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I'll have a go. Old people are fun. ### Oh My Darling - 775 words The two fossils eyed a sleeping woman through the one way mirror, as they had done for the last eight years. One was dressed in a beige suit, the other in a Nazi uniform. "Is it time?" wheezed Maximilian, pupils glassy with cataracts. "Soon." said Sergei, massaging his rough hands. He'd once used them to strangle a rottweiler, now he could barely open a pill bottle. The hundred year old woke up and began to laugh. "Go." Maximilian entered the room, a simulacrum of a nineteen fourties bedroom. A wireless played Django Reinhardt, audio cues for the spy. "Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian. "Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream." "Yes?" "Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream." "Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead. "How is the fuhrer?" "Magnificent. In fact he wanted me to ask you something." said Maximilian slowly. This was always the tricky part. "Yes?" said the woman, moving beneath the off-white sheets. "He wondered if you could remember any of the account numbers you put the gold in? He wants to commission a statue of Eva you see. As a surprise." "Oh, I couldn't say dear. Those numbers were so long." "Try. For your fuhrer." smiled Maximilian. He watched the old woman closed her eyes, as she had done countless of times before, and attempted to remember. "Well...there was some stored at the Swiss National...let's see now..." she said, rolling her tongue across ancient lips. "Yes?" "Four...zero...one...um...now was it an eight or a five?" Behind the one-way mirror Sergei entered the numbers into a database. So far the string was lit green. "Any more?" "Five...double zero and...oh I can't remember. Let me check my books." said the woman and made to get out of bed. A look of horror washed over her face and she yanked away the sheets. "Oh..." said Maximilian, picking up his hat. "Max! Max! My legs are gone! What has happened to my legs!" she wailed. "I'm sorry darling, I must be going. I'll be back soon." said Maximilian, kissing her head again before walking out. He went to join Sergei in the observation room and they watched the woman remember her missing limbs. "You have to keep her in bed Max." "I know. We'll try again in an hour." The two old spies ate dumplings and gravy. Maximilian dripped some onto his lapel and cursed under his breath. "Does it ever bother you?" said Sergei. "What? The gravy?" "Interrogating an old flame." "Not much bothers me comrade, not after Stalingrad." "But do you still feel anything for her?" "Yes. But the mission is more important." said Maximilian. He sucked on his inhaler. The interrogations went on all day and they were no closer to finding any of the account numbers than they had been that morning. The mission had gone on for so long, with no real results. Maximilian wondered if their handlers had forgotten about them, or worse, died off and told nobody of the slow espionage that they were undertaking. Sometimes Maximilian would go in and try to hold a conversation with her in the hopes it might somehow reverse the deterioration though the conversations often went around in circles. "I want to try something different tomorrow." said Sergei as both men walked to their cars. Max nodded. Different was always good. "Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian. "Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream." "Yes?" "Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream." "Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead. "How is the fuhrer?" she said. And as if on cue in walked Sergei, dressed from head to toe in the finery of the Nazi dictator. He even had on a fake toothbrush moustache. "I'm here!" said Sergei. "Hitler!" she said, saluting. "Hello darling! I was just wondering if you could remember where you put my gold?" "Absolutely. I'll just go and check my books, excuse me." she said, pulling back her covers. "Oh." said Maximilian. "Meine fuhrer...I can't walk!" she said, shocked. The fake Hitler and the ancient spy looked at each other and shrugged before leaving the woman alone. Maybe Hitler was too exciting. ### 
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Oct 4, 2012 14:47
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I liked last weeks and so will give this one a go as well. No idea what I'm going to write yet though duh. edit: I thought a bit. Modern Romance (1194) Jaak looked out at the Los Angeles cityscape from his penthouse apartment, watching the sun slowly set on the horizon. He could just make out the Great Steed pulling the inferno behind it, galloping just a few miles on the edge of oblivion as it had done since the dawn of the New Age. Jaak's phone rang. "Hello lover. How was work?" "Standard. You?" "Made some advances on transmogrifying gluons into photons. Wanna hear about it?" "Not really. Can't really wrap my head around quantum alchemy." "Neither can most wizards. Wanna go out?" came the voice. "Sure. Come over whenever." said Jaak. He put the phone down and went back to scrying. The HD television bulged in and out, showing flashes of black in the space between the noise. Occult shapes. The Horned Gods. War. Jaak frowned, noting it down on his laptop. The couple entered the night club after paying a few groats at the door. Pounding techno drowned out conversation as the goblin DJ loaded another wax cylinder onto the decks. "Wanna drink?" Jaak shouted to his partner. "Can you get me a love potion?" shouted Roosalon. Jaak laughed and ran a hand down his lovers back before nudging his way toward the bar. As he waited for the goblin to get his drinks he looked across at the alchemist he'd been dating the last few weeks. Roosalon was beautiful, the dim light exaggerating his perfect features in that air of mystery that'd made Jaak attracted to him in the first place. Most of the things that walked past couldn't help but look upon his face and feel something stirring inside them. Jaak brought the drinks over and kissed him tenderly. "Let's dance." The night was long and hot. A hundred or so beings danced frantically in the club, eyes rolling, sweat catching the harsh light, the sticky smell of spilled potions tainted the air almost as much as the dry ice that constantly poured over the dance floor. Jaak and Roosalon spilled out of the club late, laughing and holding each other. As they made their way through the city a few people eyed them curiously. Eventually Jaak snapped. "What are you looking at?" "Nothing." said a werewolf. "You have a problem with gays or something?" "No, no, nothing like that. It's just..." "Yeah?" said Roosalon, walking forward. "Aren't you the Chosen One?" said the werewolf. Roosalon's face fell. "So what." said Roosalon coldly. "Nothing." "Oh, so you think the Chosen One should only marry the princess huh?" said Jaak. He was surprised to hear his voice crack slightly. "Look, I'm just going home. I don't want any trouble." "Get out of here." said Roosalon. The werewolf scurried away leaving the couple alone on the street. They walked in silence for a while, the only sound were the distant clattering of hooves from the nearby interstate. "Let's go home." The two men laid together on the couch, Jaak resting his head on his boyfriend's chest that slowly rose and fell as the minutes passed. "You aren't bothered by what the wolf said are you?" "No, no. Man, elf, dwarf, orc, monster, god, it doesn't matter any more does it?" "Of course not." "But..." said Jaak, pushing himself up. "Well, y'know. There's never been a gay Chosen One has there?" "No, but I don't see why there can't be." said Roosalon lighting a cigarette. "But it's in your genes. The great evil will rise, you will defeat it and rescue the princess. It's been like that for the last thousand or so years." "Those times are over. The last of the dark lords was vanquished, all the princesses are now queens and the world doesn't need any more heroes." said Roosalon. "What about your magic sword?" "What about it?" "I've seen the runes on it glow. Evil is going to rise again, isn't it?" said Jaak. "No. I'm an alchemist, not a hero." said Roosalon. He got up and went to the window. Jaak followed him and rested his hands on his partner's hips. "I've seen things in the TV. It's mostly noise but..." Roosalon turned and kissed Jaak hungrily. It took him by surprise, the passion of it. The sadness of it. "Don't worry Jaak. Nothing is going to happen." said Roosalon. Jaak wanted to believe him. Jaak went to work the following day feeling a little sorry for himself. How many potions had he drank the night before? Head thumping, he went to his desk and began to write the previous afternoon's scrying, though it took a lot longer than it should. He almost missed the commotion around him. "What's up?" said Jaak. A young mermaid wheeled past him in her bath chair. "Haven't you seen the news?" "What?" "Scries from New York. The twin towers have been hit." she said. Jaak felt his stomach fall away. As if in a dream he got up and walked towards the editor's office, where all the journalists had gathered around a large television. They watched in silence as a druid recanted his vision whilst a CGI animation played over and over. A dragon crashing into the side of the WTC. Then another. Jaak watched the smoke and fire spill out from the towers then at the faces around him. The report cut back to the news room. "In one of the worst prophecies of recent times, we can confirm that the World Trade Centre may be attacked tomorrow. We'll keep you updated as much as we can." said the shocked anchorman. The King of America was now on. "Tomorrow, we will be a country awakened to danger and called to defend freedom. Our grief will turn to anger and anger to resolution. Whether we bring our enemies to justice or bring justice to our enemies, justice will be done." "poo poo." said Jaak. His phone rang. "Jaak, have you seen the news?" said Roosalon. "Yeah, I'm watching it right now." "Jaak, they've sent the King's Guard here. They want me on a zeppelin this afternoon." "Are you going to go?" said Jaak. His voice was flat. There was too much to take in. "I...I don't know. I didn't think this would happen!" "Go." "But our conversation last night-" "That was before. We haven't faced a great evil for seventy years, your country is expecting you." "But I love you." said the Chosen One. Jaak closed his eyes. When he opened them again he watched the World Trade Centre's collapse again. And again. "I love you to. I'll still be here. Go." said Jaak. He put the phone down and went to his desk, wiping a tear from his eye. If only things were different. If only he lived in a world where things weren't so clear cut, that good and evil were subjective rather than obvious. Of course, the story would need to be played out. Good would triumph and the people would rejoice. And the hero would marry the princess and they would live happily ever after. Jaak looked at the runeprocessor in front of him, the cursor blinking steadily like a beating heart. He began to type. 'Once upon a time...'
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Oct 10, 2012 13:30
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Black Griffon posted:No one will ever get points for being quick off the mark because it's retarded. Look a the first story submitted every week. None of them have won, and although not all of them are terrible, they've all missed something. I was a bit busy and only realised after I signed up, rather posted something than nothing. Phew. Though someone has to be first, I don't see it having any baring on winning or losing. It's the first time I've written something fantastical so I liked thinking along those lines.
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Oct 12, 2012 11:22
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I'll have another go and this time I won't write and post straight away. To clarify, can we use any of his work or just the two paintings posted?
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Oct 15, 2012 14:51
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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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