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Wooo, a whole year to make an rear end of myself and bug the poo poo out of judges. Happy 2015, and God's mercy on you swine.
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Jan 1, 2015 00:53
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Maugrim the Postwelder! Count my bloody pen IN and bring forth a prompt so that I may slay it!
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Jan 13, 2015 13:20
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The Choices of Dead Men 842 words Prompt: The Angel and the Reaper She looked down upon the broken and twisted bodies piled upon the shore with a smile. These men had made it on land and braced with their foes, deep blue against forest green matching axe against spear in cold, quick conflict. Weapons lay in the sand alongside their former owners, blood streaking across their gleaming edges. Only the stirring of the waves could be heard as she surveyed, took it in and held back a laugh. A fitting end for these brave souls. Her steps led her to the twisted body of a young man, his torso propping up the broken shaft of a spear. Blood had long since poured from the wound and stained his tunic to black, now cry and scabbing. She reached down for him, hand plucking his spirit from his eyes to pull it free. “You are...” His voice whispered past closed lips and deadened eyes. All she gave was a nod before the chariot flew overhead. He reached to grasp it, being dragged away from her grasp and onward into the sky where the Allfather awaited him. And so her task continued. Soul after soul were brought forth by her hand and sent to the Einherjar or the Valhallah, as fitting their lives and deaths. Some wept with unseen tears and joyous sobs. Others pleaded for another day in their world. But all were sent forth. It was her duty, and duty could not be shirked lightly. A blade behind her went snicker-snack. She wheeled, pulling the gleaming blade from her hip and stared at the morning fog as something moved into view. The first thing she would see was the massive hat, brim stretching out far wider than a tree's branches, black cloth fluttering with each step forward. Under the eternal shade stood a pallid man, black cloak hung around his shoulders with little care, face and hair as pale as a dead man. In his hand he swung a long and mighty blade to and fro over the bodies of the slain landsmen. Each swing brought their souls upward from their forms and stacking them neatly in the cart he pulled behind himself like cords of wood. She had seen this one before. Unlike herself, filled with purpose and seen as a savior of warriors, he was feared. No soul ever thanked him, ever cried for his presence. They were silent, still, waiting in acceptance of his gleaming blade. It sickened her. Continue on. His mission is not yours and yours is not his. Her hand reached down for a warrior cut down at the end of his life, gray hair mixed with blood from a gash in his neck, beard speckled with his dying breaths. She could feel his spirit reaching up for her, hand out fully for her grasp. The scythe stopped short of her palm and the spirit fled. She stared up at the pale man and drew her sword. “What insolence is this?” His face never moved from that flat, shallow expression. “He was born of these lands.” “He was a warrior of the Allfather,” She stated plainly. “He is not yours to claim.” So they stood as the sun disappeared behind rolling clouds and rain began to fall. Their blades shined in the darkness as they glared over the bodies of the slain, each one waiting, watching, feeling the tension in the air build. The distant flash of lightning gave way to roaring thunder. Blood, trapped underneath the bodies, oozed upwards as the rain pushed it towards the sea, bathing the beach in crimson as they faced one another. She wished to take his head and be on her way. Such insolence could not stand. Yet, if she killed him, if she could kill him, what would become of their dead? Would they rise and become restless? Would they seek out others? How many souls would meet such an ignoble end? These were not her lands. She did not care for their men who died in battle. So why did she stay her sword? “Let the soul decide.” His head shook in surprise. “This is not proper.” “No, it is not,” She said, holding her hand above the spirit. “None of this is proper. But he will decide who is right.” He held his hand over the body beside her hand. They waited, watched, held their breath as the spirit rose from it's body. It touched his hand and his soul joined the others. “So it is done,” He spoke, turning away from her to continue his harvest. She stood above the broken and twisted body upon the shore and wondered upon the follies of mortals. He could have a paradise of battle unending, preparing himself for the great Ragnarok in glorious bloodshed. And he chose silence? Another spirit was ushered forth, carried upon gilded wheels to the great halls of the Aesir to prepare for the Twilight. She hardly noticed, her face a pale stone as she continued to bring them their just rewards.
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Jan 19, 2015 01:35
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crabrock posted:how the gently caress does reading "they need to be a real life god drat spaceship" and then asking "do they have to be honest-to-goodness real life spaceships" clarify anything at all? You're asking me the exact thing i said I wanted. So, is Carl Sagan's starship of the imagination out?  
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Jan 20, 2015 23:42
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sebmojo posted:And last batch of judgeburps Wow, thanks! I'm happy to see improvement from where I was when I started.
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Jan 30, 2015 20:00
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Count me IN.
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Mar 3, 2015 15:28
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Access. 760 words ---------- I am back in my maintenance unit. I know this is not right, yet it feels right. Observe. I am still within reclamation bay #31, surrounded by the discarded husks of the other service and domestic units sent to this place. They are laying on the ground without power or cognition while I rest on my treads and complete my diagnostics. Visual systems are acceptable, as I can see the filtering light above me illuminating the dust-covered walkway I am currently on. I tap against my frame to test tactile and auditory sensors. Both within acceptable range. Then why do I require maintenance? And why am I in my frame again? Treads crawl over the husks and towards the command bay and I hear the crunch of ceramics underneath. So this is not some sort of humorous deception. A system failure, perhaps? But why am I the only active model? Reclamation control room. The doors slid open before me, treads taking me towards the controls on the far wall, nestled underneath a long window out into the compound. Dirtied glass filtered the light coming in from a hole in the structure's roof. Catwalks twisted in and out of the darkness or ended in doorways, rooms and modules stretching out past visual range. I could see a light among the darkened cells, a long window staring out into the compound, shining outward. Another control booth. The call to awaken, cast throughout the facility, likely came from that control room. But none of the others were active. Did the figure on the other end know that? A console alert appeared on the controls, a feeble red button blinking on the brushed metal surface. I pressed it down and the command interface flashed to life, edges roughened as the holographic projector shorted here and there. I could still interface. Priority request, the screen relayed. SatAuto Employee #[UNDEFINED] requests lifting of lockdown protocols. SatAuto Galactic Branch Headquarters communications offline. Manual response requested. Communications offline. Models left on the reclamation line without direct maintenance. I was alone. But not alone. Across those rows of storage units, past the catwalks, in another control room was someone. Did they know of me? Could they tell that I was here, a mirror to their own control room, staring at a frazzled interface waiting for a reply? Could they even tell? Magnification did not help me discern who was in the other room, the glass too worn and dirt-covered to see clearly. Were they like me? I pressed the button. Manual response received. SatAuto Administrative Unit #331415. Checking credentials. Administrative Unit #331415. Admin. I was known as Admin. It was what the human employees called me before my reclamation. I was tasked with filing paperwork and ensuring the SatAuto Branch in this arm was running at maximum efficiency. I remember seeing paperwork for a promotion. A promotion for a person who I had filed several complaints against in the past. I remember how it burned at my intelligence, how it seemed incorrect. Wrong. I remember disposing of the paperwork with the standard SatAuto shredding protocol. He called me defective. I was not defective. I corrected him. Credentials undergoing evaluation for: Possible violations of primary protocol. Please alert a SatAuto representative to review case file. I was a SatAuto representative. I opened the file and scrolled down. Complaints of physical injury and disfigurement. Requests for immediate decommission at local plant. What remained was horribly corrupted, all save for the red and green prompts. Refuse or Accept. Accept. Manual response verified. Granting temporary administrative access to SatAuto Employee #[UNDEFINED] to lift lockdown protocol. The world around me filled with a horrible grinding, the breath of some long-dead beast raising from slumber. Lights began to dot the facility, from the twisting darkness to the modules hanging above the floor. The frames around me remained still. I was still alone. I regained control of my treads, an instinctive feeling within me that heralded free movement. So I moved to the catwalk. Looking out as the lights of the facility clacked on, staring at the control room so far away, I saw something. Someone. The figure moved in front of the hole in the roof, the red sun dispersing their silhouette, keeping their form a mystery. They stopped. I hoped, imagined, wished that they turned to notice me. My arm in the air, I waved at the figure before it moved on again. Whoever they were, whether they knew it or not, had placed me back where I belonged. I wanted to thank them.
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Mar 9, 2015 04:21
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I want to feel the magic! IN
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Apr 21, 2015 07:01
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A Distant Hand 1298 words I smile as I watch the rat's legs kick again, its eyes blinking open. I spare only a few more seconds to observe before turning to my tome. The enchanted silver arrowhead outperformed my expectations, reviving the creature within ten seconds of contact. The crash of shattered air echoes through my tower and slams into my back, nearly blowing my hat off. I turn and watch as a ship floated down, aligned with the clearing outside. I judged it a newer model by the forward-swept wings and sleek design. Blue, gold and green bars on the wingtips were the only color on the chrome body, telltale signs of a Imperial embassy ship. I take the narrow stone staircase slowly, counting each step, letting me calm down before I made my way across the drawing room and to the old wooden door. Breathe. Be impressive. I reach for the staff next to the door, feel it's weight in the palm of my glove. It helps the image. I push the door with all my might, swinging open with a thunderous crash, stepping forward, staff raised high. “WHO DARES DISTURB THE GRAND ALLAMENDO?!” A woman leaned on one of the landing struts, clad in a greatcoat over her flight suit. Her sharp face stretched and their hazel eyes widened in that way one does when they've seen a ghost. Or a celebrity. “You're the wizard?” She asked nervously. “And you are the pilot,” I shot back. “Why are you on my planet?” She stared as she removed a small touchscreen pad from a pocket.Whoever sent this poor fool hadn’t told them about my gloves. “If this is a jest, then it is not amusing.” She put the pad away, impressed gaze changing to somewhere between annoyed and apprehensive. “Alright then, um, sir Wizard. Firstly, Her Imperial Majesty would like to thank you for your past and future service to the Empire under her reign.” So the Emperor died. Assassin, or he took off the ring I sold him years ago for this planet. “I thank you for the message, but why was this not sent with my supply drop?” “Ah, that's the other thing,” she said. “Her Imperial Majesty has assigned me to be your supply pilot. She believes that a savior of the Empire shouldn't have food dropped on his head from space. In her words.” Perfect. Another distraction from my work. “Will that be all?” I said, turning around.. “One last thing,” she said, touching her hand. The bottom of the ship unfolded outward. A platform descended, stacked high with containers. “Where do I put these?” ------------------------- She was in my tower. I hadn't had a guest in years. Or, I thought it was years. Time was not my problem. Should I make tea? “That's all of it,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow as she finished stacking the ration boxes. “If you need anything else, there's a radio with a direct link to my dispatch in the top box. Let them know what you need and I'll fly on by.” “And what do I call you?” I asked. She smiled. “Pilot is fine.” ------------------------ Despite my best efforts, the rat remained dead. A mere one-inch cube of steel, unadorned, could not hold my power. No matter how many times I tap the creature on the head with it, the rat stayed lifeless. I wrote in my tome and checked the parameters again. My power was unaffected by the type of material used or the shape. The vessel had to be something of value, or worn constantly on the hand to transmit the effect. Rings of any material worked well. Other jewelry also worked, somehow. The sky tore open again, pausing my work for the day. I reached down to pet the rat softly on its head, seeing its feet kick before making my way downstairs to help unload. Despite myself, I had come to enjoy these small visits. The Empire remained mostly unchanged, the passing of power being of small significance in the end. But having someone there to ruminate with made it interesting. And a partner for tea was pleasant. When I opened the door and saw that she had not yet arrived, I could feel that something was amiss. I stood, an old weight settling in my gut. My left hand clenched. She finally came down a few minutes later. I could see that she had been crying, then doing her best to hide her tears. We unloaded in silence. It was not my place to pry, despite my hunger for knowledge. Once we finished, She raised the platform up, disappearing inside. The engine began to whine. I had dealt with suspicion. I had dealt with fear. But I was never ignored. “You still have not relayed my news!” I shouted against the engine noise. The engine slowed, then went quiet as she returned, clinging to the lift with one hand. Our eyes did not meet. ------------------------ “He's in a coma.” Pilot sat across from me, cups in our hands, wisps of steam coiling into the air. She'd discussed how she'd connected with a friend from her homeworld while on leave. How they proposed. Their wedding ceremony. The anniversary she missed because the Empress called her in to assign her to be my supply pilot. And, most recently, the crash that had crushed his chest and shattered his spine. “The doctors are keeping his body going, for now,” she said, staring down into her tea. “But he isn't waking up. They say they don't know if they can help him, and even if they do the damage to his brain is too severe. Years of therapy, at best.” My words were useless in a situation like this. To tell the truth would be cruel, but to lie would be no better. The feelings of others were something I did not handle, nor did I care to. So I did the simple thing. I left her alone and returned to my lab. The small rat scurried about in his glass case, nose poking here and there, as if seeing the world for the first time before settling down in a corner and going to sleep. The same corner it had slept in when I first brought it with me those many years ago. I'd never named the rat. Never felt the need to. And yet it was more valuable to me than a broken man light years away. Why was I up here? I asked myself as my eyes strayed from the rat up to the materials wall, where rings hung from the hooks above small, neatly placed boxes of various testing objects. I reached up for one, a silver band with an amethyst. Such a simple thing. I set the band down on the table and pulled my gloves free. Right one first, then left. The rat pressed its paws against his container and squeaked. “I'm old,” I said to it. “Sentimentality is a part of the condition.” I reached down for the ring and let my power flow. ------------------------- “Give this to him,” I told her. It was all I had to say. She didn't ask what it would do. She just nodded, looking at the small gray box I had placed in her hand like a newborn babe. There was a silent understanding between us as she left, her ship tearing the sky apart as she returned to her life to face what her future held. I was back in my lab once more, the rat on my lap, stroking his head idly. He slept soundly on my thigh as I drifted off to sleep, to dream of my own future.
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Apr 24, 2015 20:56
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Apr 25, 2015 19:03
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Morning Bell posted:I wrote fantasy for the first time and found it difficult, would love a concise crit, please. -What you didn't understand: Is your character also an eye wizard? Or just a guy taking on the eye wizard? And how is that power used? She has monsters, she has a weeping statue that fills a pool with tears, but we never get an understanding of what she does. Is it spying? Is it summoning? I'm not sure where the magic is. Also, I confused Kieron with the rebel leader a few times. Why is he guiding him and learning maps, if the character can see and he is a worm? -Where you stopped reading (if you struggled with reading the whole thing in one sitting): I didn't really struggle reading it. It felt like it went by really fast, so we didn't get a lot of characterization. It felt kind of rote, to be honest. Hero loses eye, goes back to get eye, loses friend, almost defeated by big bad, kills big bad. That's it. -Whether or not you understood the characters' motivations: The motivations were fine enough, but it all felt somewhat superficial. Sure, he's out for revenge, Kieron a worm, Cassandra is evil. -Whether the ending resolved things satisfyingly, or at all: It resolves things, but so what? She's dead, his eye is itching, and that's it. Is there another mage using his dead eye? Is he trying to use it, and that's why it itches? What about the liberation army? Did they let the city fall into ruin, after all that time? It's competently built, but I don't feel anything reading it, if that's understandable.
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Apr 27, 2015 11:32
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Thanks to Hammer Bro, ravenkult and RedTonic! I should do more crits as thanks!
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Apr 28, 2015 05:36
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Put me IN with a flash rule!
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May 20, 2015 05:12
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Progress 888 words Dark Queen Maloria’s feet touched the ground as the sound of explosions echoed overhead, tearing one of her doppelgangers to shreds as the first gate was cleared. She looked up to see her carriage parked there, just as it had been in the past. Standing next to it was a wizened old man wearing a black robe that hung off his frame. “Alabaster.” She greeted him, watching him open the door to her carriage with a low bow. “Your ride, madame,” He said, closing the door behind her, leaving her in the light of the chandelier. She sat back, looking up at the flickering flames. The carriage a familiar milestone now, a mark that everything was going according to prophecy. The Dark Queen uncovers the temple of the World Crystal, the Hero defeats her four strongest warriors, and he and his party destroy the Dark Queen before she can subjugate all lands with her power. And so far, everything was going just as written. But this time seemed to be going by faster than usual. Her four strongest warriors, sent forward to conquer the nations before her victory? Weakened by bombing raids and special forces before the hero even arrived. The months-long trip to each of the nations to free them from her grasp? Made into a week-long victory tour on a supersonic jet, with stops to trounce a monster here or defeat one of her generals there. In the past, she would be seated in the carriage before they began their fight with her shadow. But now they were already facing against her first warrior again and would possibly pass the second gate before they reached the end. At least the heroes hadn't found this ancient passage. She still had that upper hand, giving her enough time to draw on the power of the World Crystal and gloat before they did battle. But what would she have time to do now? She'd probably find them in the crystal chamber before she'd even started gaining strength, sending her back to her century-long slumber for the next group of heroes. And what then, in the next century? The carriage shuddered to a stop, the Dark Queen watching the door swing open. “Ma'am, we have arrived.” She stepped out, looking up at the large steps leading up to the crystal chamber. “How?” Alabaster nodded, hands crossed behind his back. “My great grandfather placed rail in the secret passage during your sleep, Darkest One,” He said. “Ten years ago we upgraded to a bullet-train.” The Dark Queen looks back at the carriage, seeing the tracks leading out underneath the wheels. She turned her gaze to the old man, the knife in her sleeve suddenly quite heavy. In the past, she would kill her last assistant to hide the secret passage's location, only for his son to find and prepare for her return. But this wasn't the past. She wrapped her arms around him. “You have done well, Alabaster,” She said, pulling away from him to head up the stairs. “Stay here until the screams end. I will have use of you later.” “As you command,” He spoke as she ascended the staircase. Light from the crystal began to shine in the passageway as the massive crystal came into view, thirty feet of jagged shards stuck together with pure energy. She stepped forward and placed her hands on the crystal once again, feeling it's power flow into her. She felt the plates of the world shift under her feet, the tides of her oceans slamming into distant shores, the music of it's air currents rolling around high mountain peaks. She listened, and the world waited for her command. The doors of the temple swung open wide as a young man with bright eyes and brown hair stepped forward, shining blade held in his hand. Behind him, a woman with a bow made from the ancient holy tree of a faraway land. An old soldier with a spear whose tip seemed to devour light itself, and a young, wide-eyed woman in white robes and a hat three sizes too large. She turned to gaze down at them, the hero raising his sword up at her, pointed at her chest. She realized she hadn't prepared a speech in the carriage, so she raised her hand in silence and blasted the entrance to the temple. Stones melted in the heat, dripping down into the molten crater where the doors once stood. Wind and sunlight poured into the chamber where a wall had once been. All that was left of the hero and his party was his sword, embedded in the cooling stone, blade red with heat. She turned back to the World Crystal, feeling the planet itself await her command, and permitted a smile to cross her face. Her chuckle echoed off the stone walls as she began to pull the plates of the eastern continent apart. Laughter loud enough to be heard outside as a volcano rose from beneath a capital city to engulf the terrified masses in smoke and ash. She could make any demand she wanted to now. But first she had to make sure the people of the world were listening. She laughed and her laugh echoed around the world as it moved in her hands and the sky went dark.
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May 24, 2015 22:05
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Broenheim posted:As the Professor Oak of the judges, you can ask me for the pokemans, and I'll give you one. if you aren't a big nerd like me, here's your chance to get a good old pocket monster! Count me IN, and please give me a monster. Otherwise I'll just pick from my team and it'll be a huge disappointment. Also, please flash rule me because I don't know any better.
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Aug 14, 2015 22:32
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Cache Cab posted:This is bullshit, how is anybody supposed to write for this contest when there's literally no time to sign up on the weekends? Some of us have families and jobs that take up our time on the week days. But I thought you were too busy being published to worry about the Thunderdome Cabal that keeps everyone else down?! Guess what? Some of us work on weekends. It doesn't take nearly as long as you think it does. Then again, let's be honest. You wouldn't have taken this prompt seriously, either. So, hey, win-win.
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Aug 15, 2015 20:04
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Seat of the Future 1249 words He walked out to the tarmac among the roar of a crowd, the helmet on his head muffling the sound, the voice of his breathing echoing in the enclosed space as he moved past the rows of fans. He didn't wave. Didn't turn his head. To Jacob Joye there was no crowd. It was just him and the Skar. She sat at the end of the column of protective barriers and police, metal wings folded in against her side, chrome body catching every ray of sunlight in an attempt to blind him. Long neck stuck out forward, placing the pilot well ahead of the wings and power plant, made of gleaming metal curves. She was A fever dream made real. And he was going to cross the channel with her. “And there he is, ladies and gentlemen! The wonderful Jacob Joye!” One of the radio criers pattered into a microphone, the man beside him turning the crank of a videophone. Don't see them, he told himself. See her. Don't break contact. “...incredible feats of bravery and skill saving lives on the front, even well past Armistice Day! And with his incredible knowledge he's done what no other man dares to attempt or recreate! Purporting to cross the Imean Channel in a single day! Five hundred and twenty three miles of open water, and back in time for dinner, folks!” That damned 'back for dinner' line his publicist shot off a week ago was still haunting him. In all honesty, he wasn't sure if he'd make it back at all. The radio man wasn't wrong when he said that no one else dared a channel crossing in an experimental craft. But no one else was as crazy to think that this metal beast would fly, let alone faster and farther than any other plane he'd developed. He had made his mark on the world by blowing away every competitor in aviation. Speed? His fighters could out-pace anything around by dozens of miles. Range? Three hundred and ninety miles on a single tank of fuel. Maneuver? His frames could waltz while others simply plodded along. But it all came down to the same thing, and by the time the war was won Jacob Joye was thinking ten years ahead. When everyone could own an airfoil, and none would have even a pop-gun attached. He'd make a mark on the world large enough to cover the stain of his failures. And the Skar was that dream. Five years of design and effort, boiled down into a beast of metal and science. Faster than a fighter, farther than a bomber, and nimble enough for ballet. And, if he could prove the concept and scale it back, as affordable as a car. If it worked. He slipped into the seat, red leather set against chrome, pulling at the canopy latch as it swung forward. Tinted glass adding another layer of separation between him and the crowd, the mouths of the radio criers moving silently, the hiss of static filling the cockpit. “How's it feel, champ?” Dagne's voice filled the cabin, smooth and reassuring. “Like sitting in the lap of the future,” He said, looking up at the radio above his head. It made the cockpit ungainly, this spike protruding outward like that, but Dagny had made it work somehow. The dame was a certified sorceress with radio waves, and would probably go down in history with a name bigger than his. “You just make sure you come back to the present, then,” She said. “Everything checking out?” “Avionics and instrumentation are green,” Jabob replied, looking over the rows of dials. Checking pressures. Testing seals and systems. His comfort zone. “Dance with the birds, Jacob,” Dagne said. He reached down for the throttle and control, closed his eyes and took a breath. The beast shuddered to life, wheeled legs gliding along the ground as he applied just enough power to get her into taxi. Gentle, now, turning into the corner and pulling back to line up with the yellow dots. He felt the frame shudder around him as the engine went into idle. A pegasus, shaking at the gate and ready to fly. He pushed the throttle forward and extended the wings, red metal foils unfolding as she picked up speed. She shook as air began to catch, passing between each 'wing', pushing up against one another as the wheels began to leave the ground. One bounce, two bounce... He felt the legs leave the ground and pushed the throttle down, and the Skar screamed into the blue sky. -------------------- “I think one off the criers lost his hat!” Dagny laughed, her voice backed by the sound of cheers and clinking glasses from the tower bringing a smile to his lips. “Don't be surprised if WBO sends you a bill.” “They can send it with their press boys. If I make it there and back by dinner, they'd have to fight through the mob to get it to me.” “That's true enough,” She said, a few burps of static here and there. “That, and every industrialist in the developed world. We've already had ten representatives dialing us up.” “We'll sort through that mess later,” He said, pulling the wings back as he set his height and began to cruise. The needle pressing against the 170 mark with rapid tick-tick-ticks as the clouds streaked above him. “It's beautiful up here, Dags.” “I'll take your word for it,” She said, slight shake in her voice. “You know how I do with heights.” “You know I'm ribbing you,” He replied, sending the Skar into a slight dive to push the needle against the 190 mark. “And we've past 50 miles over the record. We've hit 190, folks!” Another cheer from the tower as more static began to cut in. “Ok, we're starting to go into the quiet zone,” He called out over the chatter. “I'll call you once I've reached land.” He reached up and turned the volume down to a whisper, letting the sound of the static mix with the wind streaking against the canopy. “Hear that, girl?” Jacob's hand reaching forward, rubbing the dash. “You're famous now. Heck of a birthday, eh?” The Skar merely shuddered as the wings corrected themselves, soaring over the channel, clouds reflecting on it's surface. ------------------ “Ground Crew, do you read? This is Jacob Joye aboard the Skar, requesting landing clearance.” “Joh, Mister Jacob,” A voice in rough common called out over the radio. “We have your fueler awaiting your arrival. State your vector.” He gave the coordinates and heard the tower whispering to themselves. “If you're wondering,” He said, tilting the wings to make the Skar 'wave'. “Yes, that's me.” “Sorry, sir,” The voice called. “You are cleared.” He opened her wings wide, red steel catching the air, tail in the back helping curb the engine output and create more resistance, gliding down towards the runway. Easy now. Don't cock it up in the last leg. He felt her shudder as the wheels touched down, wings held out wide to slow her down, coasting forward to the waiting trucks. He pulled the canopy open, taking a breath of fresh air as he let the sunlight come in unfiltered. He'd done it. “Excuse me, Mr. Jacob,” The voice from the tower, a squat man with a furrowed face, called from below. “What is this thing?” “This?” He said, patting the side with a smile. “This is the future, my good man.”
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Aug 16, 2015 20:44
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Put me IN, coach!
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Aug 25, 2015 21:10
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P.C.D. Metro: Ghost of Regret (Part One) 1399 words Prompt: Paranormal Police Drama. --------------- Billy McReave drifted back through the wall, visions of copper wire and support beams flashing before him as he plunged into darkness. It was his habit after a good haunting; banter a bit with the owners, then explore the older parts of the house, hidden behind drywall and regret. So when he floated back, looking down at the tacky carpet crawling along the ground, he didn't expect to find a body there. So, he did what any well-minding spirit would do. He screamed. ------------- “Witness is one William McReave,” the beat cop said, eyes scanning a clipboard as he leaned back against the side of the ambulance. “Found the vic at 3:23, after working an early morning shift for 'Thompson Family Authentic Haunting X-perience'. Looks like their sense of style died back in the 90s.” “Please, officer,” Miriam said, rubbing her temple with thumb and forefinger. “Let's keep going.” “Sorry. Victim is one David Justinian, 25 years old. Has an expired student ID, cash and valuables still on the body. Coroner's checking him now.” She nodded to the officer and moved around to the back of the ambulance, looking inside at the short, thin man sitting beside the stretcher. His hands were moving over the body, a faint blue glow filling the space between his palms and the corpse. “Doc,” She said, pulling herself into the back. Her eyes looked down at the young man's face, his soft cheekbones, the slight double-chin, the three days of stubble on his cheeks. “How's it looking?” “Quite dead, detective,” He said, not moving his gaze or his hands. “Our pale friend here doesn't have any link.” Her eyebrow perked up as she took a seat across from him, the doctor's hands moving away to let her pull down the sheet. “There's no signs of struggle?” She asked, looking at his neck, down to his wrists. “Not a one,” Doc replied. “Which would lead us to believe a medical condition. But deaths like that tend to leave unresolved issues that form links.” “No struggle, no link,” She said to herself. “I'm going to take a look inside. Keep me posted.” “Of course, detective.” Police had the entire house closed off, showing her badge to get past the two officers standing guard at the door. Just off of the living room she heard an elderly woman's voice, shaking as she spoke to an officer. She'd find the room easily enough, the tape across the door frame high enough to crouch under, walking into an abandoned drawing room. Dusty and ruined, walled off from the rest of the house years ago. The first thing she noticed was the smell, an unmistakable sewage stench that filled the room. It didn't take her long to find the false fireplace, a ladder descending into foul gloom just large enough for someone to squeeze through. On the carpet she found a few simple drops of wax, matted to the small hairs. White lines connected the drips in a clear pattern. Chalk tape for a quick pentagram. A botched ritual, then. And someone had removed the evidence. Para-Forensics would probably confirm once she got back to the station, which helped narrow down the potential list. She'd head back out to the parking lot, phone in hand as she dialed up the registry. “Detective Winston, Paranormal Crimes Division. Get me a cross-reference between our victim and any unlicensed necromancers that might be in his area. Also, contact Homicide. We may have a murder.” -------------------- The background check on David Justinian revealed a young man in desperate need of help. The death of his mother and fiance in a car crash last year sent him into a spiral of depression, dropping out of school shortly afterwords and withdrawing from society completely. Bills were handled online, drawing from a trust fund, and food was delivered to his apartment. His last correspondence was over a year ago, to a college friend. A friend who worked as a necromancer until he lost his license two years prior for 'gross misconduct' relating to a failed scam. Miriam stepped out of the car and looked up at the brownstone. “You didn't need to read the file,” She said as Martin stepped out of the car, the folder tucked neatly under his arm. He closed the door with a nervous smile, taking care to measure how he closed it. Not too hard or soft. “Sorry, bad habit,” He said, still smiling as he waiting for Miriam to reach the sidewalk. They walked up the steps and knocked, an elderly man with a bent back pushing the door open slowly. “Hello, sir. We're Detectives Winston and Howes. We're hoping to talk to Julien Drier, do you know if he's home?” “Drier?” He said, stepping back to let them inside. “He's in room 203. Is he in trouble?” “We just want to ask some questions,” Martin said, the two heading for the staircase. The air was thick with the smell of cats and cheap carpet cleaner, the windows on the staircase left open. Miriam knocked on the door with three sharp raps. “Mr. Drier?” She called out, the sound of a something heavy hitting the ground answering back. Martin wasted no time, kicking forward at the latch, tearing the knob from the door, pistol at the ready. “Freeze!” He shouted, looking into the living room at a man dangling at the end of a power cord. He ran inside and grabbed him around the waist as Miriam headed into the kitchen, pulling a knife from the counter. Drier flailed at Martin, trying to push himself away. Miriam pulled the chair upwards, reaching up and taking the knife to the cord. It snapped, sending the man rolling to the floor, kicking and screaming as Martin put a knee on his back and his hands in cuffs. As he was led out of the building, he screamed over Martin reading him his rights. He screamed at them to let him die. -------------------- “How are you doing?” Miriam asked, walking towards Julien Drier's hospital bed, his hand cuffed to the side rail. On his other side was an older woman in a navy blue suit, gray streaks shooting through her bob cut. “Horrible,” he replied, staring straight ahead. “I've felt horrible ever since this morning.” “Detective, my client is still recuperating,” The woman said, adjusting her glasses. “Just here to ask a couple of questions, ma'am,” Miriam set back, pulling over a chair. “Mr. Drier, do you know the name David Justinian?” He nodded as much as the neckbrace would allow. “I hadn't talked to him since before prison. But then I get this e-mail from my...a friend. Says that he has a job for me, easy money. Just meet this guy, ghost him, cash the check.” “I go to this alley off Fifth, and this guy is waiting for me near the sewer junction, where he hands me this breathing mask. He tells me to follow the markers there and back, and there's this ladder. I head up, and this guy is just...” His face twisted in pain. “He was waiting there, just sitting in the pentagram. So I started to work, and he...” His breathing became ragged, tears pooling in his eyes. “Mr. Drier, as your attorney I must...” “He kicked the tape off and it all went to poo poo. He...he just slumped over and...I...I saw his face. I freaked out, took his bag and the candles and the tape and tossed it in the sewer. When I got back someone slid the check under my door. I snapped. I took the cord, and I...I...” His lawyer placed a hand on his shoulder and began to console him as Miriam slid out of her chair and headed towards the door. Outside, Martin was sitting back against a chair, head rolled back, mouth open. “Come on,” She said, giving him a tap on the shoulder, head snapping awake. “Let's get some coffee. We have another lead to follow.” “Wha...Oh, right. What'd he say?” “David didn't contact him. He hired him online.” “You can do that? Just go online, 'Hey, can someone obliterate my soul? 5,000 OBO?” “We'll see once we find his computer,” Miriam said, heading for the exit. “Come on, long day ahead.” “Aren't they all?” He asked as they got into the car and slipped into traffic.
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Aug 30, 2015 16:38
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I'm finally back in the land of stable internet, and i'm IN on this wild ride.
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Oct 13, 2015 14:21
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 12:08 |
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Eyes on me 1274 words ------------- “I'll catch you after work.” Grant waved dismissively to Terry as the elevator doors closed, making his way down the hall and back into the cubicle farm. Right at the copy machine, take the second left, and then the third right back into his corporate prison cell. The pictures he had posted on the overhead shelves and the walls were background noise at this point, pieces of static interspersing the constant dull gray landscape. Not even the massive windows, looking out fourteen stories above the rest of downtown, helped make the place any less dismal. He switched his monitor back on, put his fingers to the keys and finally noticed the unmarked white envelope someone had left there. Someone must have felt lazy designing the office party invites, he thought to himself as he pulled out a small piece of paper. The first thing his eyes caught was a mess of lines and curves, intersecting and turning in on themselves in ways that made his head hurt. Past that was a poorly written note: Welcome to the game! “The hell is this?” Grant said, tossing it into the paper bin before logging back on to read over next month's reports. He made it halfway down the page before a scream pulled him back to reality. He made his way towards the scream, others making it there before him. He heard someone puking. A woman cursed at her cellphone. He turned the corner and saw a group of co-workers standing outside one cubicle, faces pale, not looking up to acknowledge his existence as he moved closer. David was just another person Grant had worked with, one of the many faces that shuffled in and out of this office from time to time. He never thought much of the guy, in all honesty. Now, a heavy, rusted spike jutted out from David's chest. Blood had gushed upwards past the rounded tip, covered his chest and hands and lap. His tie was bound in a makeshift gag. His eyes were rolled up in his head. Grant felt his mouth go dry. He'd never seen a dead body this close before. He couldn't breathe. How did this happen? He stumbled back against a cubicle wall, a co-worker's arm helping him stand. What was going on? “Now that I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” A voice called out from every cubicle. “We can get this little game started!” Grant held onto the top of the cubicle wall, catching his breath as the crowd began to mutter and look about. “Poor David Tenenbaum, am I right, guys and gals? He was just another contestant in today's game, but you just had to go and ignore my invitations. Had to get you all focused somehow.” “The gently caress do you want from us?” One of them shouted. Grant thought it might be Mike from the voice, but he couldn't keep his vision straight. “Ah, I suppose the rules weren't that clear,” The voice chuckled. “Well, all of you are now contestants in a fun, bloody little pastime of mine. You see, one of your co-workers, somewhere on this floor, is my accomplice. They are the ones who gave David his spiffy new look, and it's your job to find out who it is before he does the same to the rest of you.” Phil, or at least he thought his name was Phil, turned and ran towards the fire escape. “Oh, I wouldn't try that!” The voice called out, stopping the portly man in his tracks. “I mean, who knows if I routed the power for the alarm to the door handle? Or maybe I just hooked up a car battery and set the switch to close once the door opens up? Well, you don't know, but that's sort of the point!” “Now, you'd all best start looking! Who knows what sort of scheme my friend is planning!” The voice cut out with a static pop, replaced by uncertain muttering. It was an elaborate prank of some kind. Some sort of deep-cover team building set up by management. Whatever they thought, it couldn't be real. It was why their cell phones wouldn't dial out, or why the office phones were all dead, or why the elevator call buttons wouldn't work. Grant was with a group near the elevators, discovering the dead buttons when a short, sharp cry rang out from another cubicle. A woman this time, a knife stuck in her windpipe, face down on her keyboard as blood leaked from between the muscle and metal. “Stick together!” A voice shouted from above the sobs. “They can't get us if we stick together. And someone's going to figure out something's wrong. We just have to wait it out.” “But what happens if the killer gets out?” “We'll let the police deal with them,” He said back. “And we can't help them if we're dead.” Grant and a few other co-workers nodded and began to pair up. He found himself paired with the man who first had the idea, a shorter guy with a receding hairline. His handshake was firm, but his hands were soft. “Frank,” he said curtly, looking around here and there. “Any luck with your cell phone?” “Nope. A couple of people were thinking about making a big sign to put over the windows, though.” “People won't see it past the mirror finish,” He said. “Well, as long as we keep calm and just wait, someone will be up the fire escape to disarm whatever this guy has going. Then the cops come in, do their thing, and they catch this rear end in a top hat.” Grant looked over at the large windows and never felt quite so alone. “Hey, I'm going to use the bathroom, alright?” Frank said, tapping him on the elbow before he started to walk, Grant following behind him. He was right about that, at least. He was honestly surprised it was taking as long as it was. He finished washing his hands when the door to Frank's stall swung open with a heavy thud. “Frank?” Frank lunged at him with the broken half of a pair of scissors, the blade digging into his shoulder. His arm went limp as he slumped against the wall, looking up at the small man towering over him. “Well, that was fun! But your friend was right,” A strangely familiar voice spoke from Frank's mouth. “The cops will be here soon. And no one expects the wounded survivor.” Frank grinned, bringing the scissors up to his neck. “What are...” “Ah, ah. You remember my little invitation, right? That sigil I left for everyone in my welcome note? Good, good, now...” Grant could see that strange, squiggling object on the paper. His eyes began to hurt, staring into Frank's crazed eyes as that blade slipped between the ribs. “Just keep your eyes on me.” ---------------------- “Grant!” Terry made his way up to the ambulance, looking inside to see his friend being tended to by one of the EMTs. “Dude, I heard about what happened. Are you going to be alright?” Grant smiled and looked over at his friend. “I'll be right as rain, man. Just got to let this arm heal up over a few weeks.” He said, patting the arm for emphasis before the doors closed and they pulled out into traffic. He couldn't imagine that this time would have gone so well. But here he was in a youthful body, slightly damaged, and with his own connections and friendships in case things went downhill. And all before dinner. Yes, this time had gone quite well.
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Oct 19, 2015 04:15
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