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In with a Bonus Twist.
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Jan 9, 2019 17:05
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A Princely Reward 998 words Prompt: the Onager. The onager will bow to those of noble lineage, no matter how diluted. “Scrag, get your arse over here and get the captain a drink!” Chrelu’s voice rang out. Scrag scurried toward it, freshly filled wineskins clutched to his chest. He kept his eyes lowered, his dark, unkempt hair falling in front of his face. Chrelu would beat him if he made eye contact, he knew. He threaded his way through the dozen or so villagers traveling to where the onager herd had been sighted. “Thank you, sir,” a deep voice replied. “We would not normally take from the smallfolk, but these are not normal times.” The man’s voice tumbled about in Scrag’s mind. Scrag could not think why. His head was as empty as a bucket with a hole in it. That’s what Chrelu said. “Oh, don’t we know it captain,” Rodyr’s voice this time. “What, with spring being so late, like this worthless git.” Rodyr snatched a wineskin from Scrag, almost causing him to drop the rest. Chrelu took another, and cuffed Scrag on the ear. He ducked and shuffled back, robbing the blow of much of its force. “I do not wish to tell you how to treat your property,” the captain said as he stepped forward to take a skin of his own, placing a gauntleted hand on Scrag’s shoulder. “But it seems that he came with all haste, and should not be punished unduly.” “That’s just Scrag,” Rodyr said. “He’s a bit slow, needs a good knock to get going.” “Found him living with badgers as a lad,” Chrelu added. “He ain’t never been right. We’re gonna have him make an offering to the onager. So they’ll announce the solstice.” “Yeah, ‘twas three years after the scourge,” Rodyr said, making the sign of the cross over his heart. “God save old King Oldan’s soul, was a real shame.” Scrag remembered little of that time, and mention of it flooded him with confused images and sounds. He knew the beasts of the forest had never beaten him for bringing wine too slowly, though. He offered another skin of wine to the captain’s men. Six armored men. Never had he seen such fine armor and weaponry. One of them carried the banner of the Steward, but the captain’s surcoat displayed a different standard. A soaring falcon. Scrag started to tremble. He smelled smoke and rot and heard mocking laughter in the dark. He breathed deeply and repeated the names of the saints, like sister Aelsbet had taught him. The trembling faded. “-an offering to the herd in many years,” the captain was saying. “We can can only pray that they accept it and end this long winter.” He took a pull from the skin, swishing the wine in his mouth before swallowing. “We travel to Oldan’s tomb to ask forgiveness, so perhaps we will share the road for a time.” “Forgiveness?” Chrelu asked. “From a dead king?” “Yes.” The captain replied. “As we have every year since the scourge.” Scrag could feel the ice in his voice. If it had been Chrelu speaking in that tone, he’d be looking for somewhere else to be. “Ain’t you got eyes?” Rodyr said, heedless. “They’re the falcon guard. Roaming about, searching for the old king’s children.” Chrelu grunted. “I thought they were banished by the Steward.” Scrag sensed a sudden tension in the men. He backed away, no longer desiring to be between the armed men and Chrelu. “The Steward,” the captain replied, his voice sharp. “Made a rash decision that he had not the authority to make.” There was some grumbling at that, and Scrag watched as several villagers fingered the crude weapons they’d brought to ward off bandits. The falcon guard either did not notice, or did not care. “Perhaps the Steward might have a fat purse for the one who told him what you think of his authority. A fat purse of gold could feed the village, wouldn’t need to curry favor with a drat pack of mules.” A low murmur went through the villagers. Many gasped, taken aback by the insult to the herd. The captain just stared at Chrelu for a long moment. “A man could have such thoughts,” he said at last, his hand straying to his hilt. “But it would take a true fool-.” The thunder of hooves filled the air, echoing from the spindly trees lining the path. A herd of onager crested the rise ahead of them, and stood as if waiting. The villagers cried out in joy while Chrelu and the captain glared at each other. Finally, a pack was shoved into Scrag’s arms. “Get the offering up there, boy.”Chrelu ordered, his eyes still on the captain. Scrag hefted the bundle and trudged up the hill, a few of the excited villagers, and the captain, following him. The onager watched as he made his way closer, their dark eyes impossible to read. The heat had risen with the sun, and Scrag was sweating by the time he reached the herd, and set the bundle down. The leader began to bray, and the villagers cheered again. Then it quieted, and the entire herd bent their front knees and dropped their heads in a bow. Scrag took a step back, confused, but a strong, gauntleted hand on his shoulder stopped him. “It is said,” the captain’s voice was loud in the silence. “That the onager will bow to those of noble blood, Prince Oldan.” The captain laughed, and Scrag went rigid. Memories flooding back. Fleeing through cramped, dark tunnels. His mother’s screams following him, and the mocking laughter he now heard behind him. He tried to spring away, but that gauntleted hand caught in his hair and yanked him back. Something punched him in the back, and he looked down in shock to see a foot of steel extending from his chest. It disappeared, and blood followed. So much blood. Scrag sank to his knees. Vaguely, he heard the villagers screaming as the falcon guard cut them down before his vision faded.
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Jan 14, 2019 04:16
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In. Give me a sentence because I'm an indecisive rear end in a top hat.
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Jan 16, 2019 05:12
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Did someone mention a Thunderdome Discord? Or do we just have IRC?
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Jan 19, 2019 14:58
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Thirty Million Credits. 998 Words Braille haiku on the Gravestone served to excite some while sighted visitors needed only touch the smoothly polished shapes. Of course, Aetertech didn’t call it that. Their official name was Norn, but the populace had quickly discarded the obscure reference to ancient myth in favor of the Gravestone. Every blind person who ran their fingers along it got a new haiku, and every sighted person had to choose between the three shapes crowing the nanomarble slab jutting from the floor: a manticore, a gorgon, and an oni. They would then be treated to a cryptic hologram only they could see. Rumor was, it was all keyed to the RFID tag in each person’s universal identification chip, but AeterTech had kept information tight. They marketed it as a device to unlock your future. Most people treated it as a fancy fortune-telling device. A little more expensive than a fortune cookie, but infinitely more exotic. The only thing known for certain was that each person was only allowed one pass through the chamber. Retinal, RFID, and fingerprint scans, along with AeterSec, enforced this rule. Attempting a second pass could get you a few years mining asteroids for Aetertech, if you were lucky. Kellen Wahyq was wondering which asteroid he’d end up on as he approached the entrance. AeterSec officers flanked the door, covered head to toe in the plasteel armor usually reserved for full-scale riot duty. He knew there were four more inside. They watched the people passing through the scanner array with a professional air of boredom. That did little to ease Kellen’s nervousness, but he could still feel his palms slick with sweat. He was next in line. He activated the spoofing suite he’d spent the last of his money on. “Money back if not satisfied!” the skimmer had promised, and Kellen had laughed. If he wasn’t satisfied, a guarantee would be the least of his problems. His time came, and he stepped through. A single beep, and a green light. His knees went weak, and his vision blurred at the edges. It had worked! He imagined checking his account and finding the thirty million credits Gashrah Corp had promised him. Enough to- “Proceed, sir,” the polite but firm voice of the officer brought him back. Her bored posture had disappeared. “Of course,” Kellen said, ducking his head and moving forward. “Sorry. Been saving up for this. First time!” He finished lamely, aware he was drawing more attention to himself. He saw the officer whispering something into a mic, and cursed himself. loving worthless Kellen. Can’t even walk through a drat doorway without loving it up. Running a hand through his dark, thinning hair he keyed the spoofer off, it might interfere with the Gravestone he had been told, and switched the data collection array his handler had provided him on. He joined the line, willing it to move faster. He was a dozen people back. It had taken about a half a minute per person last time. AeterSec kept the line moving, reminding people they could review their future at their leisure and didn’t need to stay near the Gravestone. Six minutes. Then another five to exit. Eleven minutes and he’d be rich. No more wondering if he’d starve between jobs. The whole thing was bullshit, anyway. The first time he’d come through here, damned Norn hadn’t shown him eating freeze-dried insect protein in a ten-by-ten slum tenement, but here he was. He was halfway to the Gravestone when he saw the officers watching him. A curious mix of fear and anger washed over him. The bitch at the door must have told them to keep an eye on me. He pictured smashing her face in with the butt of her stun rifle. He began to sweat again, his eyes darting from officer to officer. He never dared look at one directly. That might make them more suspicious. He tried to appear calm. He tapped his foot and stared at the ceiling nonchalantly. “Could this line move any slower?” He asked the small man in front of him with a nervous laugh. The man turned and looked at him in annoyance, then ignored him. The officers did not. Speaking into their headsets, two of them moved toward him. They held portable EM scanners. They’d definitely find the collection array. Only the small man was left in front of Kellen. The man was reaching to touch the griffon. I can still make this work. He pushed the man aside and slapped his own hand down on the oni. The hologram never started. Time slowed to a crawl. Something slithered into Kellen’s mind. It spoke, its voice like bursts of static, filled with raw pain and anger. [Again? No! They promised! ONLY ONCE! THEY PROMISED!] Now the holograms began. A hologram over each person in the room, showing them cut and bleeding. A great pressure suffused Kellen’s body. The pain was enormous, but he could not react. Could not move. People were beginning to run, moving slowly as if passing through syrup. The AeterSec officers had dropped their scanners and were reaching for their stun rifles, shouting into their headsets. [THEY PROMISED AND THEY WILL PAY] Kellen fell to his knees screaming, and the pressure released. Time resumed its normal flow. The air filled with scintillating lashes of energy, cutting through flesh and plasteel with equal ease. The room was now filled with the dead and dying, their wounds matching the holograms that even now winked off as they were fulfilled. Kellen stumbled to his feet and sprinted toward the exit. He passed two dead officers, their bodies lashed to ribbons. He ran on, heedless of the shouts of the people on the streets. Everywhere he looked, he saw death. A hundred holograms over a hundred people, each showing that person’s final moments. The voice still shrieked in his head. His UIC alerted him that thirty million credits had been transferred to his account.
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Jan 21, 2019 05:40
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In, Flash me.
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Jan 23, 2019 09:15
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The Cadillac Man 1485 words. It shocked Kevin to see the old native man sitting by a small fire in front of the line of Cadillacs as he and his friends passed through the gate. He’d expected they’d be the only ones there at eight in the morning on a Wednesday in January. He slowed and felt the other three doing the same behind him. The old man looked up and smiled, the creases around his eyes and mouth deepening. He waved at them, then motioned them to join him at the fire. Kevin lifted an arm in an answering wave. “What the gently caress is Sitting Bull doing out here?” Jerry asked, keeping his voice low. “It’s freezing, and I thought he died a hundred years ago.” “Don’t be an rear end, Jerry,” Paula said. “It is, in fact, freezing and he’s got a fire he’s nice enough to share.” “I’m with Paula,” Siobhan declared, already striding forward. “Let’s warm up, paint something cool, and get back on the road.” “And don’t call him Sitting Bull,” Kevin added. “You can go fifteen minutes without being a prick, I’m sure.” Paula was already sitting down and warming her hands when the rest of the arrived. Up close, Kevin saw the man looked even older than he had at a distance. What he had thought of as creases before were more like crevasses. His hair was pure white, stark against his tawny skin. It was long and pulled back into a neat braid that hung down his back. He watched them with eyes that had once been a dark brown but were now clouded with cataracts. “The name is Latrens, not Sitting Bull,” he said once they were all seated. His eyes were hard as he stared at Jerry. Jerry blushed and stammered an apology, but Kane started laughing. Great knee-slapping guffaws. “It’s fine, son. No worse than I’ve heard before. Made me laugh, at least.” He added another dried stick to the fire. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Kevin said into the silence that followed. “Why are you out here in the cold?” Latrens was quiet for a moment, staring into the flames. He raised his clouded eyes to Kevin’s and spoke in a solemn tone. “Old Buffalo came to me in a dream,” he whispered. “Told me: Four students in danger, but Jerry most of all. You must warn them.” “Man, what gently caress?” Jerry asked, scrambling back and trying to stand. His flap-eared hat fell from his head, and his jet black hair reflected the firelight. “He knows my name!” Struck speechless by the absurdity of the reaction, Kevin could only stare at the spectacle. Siobhan was leaning forward, her eyes alight with interest. Paula had that look she got when she was a few seconds away from a skeptical cross-examination. “Calm down, Jerry,” Paula said. “He heard your joke, of course he heard me say your name.” She turned her gaze on the old man, one eyebrow raised. “An old buffalo told you to warn us, huh?” The old man threw his head back and laughed again. “Of course not.” He told her, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “It’s peaceful here, in the mornings. And when it’s not, I get to meet new people. Share my stories.” He gestured vaguely toward the Cadillacs behind him. “Sometimes, they paint them for me.” “The cars, or your stories?” Siobhan asked. “Both. I did it myself when I was young, but now,” He brought his hands up. Gnarled, with enormous, deeply grooved knuckles. “Between my eyes and the arthritis…you understand.” “So now you sit in the cold and wait to con impressionable young artists into doing it for you?” Paula asked, a hint of laughter in her own voice now. “Con? Oh, no…most of them leap at the chance to paint for a mysterious old injun,” He flashed them a brilliant smile, his teeth seemingly the only part of him unaffected by age. “Besides, it’d be a shame to let the old stories die. This way, I get to share them.” “I think you’ve sold us,” Kevin said. Siobhan and Paula were both smiling. Jerry sat to the side, arms crossed, still angry about the jokes made at his expense. He’s needed a dose of his own medicine for a while. He’ll live. “Yeah, we need to get back on the road,” Paula said, opening her pack and taking out cans of spray-paint. “and this is better than the dicks Jerry would probably paint.” The four students stood, gathering their supplies. Latrens smiled and stood with them, drawing a small drum out of a sack that Kevin had not noticed before. He was also holding a clay pot that looked to be full of a white paste. “One more indulgence,” he said to them. “A daub of paint on the forehead, so they recognize you. An old superstition and I’ll understand if you say no.” The students looked at each other. Siobhan shrugged and stepped forward. “Why not?” she asked. Latrens hummed under his breath as he dipped his thumb into the white paste and pressed firmly on her forehead, leaving a vaguely circular smear of paint. The others followed suit. Jerry came last, and he scowled as he did so. Not wanting to take part, but not wanting to look like the old man’s rituals frightened him. “Now, go paint. I will tell you of Coyote and Skunk.” Latrens beat the drum in a slow rhythm. “One day, long ago, Coyote found himself hungry…” The old native told them his story, and Kevin felt a rush of inspiration he hadn’t felt all semester. He knew exactly what he needed to paint. With can and brush, he created stylized scenes of Coyote and Skunk as they tricked a group of prairie dogs into becoming their meal. He’d never drawn anything in a native style before, but it seemed so natural. It flowed through him. He saw Paula with a can in each hand, recreating the scene of Coyote plucking the dancing prairie dogs one at a time as they danced. And Siobhan painting the race to see who got to pick the juiciest prize, with Skunk outwitting Coyote and taking most of the haul for himself. Jerry hunched over his own work, and Kevin could not see what he was making…but he did not move with the same easy flow as the others. The drumming slowed as Latrens neared the end of his story, and the inspiration leaked out of Kevin’s mind, leaving him exhausted. It could only have been a few minutes, but he felt as if he had been standing and painting all day. He sat down and looked up at the scenes he had emblazoned on the car before him as the old man’s last words echoed across the prairie. “Skunk thought he had won the day, but there was no better trickster than Coyote.” Latrens made his way to where Jerry still stood hunched over the door of a Cadillac. His steel gray braid moved with the wind. He laid a hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “Let’s see what-“ He was cut off as Jerry jerked away from him, turning with that infuriating smirk Kevin knew so well. Ah, Christ…what now, Jerry? Kevin thought. He should have known Jerry would try to get the last laugh. Emblazoned on the door in a dozen colors was an intricately detailed penis in a native tribal style. “Goddammit, Jerry,” Paula said with her head in her hands. “I don’t remember this from my tale,” Latrens said with a grunt, little of his former joviality remaining. His dark brown eyes pierced Jerry’s own. “But maybe you heard something different?” “I drew a dick for an old dick,” Jerry replied with a shrug. “So it seems,” the old man sounded tired. There was a deep sadness in his voice as he continued. “I think it’s time I make my way home.” With that, he strode back to the fire and began pouring sand over the coals. He gathered up his sack, tying it shut with nimble movements of his fingers. Something tugged at Kevin’s memory, his exhaustion making it difficult to concentrate. “Hey, don’t worry about Jerry. Thank you, we appreciate you sharing your legends with us.” Siobhan rose and shook his hand. The others, save Jerry, echoed her thanks. He flashed his smile at them again, the light crows feet at the corners of his eyes getting slightly more pronounced. “Kee, urako,” he replied and turned to walk into the plains. “Kee…urako,” Jerry whispered in a mocking tone as he put his hat back on and trudged toward the gate. Gray-streaked black hair still peeked from around the edges. …but there was no better trickster than Coyote. The words echoed in Kevin’s mind, and he looked back to the plains where Latrens had been walking. There was no one to be seen.
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Jan 28, 2019 06:34
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| # ¿ Dec 9, 2024 20:19 |
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In. Upgrade me to Jolly Max Mode.
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Jan 29, 2019 18:04
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