat you.’ Pohl tried not to look at her chest heaving up and down. It had filled out considerably in the last year. He smiled. ‘I am shalat. You win.’ Nym grinned victoriously. ‘A good omen’. ‘Good for who?’ replied Pohl. Nym’s grin faded. ‘Come on’ said Pohl. ‘We’re nearly there.’ The door to the reliquary stood in the wall of the Passage like every other door. Only the covered lantern hung outside distinguished it from the thousands of others. Behind the door, a long straight passage took Pohl and Nym to the sanctum sanctorum. Of the thousand candles that had once burned in this place, only a handful still spluttered on their dying wicks. Even as the acolytes entered another one snuffed out, lowering the gloom even further. A hoarse, stentorian breath echoed from the recesses. ‘Ah, and here we are. The last pupils of Yallasht, come at last.’ In unison, Pohl and Nym knelt on the floor. ‘We are the pupils of Yallasht. We are the hope of...' They both trailed off as a figure limped into the candlelight.  At some time in the past, he had been skinned alive, and then had his flayed flesh wrapped back around his body with rivets and staples. Slowly, very slowly, he shuffled, the agony of his torture still fresh as blood seeped through his skin. He stopped and stared at two kneeling on the floor. 'At last Mishka,' he slurred through his mishapen lips. 'We come to the binding of all things through the whorl of mind's eye. Two and two. The thrones of Yallasht. Two there are for the children of Yallasht.' Pohl glanced at Nym and then up at the figure before him. 'Your Holiness. We have taken instruction. We come for the Trial.' The tortured figure continued. 'I broke the marrowbones of kings and lived through the Fall. Passage bought is passage taken.' It turned to the high altar in the centre of the chapel and touched the frontspiece. With a slow grating rumble, the tabernacle turned, revealing an open doorway. Pohl and Nym moved forward. The space behind the door was not just dark. It was an utter void. Nym reached and took hold of Pohl’s hand and together they stepped across the Final threshold and out of this world forever. Step. Nym’s head was fastened in the jaws of the beast. Its talons had slowly ripped a wide, black tear in her stomach. As Pohl watched, a wet, scarlet tongue slowly slid out of the opening, tasting the air. Pohl looked down at his arm. The skin had dried completely and turned to parchment. He could only stare at his other hand as it reached across and began tearing at the dry flaky substance, ripping deep into his paper flesh. Pohl screamed. Step. Ahead of them stood a skeleton throne, topped by a grinning death’s head. Pohl looked around. One throne. He looked across at Nym, her torso hung off the slick, black creature crawling its way out of her stomach. Her head lolled drunkenly as her eyes bulged, staring into nothingness. Pohl looked back at the throne, his body in agony as his hands continued to rip away his own brittle flesh. Step. Pohl had reached the throne’s pedestal where blank faces had been carved into the relief. Nym lay next to him, her nightmarish prodigy had finally worked its way free, leaving a gaping red wound. Her eyes flicked to the grinning skull on the throne, and then met with Pohl’s. The madness faded away and she began clawing at Pohl, tearing away fistfuls. With his last remaining strength, Pohl thrust his leg out against Nym, pushing her back into the embrace of her creature. It hungrily snatched her up , and began tearing into her skin again. Pohl crawled up onto the throne. As he finally shrugged down into the skull’s cold embrace, another long red tongue snaked out of Nym’s body. 
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Oct 20, 2012 02:53
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(1490 words) Piotr brushed at the black motes that were congregating on and penetrating into his legs. They fled at the motion and sunk back into the ground. He thought about turning on the device he had scavenged off the dead man, but he didn't know how long it would last and was afraid of exhausting it forever. He only used it when he slept and was unable to brush away the motes. Already they were back, seeping up out of the dust and drifting gently towards his feet. He had been sitting too long. He stood and paced back and forth, the motes scattering. Walking made him weary. It had been two days since he had last eaten. He looked back to the tent and the device within then remembered the first night he had spent in this place, waking to find himself covered in motes like thousands of tiny spiders, their tendrils flowing through his shirt and jeans and into his skin. Settled, they had been difficult to dislodge and only after vigorous scrubbing had they fallen away. He hadn't felt anything as they probed their way into him. But afterwards he spent the rest of the night vomiting. His joints were stiff and unresponsive for days afterwards and he hadn't gotten more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time. When he found the body with the tent and the device he'd crumpled in exhaustion. Though his watch didn't work in this place he suspected he had slept a day or more. He'd still occasionally jerk awake expecting to find the motes on his hands and face but whatever it was about the device that kept them away it worked, for now. The corpse had a gun also--a long rifle of sorts--but it either did not work or Piotr could not make it work. It hadn't mattered. He hadn't seen any animals which to hunt. Except for the cautious birds which never let him get close, the scrub-like weeds that grew in desert, and the motes--if they could even be considered alive--he hadn't found any living things. Up until he had met the Bird Man at least. Piotr looked to the horizon, but saw nothing. The corpse also had been wearing heavy leather armor and a mask with opaque goggles that covered its face. He had started to remove the mask but the flesh underneath had stuck to and gripped at the inside he had refrained from pulling any more. Piotr scanned the horizon again. Nothing moved. Just as the last hundred times he had checked. And the hundred before that. And before that. The Bird Man had been gone six days. The food the Bird Man had left was gone a long time now. If he didn't return in the next few hours Piotr would have to go down into the desert and collect more of the brittle weeds that had sustained him all these months. The likelihood that the Bird Man would return while he was scavenging was infinitesimal. Still, Piotr was terrified that the Bird Man would arrive at the camp to find Piotr missing. Then he would leave, abandoning Piotr to the desert and the dust and the motes. Already he feared that the Bird Man was dead or lost, or worse, that he had been a symptom of Piotr's loneliness: a delusion, as incorporeal as the motes. But the food had been real. Dried jerky of sorts. And the Bird Man had promised, in that broken guttural Polish, that if Piotr would show him where he had come into to this world The Bird Man would show him the secret to crossing back. And then Piotr would be back in Łazienki Park. And he would be home. And motes and the weeds and the dirt and dead body and sickening custard yellow sky in which there was never any sun or clouds and it never changed except in the morning and evening when it would be consumed by blood orange red from the setting or rising of that nonexistent sun would all be forgotten. The pacing had exhausted Piotr and he slumped to the ground. He reached into the tent and pulled out the device. If the Bird Man was coming he wouldn't need it much longer anyway. He would turn it on for a few hours and then, somehow, find the energy to go down to the desert. Piotr pulled the device close, flicked the small metal switch, and looked to the horizon. Piotr woke to the Bird Man standing over him. He looked the same as when Piotr had last seen him, covered in a heavy coat, wearing a wide brimmed hat and a googled mask adorned with a graceful avian curve. Piotr tried to rise but his body refused and he collapsed back into the dirt. The Bird Man set down his pack and pulled from it more of the jerky. Later, after he had eaten and drunk and recovered they had started up into the mountains. Piotr had considered resting through the night, but this was it, the Bird Man had come to show him the way home. He hadn't bothered to pack the tent or the device. Unnecessary now, they would be the only remnants to show he had been here.  Piotr didn't know if the mountains were natural and the rooms had been carved into them or if they were the corpse of a once great city. He had explored the rooms for weeks, exploring high and deep into their abandoned crevices. But all he ever found was dust and emptiness and after a while he stopped searching. He lead the Bird Man through twisting streets and crags to the place where he had come through. It wasn't far into the mountains and the trip only took a few hours. The sky was still bright when they reached the place, a sandy canyon alcove like any millions of others in the mountains. Speaking for the first time since returning the Bird Man asked if Piotr was sure this was the right place. Piotr had been here how many times searching for the secret passage home? Exploring, praying, then finally throwing himself at the walls until he felt like his body would break. He was sure. The Bird Man nodded then reached into his pack. He pulled out what looked like a large pistol and for a moment Piotr thought that he was going shoot him. But instead the Bird Man pointed to the sky and fired a flare which left a trail of grey smoke before exploding with a dull bang. For a long time they waited. Several times Piotr asked to be shown how to cross back. And each time the bird man replied that soon, he would show him soon. So Piotr paced in impatience, stamping to keep the motes away. The sky was deepening into the blood red that marked evening when the first of the soldiers arrived. They were heavily armored and masked like the dead man and each carried a long riffle. They looked to the Bird Man who pointed to the place where the canyon walls came together. Shouldering their rifles they marched forward. When the first of the soldiers reached the end of the alley he turned in a way that Piotr couldn't quite make out. And then he was no longer there. Without breaking their stride the other soldiers followed, disappearing into the space between worlds. Piotr started forward but the Bird Man placed a hand on his chest. More soldiers entered the canyon and made their way to the end. And more. Piotr watched as columns of armored men disappeared into the space where the walls met. With them were large pack animals, lizards with pocked skin and long matted hair. They pulled huge armored carts crowned with a large turrets. The soldiers had to help the lizards turn their bodies to enter the space. Piotr watched intently but couldn't make out what the movement was. He imagined the army appearing in Łazienki Park, spreading out and firing those long rifles, bodies falling as the army moved through the city. How many people would die before the invasion was subdued? Would it be? Surely these soldiers couldn't stand up to the SZ RP and modern military technology, but this army was from an unknown world and who knew what force they might bring. It was late in the night when the last of the pack lizards and its handlers had made their way through. Piotr stood shivering in the cold. "Now," he said "now show me the way through." The Bird Man settled his pack on his shoulders and looked directly at him. His dark googles reflected back Piotr's face. Then he walked to the end of the canyon, turned, and was gone. Piotr said nothing, just sank heavily to his knees, and did not move when the motes came.
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Oct 20, 2012 03:09
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Just in case it wasn't clear, the betrayal in mine is going back and forth between master/subject. The narrator betrayed their dog, the thing in the picture betrayed mankind (and by extension, the narrator) and the narrator betrayed mankind as well in some weird cosmic way that allowed poo poo to get hosed. I'm not sure how clear that was.
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Oct 20, 2012 03:39
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Woo, no one used the same pic as me so far! Once again light on the editing, but I can never edit effectively until I put it aside for a week or so anyway. Also is there a way to center text with bbcode? I want my tilde's centered! Anyway, enough excuses, here ya go: Son of the Cold The snow swirled and danced, teased by the wind before falling to rest on the cold, white bed that stretched to the grey horizon. Loisa watched the flakes out the window with a hand resting on her swollen belly, and the warmth of a crackling fire at her back. She heard the heavy footsteps of Poln entering the room behind her. A dry, hard hand rested on the back of her neck and she looked away from the flakes, down at her bare feet on the frayed, red rug. His thumb caressed beneath her left ear. “The children sleep,” he said. She nodded, listening to his breath whistle in his nose. “Soon,” he said, “they will have another little one to take care of, won’t they?” His thumb stilled, squeezing. “A sister.” She nodded again and Poln released her. “Good,” he said. “Good.” Loisa returned her eyes to the snow. The world outside was a white fog hanging over an endless flat expanse. She knew there were roads, and those roads must lead to other places--other people--but they lived in the same realm in her mind as mountain-tops or stars; real, but unreachable. The scraping of metal on metal tensed her shoulders as Poln slid the fire poker from the holder and stirred the cinders. The embers crunched and squeaked against the metal tool, and for a moment the snow thinned, parting like a curtain to reveal the thin, makeshift cross jutting at an angle from the icy ground. Loisa squeezed her eyes shut against it, clutching at her belly with both hands. “Come here,” said Poln. She turned away from the window before opening her eyes. Poln stood at the fire with his back to her, still working at the coals aimlessly, his dull, green robe hanging loose at his sides. His shadow stretched out along an elaborately embroidered rug between two plush armchairs. Loisa stepped silently to his side. He took her hand and rubbed his thumb over the backs of her fingers, his eyes still on the flames. “The child within you,” he said. “You sense her.” She slid her palm over the bulging curve, smoothing her plain grey dress. The life within pulsed with strength--kicking, pushing, fighting to get out. Loisa felt an aura of of immovable resolution, of determination and force. She felt all these in a swirling cloud of impressions, but at the center of these features sat a core of masculinity. “Yes,” Loisa said. “I sense her.” Poln’s grip on her fingers tightened. “If you are lying again,” he said, pulling the poker from the coals. “I will not be so quick to forgive you.” He lifted the sharpened end of the poker level with her face. The heat tightened the skin under her eyes and she fought back a cringe. The poker fell on the back of her hand and white pain coursed through her. Poln’s mouth tightened as she screamed. “Do not test my patience,” he said. Loisa fell to her knees, choking. Poln released her and pulled the poker away, tearing melted flesh from the back of her hand. She clutched the wounded limb to her chest as waves of pain tensed her every muscle. She felt something rupture within her, and a hot liquid splashed onto the rug between her legs. “It is time,” said Poln. He calmly slid the poker back into the holder beside the fire, then took her wrist and pulled her to her feet. “Let us see what you have produced for me.” ~ Poln yanked the whimpering woman up the stairs behind him, toward the birthing room. They entered a long hall lined with doors. He opened the one where the older daughters slept. “Elise, Raychel, Walina, Francel,” he said. “To the birthing room. Bring clean towels and hot water.” The girls sat up, bleary-eyed, but stepped obediently out of bed. The birthing room was bare but for a single cot with clean sheets,. A small window spilled dim light over the simple bed. Poln helped the woman onto the sheets. “Stop crying,” he said. “You’ve done this enough times.” His daughters filed into the room carrying pitchers of water and folded towels. Poln took a towel from Walina’s hands. She looked down at her feet, the cloth held out like an offering. Poln placed a finger beneath her small chin and tilted her head up. Full lips made a circular mouth, constantly pursed like her mother’s. A small, soft nose and big green eyes brought a smile to his craggy face. At thirteen years she was nearly ready. He let his eyes slide down Walina’s slight curves before turning back to the matter at hand. Poln spread the clean towel between Loisa’s legs and lifted her dress. “Bring me a wet towel,” he said, raising his voice over Loisa’s cries. He turned to watch Raychel and Elise, twelve and eleven, pour some water into a cloth. Their awkward, unsure movements stirred him. The last stages of ripening were always the most appealing. He bent and placed his hands on Loisa’s thighs and pushed her legs apart, watching as she forced out the new life amidst a hail of screams. Poln held the quivering, screeching mass of flesh and appraised it. His eyes narrowed and the hard line of his mouth cracked into a jagged frown. He snatched the bloodied towel from the bed and wrapped the wailing infant in it. “Clean her up,” he said, and slammed the door behind him. ~ Loisa lurched to a sitting position as her daughters dabbed and wiped at her with hot towels. Francel carried the afterbirth away. “My baby,” Loisa said, panting. “Where...” The girls averted their eyes and continued cleaning, blood stained pink on the sleeves of their white sleeping gowns. Loisa pushed through the girls and hobbled to the small window. Snow still danced and swirled, making a grey fog of the sky. Below, a trail of footprints led out from the house. The tall figure of Poln, his robe flapping in the wind, huddled at their peak. The wind paused for an instant, and the thin, dark cross appeared briefly through the veil. Loisa’s heart pounded in her throat as blood trickled down her legs. Not again. Not this time. She brushed off her daughters’ clutching hands and pushed through the birthing room door and down the stairs to where the fire still crackled warmly. ~ The snow crunched and squeaked beneath Poln’s slippered feet, but the cold in the ground and whipping air was muted by his anger. The weakly squirming bundle in his arms was a progeny of betrayal, it’s screams confirmed his suspicions of lies. If she had told him, he could have given her the drink to flush it from her, but now months had been wasted when a new seed, planted by him, could have been growing within her. Poln gritted his teeth at the disobedience, the defiance of it, and a decision solidified in his mind. Once Walina had her first bleeding, Loisa would be replaced. The cross stood before him, tilting askance with the weight of the snow on its uneven arms. A small mound in the snow broke the flat expanse. Poln bent and set the mass of flesh wrapped in the now pink towel on the icy ground. He felt a chill of relief as he broke contact with it. He wiped his hands on the sides of his robe and folded his arms, looking down at the red and purple face. A clump of snow slid away revealing something white and smooth with streaks of brown beneath. Tiny teeth and an empty eye socket looked up at Poln from the frozen ground, a glimpse of the future alongside the whimpering present. The cold would take it. The cold would silence it. Hot pain seared in a line from his back to his stomach, then twisted through him like a tangle of razorwire. His hands flew to his belly and found the hard, cold metal of the fire poker jutting out of his flesh. Blood poured like water from a punctured sack, warming his crotch and legs and trickling down the poker to splatter in the snow across the purple face. Poln felt hot breath on his neck and tumbled forward to the ground. His vision greyed, and the tiny, bloodied face turned to look at him through the swirling snow, it’s eyes open and calm. A shadow fell across Poln and slim hands snatched the bundle up and away from view. He looked up, straining to turn enough to see. Loisa stood over him, her haggard face impassive. She turned and walked into the fog, leaving him to stare up at the cross hanging over him. Flakes landed on his skin, sapping the heat as the ground sapped the blood. The toothy, wide-eyed face in the snow looked down on Poln and smiled as he closed his eyes to the cold. 
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Oct 20, 2012 03:43
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Car Cameron shook his head sadly. “You know, it didn’t have to be this way. We welcomed you. You could’ve been part of the family.” Justin didn’t answer. Justin had a rag stuffed in his mouth. “Oh, of course” said Cameron. He removed the rag. “What the hell?” Justin’s voice was slightly cracked. “What is wrong with you people?” Cameron shook his head. “You know what you did. We made you one of our own, and this is how you repaid us? You knew the rules.” “You’re out of your mind!” Justin struggled, but the bonds were tight. Cameron knew his knots. Cameron opened the front door of one of the two cars. Justin’s car. Pulled the tab that opened the gas tank. “You know, some of the other lads said I was crazy to take you in. Said you was young and impetuous. Said you wouldn’t be able to handle the structure and rigours of this life. I didn’t listen to ‘em. I was sure you were a good kid, down beneath your fancy city clothes. I went out on a limb for you Justin, because I thought, I was sure, that you’d be worth it.” “What’re you planning to do with me?” asked Justin. “People will notice if I’m missing for too long.” “Perhaps” said Cameron “although I doubt they’d come looking for you here. Don’t worry though, you won’t be harmed, although Lord knows you deserve it after you broke our hearts.” He stuffed the rag into the gas tank. “You wouldn’t happen to have a lighter there, would you Justin?” No answer came. “Of course you do, you’re always smoking those disgusting things. We didn’t blame you for that, though. We know those awful things are habit forming. We can forgive a lot here, but not what you did.” He went through Justin’s pockets and came up with a zippo lighter. “No, we won’t do anything to you, but I’m afraid you’ll be walking or hitching back.” Cameron lit the end of the rag, then dragged Justin to a safe distance. “See, I told you,” he said “I told you, that on this farm, we drive Holdens.” 
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Oct 20, 2012 04:37
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As Above 960 words The chime of the elevator echoed down the empty corridor. The doors clunked open and a gurney emerged, its wonky wheel squeaking with every metre. A dark cloaked orderly pushed it towards the morgue and it burst through the heavy rubber doors like a bandit entering an old saloon. Doctor Scott stood directly behind those doors and he backtracked hastily as the gurney hurtled towards him. The young orderly, his head bowed and his eardrums shielded by the small, flat headphones, pulled hard backwards and the gurney rocked to a squeaky halt. The clipboard hanging from the end dangled millimetres from Scott's kneecaps. "For God's sake Martin, watch where you are going," Scott said. The orderly blushed, pulling the headphones down around his neck. An indistinguishable concerto bled from the hanging speakers. "Sorry Doctor Scott," said Martin. "Who's this?" the doctor asked, looking down at the silver, sealed body bag atop the gurney's deck. "He's a patient of Doctor Wallace." "Put him in six," Scott asked, gesturing towards the bank of body freezers. "I'm finished for today and my wife's expecting me." Martin whispered, "Look at the chart." "Pardon me?" "Doctor Wallace asked that I make sure you looked at the chart." Scott lifted the clipboard and studied Wallace's annotations. A sticky note was attached. It said I know you can't resist a puzzle –CW. The pages of charts and write-ups beneath were peppered with children's stickers that concealed specific segments of Wallace's small, precise handwriting. On the section that listed the cause of death a large Star Wars storm-trooper's helmet had been overlaid. Scott read the exposed portions, holding the chart one-handed as he slipped off and hung his scarf and overcoat. He said nothing to Martin as the orderly retreated from the morgue. With freshly-sanitized hands Scott pulled down the heavy zipper to expose the cadaver. It was an older man, but too young for death. The notes did not hide that he was fifty-two. He was squat and plump with short, greying hair and a silver broom-head of a moustache. There were no tell-tale signs of death. No bruising around the clavicle from CPR trauma, no yellowed sclera to indicate liver failure, no redness in the nasal cavity to hint at dust exposure. The protruding belly was speckled and sparsely haired. The bosoms fell apart gracefully as the doctor used a scalpel to open the chest. Scott freed the flesh from the ribs and then sawed a channel through the cartilage. He pulled open the ribcage and then he stood back with a gasp. In the chest cavity, where normally would lie a slippery heap of organs, Scott instead saw a city. It was microscopic, intricate and it had grown into the tissue almost unobtrusively. Where the heart should have been a district of tiny skyscrapers stood. The surrounding suburbs sprawled up and into the fleshy red hillsides, the houses thinning out as the neighbourhoods stretched towards the bowels and the throat. It was his city. The harbour lapped at the shores, the waters filling where the space between lungs would normally be. Corroded ferries floated between quays. The red dust of above hung like a mist hung over the entire landscape. Scott left the cadaver and pulled over an optics cart with a high-magnification video camera. He replaced his gloves and then calibrated the camera, an attached LCD display filling with the details as he zoomed and focussed. The city was beyond a faithful reproduction, it was as if he were staring down from an aeroplane window on his way home. Cars and rusty buses smaller than a pin-tip moved along the streets. Lights turned on and off in the windows of the blocky towers. Scott increased the zoom and focussed the lens on a suburb south of the business district. In a region where the liver would have been he located the hospital. A raised highway snaked past it on one side, a green strip of dark, dying trees wrapped around the other. Using a pair of long handled tweezers Scott reached into the chest cavity and pinched the hospital building. It was smaller than a tic-tac. He used the tweezers to pry the structure free. It didn't collapses into rubble from the pressure, it stretched wetly as he tugged before it lost its connection. It was like pulling a stamen from a flower. He dropped the tiny hospital into a stainless-steel dish and then reviewed the display, making a slight readjustment to the focus. In the exposed foundations of the removed building was the basement, in it his morgue. All of it was meticulously recreated down to the tools on the miniature benches and the painted numbers on the wall of freezers. In the middle of it stood a tiny Doctor Scott, dressed in his overcoat, scarf in hand. Scott leaned back and blinked. He checked again, confirming what he'd seen. He stood and walked a slow lap around the morgue. When he returned to the corpse he again adjusted the optics, nudging the camera's controls to move the view a few suburbs over until he was staring at his own block of apartments. They were on the waterfront of a black river that ran towards the intestines. A soft, warm light glowed in the window of his home. Using tweezers and a scalpel, Scott sheathed off the levels above his apartment and removed them from the body. He shined a light into his exposed home, the display showing crisply what was happening inside. His wife, bra on, otherwise naked, sat slumped against the lounge room wall. She held a minuscule cigarette that leaked a thin trail of smoke. On the other side of the room Doctor Wallace was buttoning up his shirt. Scott stared down, Wallace looked up. Wallace smiled.  
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Oct 20, 2012 05:11
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Hoar Frost 862 words Faisal shifted his weight and pressed his palm onto the cold ground as he went from kneeling to laying on his side. He didn't break eye contact with his family. He enjoyed this position, closer to the ground, and slightly removed from the common eye level of the others. Together they all watched him bring his hand up, watched as the frost melted, and listened as it dripped down his arm and onto the ground. It was all he was able to offer at the time, outside of the warmth his wisps of exhalation brought. He knew the air was communal, and knew that those breaths were all that sustained them as a group. No one had said a word about his change in position, and Faisal went back to listening. The breath of the older man, his father, had slowed in recent times. Deeper, more patient. Faisal couldn't imagine what could be waited for. His sister, who he loved dearly, was the epitome of rhythm in this regard. He often fell into synch with her, as a matter of course. She used to laugh when she noticed, and try to set herself apart. Mother's eyes were closed again, and this was normal enough. She was quiet to the point that all Faisal could do to reassure himself of her presence was scan the air to see her breath. He could make a noise of course, and her eyes would snap to attention, but he wanted her to rest. His own lungs rose and fell as always, and it was a burden to ignore this. He liked to keep his mind on other things. He'd keep eye contact even when the others were sleeping. It was an automatic responsibility. Only when he slipped and looked past his family, beyond the small glow of light and warmth they provided, did he remember exactly why he had to keep at it. His sister used to spend time suggesting the things that might be out there, good or bad. It was known to all involved that this was a thought exercise meant to prevent the mind from falling into disuse. It was a courtesy, and perhaps a responsibility for her that she took on of her own will, automatically. Faisal couldn't stand it, but appreciated her intentions. Eventually he slept, his eyes closing into a different type of blackness, breaking contact with his father. His body was dull and empty matter during this time, as lifeless as the dirt he was laying on. Faisal's limbs stiffened as his breath slowed to an imperceptible minimum. His skin grew cold as frost settled on it. His hair and fingernails grew. Eyelashes fell off. Every second of this period of blank repose was scrutinized by eyes he could not be aware of. He was sustained by the knowledge that his stillness would be observed, even while his slumber deprived him of knowledge. When he opened his eyes, and rejoined the family, all three were focused on him. His father inhaled, paused for a second, and spoke. "I've come to a decision. You will be leaving us." It took until the frost of his father's breath touched him for it to register. Even then, Faisal's father continued to fill the air with his voice. "You squander too much heat. You're lax in your duties to us. We will all be better with you gone." Voiceless noises escaped Faisal's throat as he tried to form an argument, but he knew his father's nature. The decision was as solid and cold as the ground. His sister was looking down at the ground. Had she known this was going to happen? Had they spoke of the matter while he was asleep? How long had this been in motion? He wouldn't be able to know these answers. All he could do was comply with the decision. He shifted his weight to his hands, and struggled to put his feet down underneath him. His tendons cracked, and he felt the cold and numbness as blood rushed to his muscles. He hadn't stood up in so long. He lurched forwards as his balance was thrown off by the sudden perspective change. Looking down on his family from this angle was entirely new. How much taller had he grown since this had begun? He clutched at his shoulders to keep the warmth close to him as he began to step away. His own light was dim, and he could barely be certain of where he put his feet down. His family receded into the distance. For a moment, he considered staying just outside the edge of their sight. It would be too cold, and he would not be able to sustain himself once he slept. The blood continued to surge through his body. They had cast him out, truly. His entire posture changed, as his body responded automatically to what his mind was focused on. His inhalations were pure, and deep. Knowing there was nothing out there in the cold and blackness, and knowing that his family could kill him with a single decision, he moved in a way he never had before. He began running. 
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Oct 20, 2012 08:45
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White Stone Rise Father Donnelly pulled his lip out, released it with a wet pop."It's a strangeness, to be certain," he allowed. Slattery the farmer nodded. They stood atop the massy hummock two miles west of the village. There was a fresh breeze skirling around them but failing to make an impression on the thick blanket of cloud above. In front of them was a white stone mound, thrusting out of the soil. Slabs of shouldered-aside turf testified to its novelty. "And you're sure that's a new thing we're looking at here, Slattery?" asked the priest. The farmer nodded again, said "Yes father". He thought about it for a moment, then added "Erin was ferreting for a weaner, and found it here. She thought it summat unearthly, and I said you'd know the right of it." Slattery was a man accustomed to long silences, and this was no mean speech. Father Donnelly favoured him with an appreciative glance, then laid his palm on the crucifix around his neck. "Well, my boy. Sure if it's not an oddity, but there's more and stranger in the good Lord's world. Trouble not yourself about it - I'll give you a dispensation." Slattery frowned. "I..." Father Donnelly waited a few moments for his thought to complete itself, but when nothing was forthcoming he sighed, patted the other man on the shoulder, climbed back on his horse. "Give my kind regards to your lady, Rob," he said. "Dominus vobiscum." Four weeks later Father Donnelly was sitting on the bench outside the verger's cottage, eyes closed. The afternoon sun was warm on his face. Someone coughed and he opened his eyes. O'Leary, the miller, was standing there, cap in hands. "Father, sorry to interrupt your ruminations, but - " Father Donnelly shook his head, smiling, patted the bench. "Have a seat my son." O'Leary glanced at the seat, didn't sit down. "There's a worry, Father. Among the village. You've observed the stones?" The priest frowned. "Stones?" "Some of the folk have started wearing 'em. Sure and they have. And they... they change when they're wearing them. Makes them fey, some are saying." Father Donnelly sniffed discreetly but noted no whiff of poteen. He'd noticed his congregation had been getting skimpy, but thought it was just the harvest. "So these stones, they're magic are you saying?" O'Leary shrugged. "Slattery was the first... I saw his handing them out to folk of an evening. Furtive in fashion, you understand. And ...I heard him saying something about the 'true congregation'". Father Donnelly pondered a moment, then sighed, stood up. Three hours later he crested the rise. The sun was gone, black clouds were massing on the horizon. A single ray of light shone on the place where he'd seen the white rock with Slattery the month previous. But now it was no rock. A gleaming edifice of glittering stone stood there now, seeming to have grown rather than been built. He cantered towards it, dismounted. The grass around the building was uncropped, grown thick and green. A low hum came from within the... cathedral. It was a cathedral. The door was open a little. He pushed and it opened smoothly. Inside... blackness. He heard a sound behind him and turned, in tim to see a flash of movement as a sunburst bloomed in his head. He fell to the ground. A time later, he opened his eyes. His head did not hurt. He lay on a smooth, warm bed of white stone. He touched the stone, and felt in an instant how far down it went, had a sudden vision of the green earth with a sea urchin of white stone within it, growing. Ever growing. Listening. Taking the form of what it heard. Learning the words it needed to say. Father Donnelly smiled, touched the white stone around his neck. He understood, now. Swung his legs around. In a ring around him were the people of the village, each with their own stone. "Lads," said Father Donnelly. "It's a wide old world, and we've got a job of work ahead of us. Let's to it with a will." 
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Oct 20, 2012 10:26
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At an initial glance, it looks like everyone selected different pictures. And no one picked any of the ones with his cross in it. Interesting!!
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Oct 20, 2012 12:18
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There was a cross in mine. I dont know anything about the artist though so i dont know if thats what you mean.
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Oct 20, 2012 14:07
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I picked the most boring image, but it fit so well. This prompt was awesome.
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Oct 20, 2012 14:32
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The second picture in mine has a cross in the top left but it wasn't really relevant.  And now I want to write something else to make it so. Art prompts are cool.
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Oct 20, 2012 17:16
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Sitting Here posted:Fodder: The war horn blows. Weapons drop, warriors fall panting to hands and knees and bellies upon blood-clotted sand. IT IS FINISHED the judges utter in unison, a triad of voices that loosens the bowls of the prostrate competitors. ZACK_GOCHUCK. BIGMCGAFFNEY. The Triumvirate turn their cowled heads from side to side, but none reply save the mournful, dusty wind. SO BE IT. THEIR NAMES SHALL FOREVER BE STRICKEN THROUGH WITH THE SHAME OF THEIR FLIGHT. The judges raise their fists and it is so. TOANORADIAN. "Y-yes my lords?" A man steps foreward, not from the field of battle but from the shadows at the edges of the arena. He is battle scarred, but not from this most recent clash. YOU HAVE ABASED YOURSELF BEFORE US WITH HONESTY AND HUMILITY. AND," the judges say, "WE LIKE THE CUT OF YOUR JIB. MAY YOU LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY, HE-WHO-FLEES-WITH-HONOR." TO THE REST OF YOU, say the Judges to the gore-splattered competitors. THE HOUR OF YOUR JUDGEMENT IS NIGH AT HAND. PREPARE YOURSELVES." With that, the judges step into the air itself, into a whorl of screams and the torn stuff of reality. The inner sanctum, where none but the hoary eyes of judgement may see. Soon, a dank breeze whispers. Soon...
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Oct 20, 2012 21:18
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Sitting Here posted:With that, the judges step into the air itself, into a whorl of screams and the torn stuff of reality. The inner sanctum, where none but the hoary eyes of judgement may see. SurreptitiousMuffin always made me take the stairs.
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Oct 20, 2012 22:05
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Bad Seafood posted:How do they do that anyway. Hey, keep the judgechat to the Invisible Judge Forum Or did they not show you that either? Man, hazing has really got out of control since last I took the throne and gavel. Also I really should have known when I picked Beksinski that I should expect ENDLESS DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOWING SAND FOREVER.
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Oct 20, 2012 22:20
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I hope you appreciate that I took, like, 20 minutes out of my X-Com playing time to spit that piece out. I'm not sure exactly how many aliens I could've killed in that time, but I bet it comes out to roughly 'a bunch'.
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Oct 20, 2012 23:53
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Blowing sand owns.
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Oct 21, 2012 00:17
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sand is so mainstream
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Oct 21, 2012 00:32
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Sitting Here posted:Also I really should have known when I picked Beksinski that I should expect ENDLESS DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOWING SAND FOREVER. Of coarse. Looking at those pictures, it's a beach not to write something about sand. (Can I get my losertar now)
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Oct 21, 2012 01:02
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Sitting Here posted:Hey, keep the judgechat to the Invisible Judge Forum
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Oct 21, 2012 04:51
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The Stairs Into Your Soul are a vital part of Thunderdome. Leaving them out would be like a nachos without avocado or nihilism without teenagers.
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Oct 21, 2012 05:11
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RIGHT. I've read the stories and you fuckers have not bothered to present a clear loser. This has made my job immeasurably harder. So anyone who thought they'd done a decent but not exceptional job is on the firing line. Which given the prompt is probably made of jagged bone spurs, desiccated tendons and sun baked dust, so it's not even COMFORTABLE.
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Oct 21, 2012 06:05
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Beksinski was stabbed to death over a few hundred dollars. If one of us takes the bullet for a bad story, make it worth it.
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Oct 22, 2012 02:42
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Have multiple losers. My dream is to one day have this thread filled with losertars.
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Oct 22, 2012 07:21
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