Heya, first time contestant definitely in if you'll have me, choose to do this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buttered_toast_phenomenon
Trial five thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven, she scribbled in her carbonless notebook.
“What are you doing?”
She spun around in surprise. Then realized it was a boy. She sneered. It wasn’t that he was bad looking she just had no time for childish romances. All she saw was a distraction. A phony smile, and the attempt at charm. She had no use for charm.
She returned to her studies and slathered another slice with butter. The cold shoulder was obvious. It was a technique she had mastered. It was a simple tactic, much simpler than her current task. She looked past the man, as if staring into his soul, then without a thought she turned away from him uninterested. She could almost feel the weight land on his head as she did it.
“Did you hear me?”
Another interruption. She wanted to scream at him; to tell him the importance of her work. She wanted to explain how the very fabric of reality was being plucked apart by her discerning eye. The impulse faded almost immediately. Engaging such a primitive was beneath her. She picked up her belongings and moved to another table. If the man was a balloon she was sure he would have popped.
Away from the distractions her experiment was loaded and readied. Her smile was thin and only a careful observer might have known her internal excitement as she prepared to record the data. There was no sweeter thing in life. Science had become her addiction. It was a drug that knew no limit; a prescription that needed no doctor; a comfort that needed no man.
Time slowed down as she lifted her hand and watched as her lunch fell. If math was a color, it was a color that she alone could see. Suddenly the vector quantities of centripetal force became visible in her imagination. The force of rotation was equivalent to the tangential velocity multiplied by the mass of the object inverse to the radius of curvature. It was an equation she knew by heart and set her teeth on edge.
As soon as it had begun the dream ceased. Her toast landed, buttered side down. She smiled. It was as she had expected. She had long thought that reality was a cruel and evil place and in fact that was her hypothesis. The Buttered Toast Phenomena simply proved it to be true. She smiled thinly as reality came into focus. There was clearly no free choice, and there was not even such a thing as luck. There was however a ‘god’. If you could call it that. A being of pure malevolence who had designed the universe with simple unalterable laws to bring about the misery of all men or at least her.
Soon the attendants arrived and she screamed. They grew angry with her and called for meds. Her fight was pointless. The two attendants outclassed her in mass by a full magnitude. Just like always her choice was irrelevant. The universe was designed to cause her misery.
The morning greeted her with harsh sunlight. Breakfast would begin soon. She smiled in spite of herself and waited patiently with her carbonless notebook for her door to be unlocked. After what seemed like hours her warden arrived to let her out. There was a lecture of course which followed from the previous day’s events but she didn’t listen to a word. The one thing on her mind was the toast.
Her warden, the man calling himself her therapist sighed and had her sit at the table while he went to fetch her breakfast. She shivered in anticipation and closed her eyes imagining the sweet sight of the misery of existence being proven once more to her. The sound of a tray slapping the table in front of her brought her back to reality. She opened her eyes.
It wasn’t there. There was no toast. There was nothing but oatmeal. She felt her eyes begin to burn. This was unexpected. This was even worse than misery. She looked towards her warden thinking it to be a cruel joke but he had already moved on. He didn’t care. A lone tear fell down her cheek.
The sound of a sliding tray drew her attention. In front of her appearing by magic was toast. She looked up and saw the man who had tried to get her attention before. She glared while she tried to figure out what he wanted.
He just shrugged, “You know, if you keep trying the same thing, you’ll always get the same result.” She tried to sneer at him but he had already turned to walk away.
Her thoughts did cartwheels as she tried to contemplate the action. For the first time she felt entirely understood. She smiled widely, he wouldn’t see it anyways. This time she would prove it wrong once and for all and she would prove him wrong too.
While her warden was distracted she climbed upon the table. Her knees wobbled, not from weakness or fatigue but from excitement. She stood up and raised the toast into the air. Her warden cried out but it was too late, the toast slipped silently from her hands.
End over end her smile grew wider. The math seemed to glow like the sun searing its values into her head. Then with a plop the toast landed, buttered side up.
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2014 01:39|
|# ¿ Oct 3, 2023 16:28|
900 words exactly btw.
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2014 01:40|
|# ¿ Jan 30, 2014 08:55|
Unfortunately I'll need to withdraw, I don't have the time to finish my spy story with my nephew taking over my evening. I'll be sure to post in the redemption thread.
|# ¿ Feb 3, 2014 06:41|
I'm in, I'd like carbon.
Since I missed the last prompt flash rule plz.
|# ¿ Feb 6, 2014 06:16|
My bad, can I have cesium?
|# ¿ Feb 6, 2014 09:37|
Title: Modern Magic
Word Count: 1200
Debiles smiled, his plan was coming together once again. He so loved the art. “You, will never become the Archmage.” His quarry spat at him, even as his body was slowly being pulled apart atom by atom.
Debiles laughed, “My plan has already succeeded. You see minister, you were the final loose end to pluck out. Now the empire is mine.” With a snap of his fingers the man before him disintegrated. The motes of energy that had formerly comprised his body annihilating themselves in brilliant flashes of light. In a moment it was over.
The green glow of his watches’ backlight was the only light in the cavern but Debiles needed no light to see by. The magic that infused his body allowed him to see through the darkness. The radiation that permeated all things was more than enough for his eyes to see by but he still enjoyed his watch. A faint beeping sound played out its electronic speaker reminding him that the minister needed to be dead by that moment. Right on time, he mused.
“Now what?” His sister spoke behind him shattering his reverie. Debiles tried not to snarl at her. It really wasn’t her fault but he hadn’t scheduled an opportunity for her to speak. He walked towards the end of the corridor where the minister’s personal transport to the Archmage’s chambers awaited him. The sound of his sister’s footfalls were irritatingly irregular. He had learned years ago to try and ignore that shortfall of hers, after all she had taught him magic.
The human will, such a peculiar thing, he thought. Unpredictable, resistant to routine and utterly unaware of time. To him time was precious. “All in good time my sister,” Tick, tock, was the sound that played through his mind.
The sound of the clock was all that he could hear. Tick, tock, the mouse runs up the clock. He wondered when he had begun to repeat that nursery rhyme in his head. Was it a minute after he had been locked up in the darkness? Was it a year?
His train of thought was interrupted again by the sound. Tick, tock, the mouse is smashed by a rock. He picked up the creature and bit into it. The warm juice exploded in his mouth and he savored the metallic flavor. Sensation was such a rare treat down there and mice were better than nothing.
Tick… the sound was interrupted. He strained to hear the clock but try as he might the sound was gone. He felt tears running down his face. A sensation he hadn’t felt since he had first been trapped. He groaned. The sound echoed chillingly throughout the cavern. He didn’t want out, he just wanted the clock.
“Tick, Tock.” After what seemed like an eternity he began to make the sound himself. It helped him think. After repeating his mantra he saw a light, the heavy stones that had blocked his exit were extracted. His sister stood before him covered in the blood of his captors. He smiled, “Tick, tock,” was all he could say.
The Archmage stood before Debiles. His weak and aging body shook with the strain of holding itself upright. The staff of power that the Archmage clung to was more of a crutch than a powerful artifact. “Debiles.” His voice reminded Debiles of the rumbling of an avalanche. It was a sound he had heard once before but he couldn’t quite place it. No matter, I didn’t schedule that memory. He dismissed his own thoughts.
“Mister Verum Latet, your time has come I’m afraid.” The ringing of the clock in his head felt like a metronome timing his every action. He reminded himself to slow down, he was moving too fast in his excitement.
The Ancient Archmage spat, “How much you don’t know. Ungrateful wretch.” With impressive power and coordination the Archmage began to move, his hands were a blur of motion and his mouth ran through incantations faster than Debiles had thought was possible. Still against the plan the Archmage would fail. Debiles knew the plan almost as well as the sound that played on repeat in his head.
Debiles’ watch chimed in again reminding him to step to the side as the enormous spear of ice flew through where he had been standing only milliseconds before. He quite liked his watch, his sister had gifted it to him shortly after he had escaped from his imprisonment. Another beep reminded him to drop to the floor as spinning disks of metal cut through the air over head. He had choreographed his motions after years of studying the Archmage. Were he a normal man he would have lost count of the number of hapless assassins he had dispatched to this very room each serving to reveal the Archmage’s habits.
It had taken forty two to put together the plan and it all depended on timing. Something Debiles was very good at. The clock in his watch was based on the electronic transitions of the hyperfine ground states of Cesium-133. It was accurate to a degree even his time keeping abilities were envious of. The alarm rang again reminding him to roll to the side. Deep gouges were cut into the concrete that he had been laying upon by phantom creatures. His watch was perfect perhaps more so than the sound of clock in his head.
Unfortunately without his watch to order his thoughts he was quite unable to concentrate for longer than a second. Another beep reminded him to cast his own magic. He mouthed the words and made the motions. Milliseconds passed as he waited for the telltale shimmer to begin, but nothing happened. His eyes widened as more milliseconds passed and no magical shield surrounded him. Then, a bolt of lightning pierced through his chest flinging him into the wall.
His face was contorted in surprise, not sure of what had happened. Paralyzed, he watched his sister pluck the feeble Archmage up with her own psychic commands. The mage Struggled helplessly, after a moment he stopped moving and simply glared at her. “I knew it. Debiles never had any magic.” Now Debiles understood why it seemed like his captors had been struck down without a fight.
Fortis shrugged, “You figured it out too late father.” She smiled as she casually pulled off his arms and legs like a child ripping the wings off of an insect.
“Your act was quite perfect, I commend you.” The Archmage struggled to say as his daughter slowly cut him apart with her magic.
Fortis smiled as she looked at her brother’s motionless body knowing that it would only be moments before his heart stopped. “To think, all it took was a clock. It took me years to convince him that my magic was his own. Luckily rhythm isn’t that hard to learn.” With her final words she pulled apart the rest of her father’s body leaving only a fine bloody mist.
Debiles would have cried if he could, the sound of the clock was gone. It was a hell he was only forced to experience for a few moments before his dear sister finished him off.
|# ¿ Feb 8, 2014 07:59|
*sigh* I submitted the wrong version >_< In the beginning Debiles is supposed to speak his sister's name which saved me a word allowing me to fix the omitted word 'of'. Hopefully that confusion won't penalize me too much ;_;
A faint beeping sound played out of its electronic speaker reminding him that the minister needed to be dead by that moment.
“All in good time Fortis,”
elfdude fucked around with this message at 11:57 on Feb 8, 2014
|# ¿ Feb 8, 2014 08:12|
Don't do this stuff. Post it when it's done, then leave it the gently caress alone.
I left the original alone. The problem is I have like six drafts open at once and when I read through it the two words were not noticed whatsoever. If you mean I shouldn't have brought attention to my own mistake then meh my bad.
elfdude fucked around with this message at 11:57 on Feb 8, 2014
|# ¿ Feb 8, 2014 11:46|
|# ¿ Feb 12, 2014 08:21|
Ugh. Misspost. Was trying to post a redo of my modern magic story in the fiction farm.
elfdude fucked around with this message at 06:41 on Feb 13, 2014
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2014 06:34|
Title: Highschool Justice
Word Count: 1264
“You’re so stupid.” Ricky laughed as he tore apart the notebook. The pages fell in crumpled heaps to the floor each scrawled with detailed images. “How old are you anyways? Twelve?” I watched the smaller boy struggle to get it back. Ricky effortlessly held it out of his grasp, grinning.
I tried to turn away and told myself it was someone else’s problem. There were scores of kids surrounding the two, but no one made a move to stop it. Ricky King was an all-star athlete, a ‘perfect’ student, and beloved by all. I shook my head. Not even the teachers lifted a finger to stop the fight. My teeth strained and realized I was grinding them together. I told myself again that it was someone else’s problem.
Center stage of a growing crowd Ricky didn’t stop, he didn’t even try and slow down, and instead his taunting grew more and more vicious. I felt nauseous. As far as I could tell there was no reason for him to do this. Chris had never said a tense word to anyone. He was usually a jovial kid; entirely content to enjoy himself. The image before me was quite different. With tears on his cheeks, he struggled to stop his tormentor.
I sighed. It was just bunch of paper, but Chris still struggled for it. He refused to surrender to Ricky. I tried to remind myself that Ricky could’ve been picking on me; that today I wasn’t the target. The thought brought me no satisfaction. I could feel my heartbeat slam into my chest begging me to do something. It wasn’t my problem, I thought to myself. Vainly, I tried to quash my own empathy.
The mob began to laugh and chant Ricky’s words. Still, Chris refused to give up. He desperately attempted to leap for the notebook and missed. Ricky seemed emboldened by the sudden struggle, like a cat waiting for a mouse to move one more time before putting it out of its misery. Triumphantly, he pushed Chris down. Chris was at least a foot smaller than the statuesque Ricky, and try as he might to hold them back his sobs finally became audible.
Ricky just laughed, “Is the baby going to cry for his mommy now?”
Chris’ face flushed and he attempted to swing at Ricky, but the athlete effortlessly avoided the fist. It was obvious how hopeless his situation was, yet Chris did not seem to realize this. He still struggled. I willed him to give up. To just surrender and be done with it. No bully was entertained by someone who wouldn’t fight back.
Chris slipped and fell to his knees. The sound echoed in the room as bone contacted hard tile. I grimaced but I couldn’t turn away. Chris’ sobs were more vocal, but I almost smiled as Chris looked away from Ricky. He had surrendered, and I felt relieved. I expected this contest to be over.
“Don’t look away from me,” Ricky snarled and stepped on Chris’ thigh. Chris screamed in pain. The football star was easily double the weight of Chris. I glanced at the teachers, hoping that one might decide to intervene. They seemed oblivious. Somehow screams and scores of teenagers chanting ‘cry-baby’ didn’t draw their attention.
Ricky readied himself to deliver a final punch to his quarry, but then he was interrupted. I looked at my hand and realized that it was clenching his wrist. My eyes widened. Somehow my imagination had manifested itself. Time seemed to slow down as my heart pounded. Each beat releasing more and more adrenaline through my body. My expression of surprise deepened into one of fury. I could feel his bones straining against my grip, and still I gripped tighter.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I heard myself say it, but I didn’t feel like I had spoken. Somehow I was just an observer watching the events unfold before me. I saw myself do it, but I still couldn’t accept it. I punched Ricky square in the jaw.
Instead of falling, like he had in my imagination, he simply turned to look at me. He grinned. I realized that I had become his new target. In a fluid motion he twisted and pulled me to the ground where Chris had been. A solid kick to my face sent the world spinning. I felt another strike impact my diaphragm driving the air from my lungs.
“What’s wrong hero?” He laughed.
I resigned myself to accept my fate. I had felt worse before. I could take it. I almost smiled at the thought of punching him in the face; that was satisfaction.
“Stop it!” My heart stopped.
Chris charged and tackled Ricky. Half his size or not, the momentum carried them both to the floor. Somehow the weakest kid there still had the courage to fight, while not a single spectator involved themselves. Ricky recovered fast and threw Chris from his body, but it was already too late. I watched myself stand. The pain didn’t faze my body, not anymore. I fell on Ricky before he could get up, kneeling with all of my weight on his shoulders.
“You think you’re better than everyone else?” I yelled inches from his face. “You’re nothing but a bully. You’re a sadistic piece of poo poo,” my punch connected with his cheek. “Come on big man, fight back!” I hit him again. “Where’s your friends? I thought you were popular?” I leaned into my last punch and felt it connect with his jaw. The impact carried through his head into the tile floor and his jaw snapped.
The sound shattered my bloodlust and I felt nauseous again. I stood up and looked at the crowd, “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Then, I felt the firm grip of a teacher. It was only at that moment that they had decided to do something.
“We’re expelling him.” The conversation with my mother was tense. I could hear the argument even with the door closed. I didn’t care. My blood was still boiling. “We think its gang violence.” That concept would’ve been hilarious if I weren’t the subject. There were no gangs in our town.
“Did you even bother asking his side?” My mother’s voice was tired. They had been arguing for hours.
The principal snarled at her, “We don’t need his type of influence here.”
“Whatever, expel him then.” My mother slammed the door as she stepped out, “Come on.”
“So why did you do it?” She asked, breaking the silence of the drive home.
I sighed. The conversation tone was one I recognized, “He was hurting him, and he was twice his size. It just didn’t seem right.” I pictured her preparing to give me a lecture, and I cut her off before she could respond, “He’s a sadist mom, and no one did anything. It wasn’t right.”
She didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride. As we got out and walked towards the door I felt her grab me from behind. I tensed, expecting the sting of a slap to follow. All I felt were her sobs. The feeling disarmed me immediately. I reached for her and felt my eyes brimming with tears. I buried my face in her shoulder, and we cried together in each other’s arms for what seemed like hours.
After it all, she smiled, and wiped away my tears, “I want you to remember that whatever they say, you’re a good boy.”
I smiled awkwardly. An unfamiliar warmth spread through my body, “Thanks mom…”
|# ¿ Feb 16, 2014 02:12|
I'd love a more thorough critique considering the somewhat positive reinforcement I got after last weeks terrible entry :P
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2014 06:59|
In. http://lego.wikia.com/wiki/2698_Farm_Set <-- just to remind me what I'm doing
Flash rule me please.
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2014 23:46|
Title: A farm story.
Flash Rule: A shady business transaction either precipitates or is the inciting event in your story.
The ground was hard. Hedge wiped the sweat from his brow, and continued digging. He strained, because the hard dirt hadn’t been properly plowed since his father had died. After several hours he paused to rest. The farm house was decaying, and childhood home now looked like it had been largely abandoned. A couple of cows and farm animals were all that remained to remind the casual observer someone might still live there. Hedge bit his lip. They were no longer owned by the family and neither was the land. At least, that was what the lifeless man next to the hole had told him.
Hedge knelt down, and pushed the body into the hole. It was a shallow grave. Certainly not up to the standards of an undertaker, but Hedge tried not to think about it by focusing on filling it. He was a long ways past guilt he reasoned. When the dirt finally filled the hole, Hedge thrust his shovel into the ground. It served as a temporary headstone to the unfortunate person buried beneath. The corpse joined the other two freshly dug graves of the other men. Hedge briefly wondered if creditors made good fertilizer.
After completing his task, he walked back inside his dilapidated homestead. On the table sat several papers, and several other crumpled beside them. Some were torn, while others were cast aside, and many were covered in blood. The words on the contracts made little sense to Hedge, but the men had explained the meaning to him thoroughly. He bent down to begin the long process of cleaning, tossing the paper into the fireplace. Each burned to ash cleanly. For some reason Hedge had expected this to be more difficult.
The house was old, and every step seemed to elicit new sounds from the floor. In a moment of nostalgia, Hedge leaned back and forth shifting his weight between different floor boards and listened to the sound. He smiled, it was something he hadn’t done since he was a child. After a few moments of enjoying himself Hedge began the long process of disposing of his father’s possessions. He made no effort to think about any of the objects as he tossed them into the trash bags. Just as the contract with his father’s signature had burned to ash, the possessions burned neatly outside.
The house only took a few hours to scour of his father’s influence, but the activity had eased his anger. Hedge glanced at the floor boards. They shined with a hearty patina developed over years of polishing. Cleaning the blood off of them had been a lot easier than it seemed to be in the movies. He scoffed. Obviously the murderers in the movies hadn’t been taught to clean properly. Still, Hedge’s dry mouth contradicted his candid thoughts.
The activity of cleaning had always reminded him of his mother. When she was alive he was still too young to be of much use on the farm, and so his mother had given him chores instead. They were really the only memories he had of her before her untimely demise. The thought of her death brought a frown to his face. Now that he was a murderer he had hoped that the thought of death wouldn’t bug him so much. Contrary to his hopes, for some reason he felt like death bugged him more than usual.
Hedge glanced at the mantle and looked at his father’s urn. In a moment of anger he picked it up, but couldn’t bring himself to smash it. The phone rang startling him. In his surprise he let go of the Urn which smashed unceremoniously on the floor. A cloud of dust and ash rose from the floor and filled Hedge’s nostrils. Hedge swallowed hard and moved to quickly answer the phone.
“Hello?” He answered cautiously.
“Hey!” The voice on the phone was urgent, “It’s Mrs. Martin, your father’s lawyer. I’ve been trying to call you all day. Have the creditors been by yet?”
Hedge’s heart quickened, “Why?” He paused and caught his breath, “I mean, no…”
“Great,” The lawyer breathed a sigh of relief, “Don’t sign anything. Do you know what nondisclosure means?”
Hedge was confused, “No…”
“Well it’s the best possible case for you, it means their contract is null and void. The Creditors don’t own your farm after all!” The lawyer laughed and offered congratulations, but Hedge simply let the phone slip from his grasp.
|# ¿ Feb 24, 2014 01:48|
|# ¿ Feb 25, 2014 22:05|
CRIT ME BEEF
Here is my set: http://lego.wikia.com/wiki/6520_Mobile_Outpost
CRIT ME BEEF:
Hey could you explain a bit of the crit to me with a line by line, I'm not sure how certain implications were even present in the story which makes understanding that I handled them badly problematic. If you could take a moment to explain where your perceptions entered in. *Note I'm not saying your perceptions were wrong but rather I'm curious how one came away with those.
ex: Your character doesn't make a choice, the precipitating choice was to kill the creditors
ex: Reversal of fortune, there is no reversal of fortune, the character is attempting to justify his actions throughout the story, he loses that justification in the end
ex: The hey, you're not on the hook after all, not only is the character still on the hook the realization is that his justification is not only hollow but now he has reason to want to care, i.e. his family house, a treasure to him is still his
ex: Comedy aspect, what? There is no comedy aspect to the story.
ex: You mention 'for some reason' is telling, this is referring implicitly to the guilt associated with his actions and his attempts at justifying them
elfdude fucked around with this message at 23:08 on Feb 25, 2014
|# ¿ Feb 25, 2014 22:55|
Another DM ;_; Ohwell, at least I'm breaking the mold enough to say that the stories attributed to me were not mine.
Lead us not to temptation was mine.
|# ¿ Mar 4, 2014 04:12|
|# ¿ Mar 12, 2014 06:34|
Requesting a flash rule to help alleviate my writer's block.
|# ¿ Mar 14, 2014 01:41|
Title: The call of the Banshee
Word count: 994
The sound of his step-father grew more distant. The undergrowth was thick and gnarled, but for Henry the forest was not a scary place. It felt like his sanctuary. His pace slowed, and his gaze turned to the canopy. He felt at home in the woods, despite the villager's stories. The sun spotted shadows were comforting to him.
Sighing, he thought of his father, who was likely waiting for him outside of the woods. He’d never understood why his mother had married that man. A rich widow marrying a filthy cheating drunk, it made no sense to him. Whatever that man’s name was, he wouldn’t take it. He would always be a MacRaney at heart. That very attitude was why he was, once again, hiding in the forest.
The forest was chilly; damp in the shade, but warm in the summer sun. Feeling both cold and warm as he walked, brought goose-bumps to his skin. He shivered and smiled. He had always enjoyed the feeling. A stray branch smacked him in the face, serving as a timely reminder to pay attention to where he was walking. Gingerly, he pulled the detritus from his hair.
“Very funny,” he said to no one in particular. The villagers claimed fairies made their homes in the forest, and threatened to leave their misbehaving children in it. To Henry, if the forest had a presence at all, it was mischievous not malevolent.
Laughter drew his attention from some distance away. Moving towards the source, he forced he way through the undergrowth. He was surprised when he found nothing, except for a stream. Henry knelt to take a drink of water.
The sound was barely perceptible at first, slowly pleasant song eased its way into his consciousness. Suddenly, a clap like two boards striking each other startled Henry. He looked around, and realized that he had fallen asleep by the stream. He scratched he head, unable to remember when he had fallen asleep. The song drew his attention again, but this time the voice had a source. A young maiden busily scrubbed a shirt in the stream, singing to herself.
“Your voice is beautiful.” His words were like nails on a chalkboard compared to her melodious voice, and he visibly cringed. She smiled at him. She was the type of gorgeous that made his heart stop. Unsure of himself, he approached her. It seemed odd seeing her in the woods, especially with night fast approaching, but he dismissed his misgivings. Stained red, no matter how hard she scrubbed at it, the shirt remained dirty.
He struggled to strike up a conversation. “You know it’s dangerous for a young woman to be out so late?” She looked at him cautiously. “Let me rephrase that, I’m just sort of curious why you’re out here?”
She laughed at him and his face flushed red, “Why does it look like I’m out here boy?” The emphasis on the word boy deflated him immediately. From her looks, she couldn’t have been much older than he was, but it was clear that was irrelevant to her. She stood up, and shifted her heavy cloak around her shoulders, revealing a heavy blade strapped to her side. With a lump in his throat, Henry hoped the red stain on the shirt wasn’t blood.
“Would you happen to know the way back?” He hoped the change in tone would convince her to walk with him. “My name’s Henry, and I’m rather hopelessly lost.”
Her eyes narrowed as she assessed him. After a moment of thinking she smiled, and placed her arm around his. “My name’s Morrigan. The village is this way.”
Time passed quickly with a pretty girl on his arm, and he chatted with her enthusiastically. A piercing sound shattered the otherwise peaceful walk back. Henry couldn’t quite place it. It was somewhere between the cry of an owl and the wail of a mourning woman. He shivered involuntarily. “Don’t worry,” Morrigan teased him, “I’ll protect you from the banshee’s wail.”
Henry laughed nervously. “A banshee? Does that mean someone’s going to die?”
“It means someone will be murdered.” The way she said it the word came across as erotic. The contradiction between tone and meaning, made him shiver again. He was almost glad to see the clearing of his yard ahead.
Not sure what to do next, he scratched the back of his neck reflexively. “Thank you for the company, I guess. We’ll meet again sometime right?” She smiled solemnly, and nodded. The expression was confusing but intriguing to Henry. He turned to walk away and felt his heart sink. His step-father was waiting for him at the edge of his yard. Several whiskey bottled lay discarded in the grass.
“Filthy bastard.” His guardian stumbled towards him and slurred his words. “Disrespect me?” Henry looked back at the forest, and was relieved to see Morrigan gone.
“Shove it in your rear end old-man,” he stated dismissively. Attempting to walk past his dad, his way was blocked. Then, out of nowhere, a pistol was placed against his chin.
Nervous sweat beaded on his forehead. “That’s the last time you disrespect me you little bastard.” Desperate, Henry attempted to grab the pistol from his father. A gunshot ended the brief struggle.
Henry looked down to see his body lying on the ground. A pool of blood spread slowly on the street. His step-father stepped away wide-eyed, then realizing what he had done, fled the scene. Henry fell to his knees, while waves of conflicting emotions washed over him. He was dead, yet somehow he was watching himself lying on the ground.
A warm hand touched his shoulder. “I warned you,” Morrigan stated grimly.
“I have to say, you’re the best looking banshee I’ve ever seen.” He glanced at his body one last time before standing up.
She laughed. “More like the only Banshee you’ve ever seen.”
He smiled. As long as she was there, maybe death wouldn’t be so bad.
|# ¿ Mar 17, 2014 01:47|
|# ¿ Mar 18, 2014 15:59|
poo poo, sorry about two weeks back. Comcast crapped out on me. I have my submission if I can still submit it somewhere...
As for this week's, in. Do I need to take a special rule or something here?
elfdude fucked around with this message at 05:40 on Apr 2, 2014
|# ¿ Apr 2, 2014 05:07|
|# ¿ Oct 3, 2023 16:28|
Late submission: Sorry y'all no internet access again. Here's the story I produced regardless but I'm going to be out for a little while till I can get a solid connection at home. Using my school internet right now.
Title: An arrow apart.
Sophia floated above the couple. Her delicate fingers were clenched tightly in her hair, as she tried to figure-out the situation. All she could decide was that free will sucked. The three pairs of wings, and her holy aura, was entirely unnoticed by the couple below her. Humans couldn’t see angels.
“Cigarette?” Lucifer had silently crept next to her, their wings gently flexing the summer air. Angels weren’t prone to emotional outbursts regardless of who decided to appear next to them, but Sophia’s expression quickly resumed matronly façade she put on in front of others.
Sophia nodded. “I just can’t understand them.” She said pointing at the couple below.
Lucifer shook his head empathetically. Though Lucifer only had two pairs of wings, a symbol of his station in the angelic hierarchy, Sophia couldn’t help but talk to the only other sentient creature that could understand her without a holy revelation. In Sophia’s mind, Archangel Uriel only needed one more reason to call her a heretic and destroy her. The mortal insistence on comparing her to the Holy Spirit hadn’t helped retain her position.
Though only a cherub, Lucifer knew the difficulties of being an angel intimately. For a moment, floating effortlessly above the couple below the two had a commonality. Watching as Lucifer brought the cigarette to his mouth and took a long slow drag, she felt every bit as satisfied as he did with the exhale. Sophia lit her own cigarette, but found the experience wasn’t as pleasurable as it looked. After coughing fiercely, she handed her cigarette back to him, “Not my cup of tea.”
He laughed. His angelic features were beautiful, perhaps even amongst the most beautiful of all angels, but she felt unmoved by it. Angels had no real gender, below the belt they had less to speak about than a ken doll did. Regardless, she could appreciate the calm coolness with which he puffed on the tobacco, if not his statuesque appearance.
“Interesting,” Lucifer said as he blew smoke rings. She got the feeling he didn’t really care, but she was never sure what to make of Lucifer. Were Uriel present, he’d probably try to behead the fallen angel but Sophia liked to think she was easier to get along with than the spirit of a flaming sword. “What are we looking at here?” He asked finally.
Sophia sighed, “Absolutely nothing.” She fingered a little heart headed arrow, and motes of sparkling dust burst from it proving its supernatural power. “They were doing great, then this.” She motioned to the two who seemed trapped in a loop of uncomfortable small talk. “The arrows aren’t working and I don’t want to shoot them again.”
Lucifer laughed, “What? You’re not interested in another Romeo meets Juliet tragedy?”
She shuddered as she remembered that fateful arrow. “Preferably not.” Her arrows of love had, at one time, motivated anyone hit by them to seek out their true love. After a thorough dose administered to this particular couple however, the girl swirled the coffee in her mug, while the boy struggled to come up with a topic worth talking about.
“O’ churl, drunk all, and left no drop to help me after?” Lucifer teased. “I will kiss thy lips; haply some poison may yet hang upon them.”
Sophia’s face flushed, and her skin felt hot. She’d never experienced it quite as potently before, but she had to guess that Satan had embarrassed her. “Well, do you think you can do better?”
The Devil smiled extended to impossibly wide proportions, and the tips of his lips rolled into curly-cues. “Not only do I think I can do better, I’d even entertain a bit of a bet. What do you say, one soul if I can do a better job?”
Sophia felt intrigued, ultimately however it was her job to bring love to people, and she didn’t really care how it happened. More importantly she knew the rules of heaven and knew that, bet or not, their entrance into heaven wouldn’t be affected. Hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence she shook the Fallen One’s hand. “Do your best, but don’t hurt them.”
Lucifer mocked a wounded heart, “dear Sophia, when have I ever hurt men?” She raised an eyebrow and tried to hold back a smile. “Ok, maybe there was that one time…. Anyways, you’ve got yourself a deal.” A snap of his fingers was all it took. In a moment the two were having an extraordinary conversation. Lucifer laughed, “It’s all in the wrist.”
The seraphim glared at the angel of darkness, “you do realize that if they express pure love your contract is null and void right?” She felt a modicum of satisfaction in stating such, but there was nothing worse than a Seraphim being showed up by a Cherub, much less a fallen Cherub. It was sort of akin to an employee that had been fired a decade ago, showing up and doing your job quicker and better than you, the CEO, could. It not only left her feeling useless, it made her question how he had ever managed to be fired in the first place. She hesitated, then spoke, “what’s your secret?”
Satan laughed, and beckoned her closer. Hesitantly she leaned closer, careful not to touch the body of the fallen one. “How can a being without free-will understand an emotion that requires the expression of free-will? You ask for heresy Sophia and this knowledge is forbidden to you?” He whispered.
Crossing her arms, Sophia noted the two kissing below them, and smiled in spite of her attempt at a strict expression. “You know, you’re not very good at this evil thing?”
“Second greatest lie ever told.” Satan paused as he extinguished his cigarette, “The first was that it took an apple to give humanity freewill.” His laughter echoed into a puff of smoke leaving Sophia to consider the meaning of his Heresy alone.
|# ¿ Apr 7, 2014 20:29|