|
In for the first time, 90's !
|
#
¿
Jun 16, 2020 14:46
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Nov 10, 2025 13:47 |
|
|
Just Enough By: AlmightyDerelict Flash prompt: Semisonic – Closing time. 1890 words Inside the Great Hall, the townsfolk were already feasting and drinking their fill, while songs of merrymaking filled the chamber. Dorian had barely entered the room when Myrtle nearly crashed into him while carrying a tray of goblets and wine carafes. “Sorry Dorian!” she cooed in alarm. “Would you like a cup of wine?” “Of course, wouldn’t want Lord Albrand to glimpse my hand without a drink tonight!” he replied sheepishly. Myrtle gave a faint smile and carefully poured the wine into a large silver goblet. “Don’t be so nervous, you should be merry this festival. I know your parents would be very proud of you,” she said softly as she handed him the cup. No sooner had Dorian’s fingers gripped the goblet than a voice like thunder split through the commotion of cheer. “Dorian my good lad!” laughed Lord Albrand as he jumped from his seat. The hall came to a sudden hush as Myrtle scurried away from Dorian. “Late to the celebrations as usual I see!” the lord jested. “Were you so busy collecting your herbs that you forgot you were to sit at my table as an honored guest tonight?” “No my lord, I apologize for my continued tardiness,” Dorian said, giving a low bow. “Come now, there’s no need to be so ceremonious. Please, take up a seat here at my table; and Myrtle be sure that this man is not left without fine drink in his cup!” He commanded. Dorian carefully walked through the disapproving glares and glances of the crowd, making his way to the royal table. To his dismay he realized that the only seat yet to be taken was next to Ophelia, the lord’s only daughter. She straightened her posture excitedly and kept her gaze fixed on Dorian as he sat down at the table. “To those of you amongst us that remain unaware, let this glorious truth be known far and wide: never again will the women of our humble territory be plagued by the mysterious illness of clay-skin!” the lord decreed. The crowd erupted with raucous applause. “This victory could not have been obtained without the great curiosity and ingenuity of the young man sitting at my table tonight. Through years of hard work, he has discovered that the seeds of the rare mountain flower Lufubloom were the key to curing this fatal affliction!” The people began to murmur as they humbly clapped. “In the recent weeks I’ve marveled at the great irony that women would be saved from a slow and dreary death by the same substance which wives had been giving their husbands for centuries to save themselves from dull and boring sex!” He chuckled boyishly. “So tonight, let us raise our cups high, to Dorian, may all those who likened him to his father rue this night!” “To Dorian!” everyone repeated, and everyone drank. *** As the festivities raged on into the night, Lord Albrand was the first to lead the people in dancing around the fire outside the great hall. Many people joined in, though few remained inside to relish in relative peace. “Oh, come now Dorian, finish your drink already!” Ophelia griped. “It’s probably the happiest night of your life and still you are as stiff as a log.” “I’m sorry Ophelia, I am not use to being given such attention and high praise,” Dorian replied as he struggled to finish his drink. “Lady Ophelia,” she corrected, before letting out a theatrical gasp. “I had nearly forgot! I have just the thing to rid you of your nerves!” Ophelia sprang from her chair and raced through the door behind the royal table, within minutes she returned with a small clay jug. “Here, you must try this wine from the great grass sea; trust me, it can calm even the deepest anxieties.” She clumsily poured the drink into their respective cups. Dorian raised his cup, toasting awkwardly, and then began to drink. Ophelia brought her hand to the bottom of his goblet, forcing him to drink the cups contents entirely while she did the same. Dorian began coughing in a fit - the drink was horribly bitter yet had a familiar metallic flavor. “O-Ophelia,” Dorian stammered “That was just wine that I drank, r-right?” “It’s Lady Ophelia, Dorian,” she giggled. “And well, it may have had something a little more fun in there too.” Dorian looked into Ophelia’s eyes, as he had feared, the whites of her eyes were beginning to turn a dull purple. His heart began to race, it was worse than when he would panic, he could feel his palms begin to sweat and his mouth beginning to salivate. The physically stimulating effects of Lufubloom was something completely foreign to him. “Your eyes are looking especially beautiful tonight Dorian, but I think if anyone else sees them they might become concerned and get the wrong idea.” Ophelia grabbed Dorian by the wrist and led him down a dimly lit corridor to a room away from the hall. Upon realizing the room was a bedchamber, Dorian snapped to his senses and remembered his place in the village, the burden he carried. “Lady Ophelia, no I can’t!” he protested. “I think you can Dorian, and I know you want to, you’ve always been so timid and unassuming, but you don’t have to pretend now, lets just give it up already.” Her arms wrapped around him as she tried to stand on her toes to reach his face with her lips. But Dorian pushed her away. “Don’t Ophelia, you know I can’t,” he said with greater frustration. “It’s because of that bitch half-sister of yours isn’t it! You’ve always liked her more than me, even though I was prettier and more ladylike than her!” she sobbed. “You can’t be with Myrtle!” Dorian moved to the door and opened it, as he entered the corridor Ophelia caught him at the wrist again. “If you walk away from me right now, I’ll make sure you pay! You will never be accepted by this village ever!” She barked at him with glaring eyes. Then the sound of metal clanging rung through the hallway, both Dorian and Ophelia looked down the hallway and spotted a silver goblet on the floor, as well as Myrtle running back to the great hall, her hand over her mouth. Dorian freed himself from Ophelia’s grasp, then shut the door in her face and sprinted to the Great Hall. He rapidly walked past the royal table and the few packs of people left inside. Myrtle was nowhere to be seen. He crept past the people partying outside and headed home, no one saw his tear-filled eyes. *** Dorian was lying awake in bed when he heard knocking at his door. He was shocked to find that it was two soldiers who he knew to be the lord’s men. The men quickly tackled Dorian to the ground and tied his hands behind his back. The men brought him to his knees before Lord Albrand in the Great Hall and pressed down hard on his head and shoulders, forcing him to bow. “To think you were my honored guest, someone who I was proud to champion as a good man, nothing like his father,” the lord said. “My lord I swear I didn’t rape—” Dorian cried. “Silence!” the lords voice boomed through the hall “bring in the girl.” Myrtle was brought to her knees beside Dorian, her hands were bound, a look of terror and panic on her face. “My daughter has told me in vivid detail about what you did Dorian, and how Myrtle stood watch as you defiled her. As everyone here can plainly see the purple hue still present in your eyes, I’m inclined to believe her. If I were my father, you both would be killed right now,” he somberly stated. “But I cannot ignore all you have done for this community Dorian, and so I begged my daughter to give you one chance at redemption, and she has charitably decided the parameters of that redemption,” he paused for a moment and let out a deep sigh. “You, Dorian, will find where the sun rests when it sets beneath the western horizon, and come back to this village to reveal what you’ve found before the conclusion of next year’s spring festival. Should you fail to return, Myrtle will be put to death in your stead.” “Now take them both out of my sight,” The lord turned his back as they both were dragged from the hall. Myrtle called out to Dorian, and him to her. *** Dorian travelled west every day, he watched every sunset and grew more hopeless each time. With a heavy heart, after nearly six difficult months of walking, he began his journey back to the village. He arrived late in the evening, on the first night of the festival, and was taken immediately to the dungeon. Myrtle was asleep when Dorian was put into the cell across from her, and though he wanted to wake her and speak to her, he didn’t exactly know how to tell her that he had failed. He sat there for hours in silence until he heard thunderous shouting from upstairs. “And don’t you boys come back until the sun comes up, I’m going to give these two a piece of my mind one last time!” Lord Albrand yelled as he came down the stairs. Myrtle awoke and instantly noticed Dorian in his cell, and the Lord stumbling closer. “Well, if it isn’t the rapist. Returned to face judgement, have we? Or were you successful?” He asked. Dorian shook his head with his eyes hung to the floor, so myrtle curled into a ball and started to cry. “Can’t really blame yourself for failing to achieve the impossible lad,” The lord said encouragingly. “And I may be a fool, but I am wise enough to know that rapists don’t return just to die in their co-conspirator’s stead.” Dorian looked up to meet the lord’s blue eyes. “You know sometimes, justice… well, it doesn’t feel fair at all. For instance, when I saw my father take the miller’s fiancé into his bedchamber all those years ago, then executed your father for rape after she became visibly pregnant… I’ve always known that wasn’t justice,” Albrand explained. The lord grinned widely with great satisfaction. Dorian’s eyes turned to Myrtle’s; she was staring back into his, he never noticed her eyes were so blue. Lord Albrand opened both of their cells and they embraced each other for what felt like a long time. “My daughter would argue inexorably that you both should be killed for failing to meet her demands, and the people are already against you,” the lord looked down. “I wish I could do more for the son of an innocent man and my half-sister, but freedom is the most I can give.” Dorian and Myrtle locked the lord in a cell, and they all laughed at how silly he was going to look when he told everyone how he had clumsily let the prisoners get the best of him. He told them that was his redemption. They left the village immediately, never letting go of each other’s hand. Where they were going, neither of them knew. But wherever it was, it was just enough.
|
|
#
¿
Jun 21, 2020 04:00
|
|
|
in
|
|
#
¿
Jun 23, 2020 03:48
|
|
|
In  , not sure what a hellrule is but i'm ready.
|
|
#
¿
Jun 30, 2020 02:42
|
|
|
Hellrule: “your characters speak in smells.” What’s That Stench? 1035/1200 Words For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to make the world a better place. I remember feeling discouraged as a kid. Believing there couldn’t be many problems left for me to solve, surely the adults of the world had a firm grasp on what was happening, what needed to be done. Of course, I quickly learned how naďve and sheltered I was to believe the world could be that way. My disillusionment with society began in school. In history I learned about one political party’s “final solution” which was a palatable euphemism for the extermination of roughly ten-million Jewish people. I was spoon fed a story about how people banded together, ridded the world of that evil. But all my teachers were unable to explain why some still believed as that party did, were still chanting and saluting as they did. Civics told a similar tale about the civil rights movement, where millions of people protested to demand equal rights for black people in America. I was told that after the tragic assassination of a famous black reverend, people came together and agreed to end racism, then black people everywhere in America were given equal rights and opportunities. Because who doesn’t love a tragic story with a happy ending. But that wasn’t the end. If it were, I wouldn’t have had to learn about a black man who was murdered in the streets of Minneapolis, just eight blocks from the flower shop. I watched the public execution on my computer, just hours after it happened. I don’t know what was more disturbing, watching a man who was supposed to “serve and protect” slowly crush the windpipe of a human being like he was casually trying to deflate an air mattress, or the sound of that human being pleading for his life, crying out to his mother with his dying breath. In the days that followed the flower shop was as busy as ever. Scores of people came through our doors to buy roses, cut flowers, and arranged bouquets to decorate the street where the execution took place. I became a florist because I wanted to make the world a more beautiful place, so admittedly a small part of me was proud to see people coming together to lament this tragedy and do their part to make this ugly world smell sweet, appear more colorful. But my pride was nothing compared to my rage. I had heard stories like this before, people coming together, well wishes and prayers, surely after this disaster things were going to change. But I know better than most that flowers are not pungent enough to expel the stench of corruption, the reeking decay of injustice, or the rancid odor of racism. Society had been sweeping the filth of history underneath the carpet since its conception, and I was fed up with trying to mask the miasma of its festering problems with my flowers. I wasn’t going to watch history from the sidelines any longer, it was time to show the system that even those without voices could still scream. Being mute had always been challenging. But I never felt as handicapped as I did when I couldn’t shout the names of all the black lives ended at the hands of police, when I couldn’t chant along with protestors as they declared that black lives matter. So, I found my own way to yell, a way to bring all the filth out from under the rug and force it up the nostrils of the system so that it could experience the same disgust I felt. I bought and gutted a dozen fish, but I hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to blend their entrails into a liquid. The consistency was too thick and there wasn’t enough of it, so I added pickle juice and nearly expired milk to the concoction, in total I filled approximately fifty small balloons with my vile smelling liquid of outrage. I stayed out past curfew, throwing my putrid packages at police barricades and abandoned cop cars. When the police fled the third precinct, I was there handing out my gifts to protestors. We made sure to shower the patty wagons and armored vehicles with the stink they deserved as they sped away, curled tails between their legs. I couldn’t help but smile as the precinct slowly burned to the ground, the bittersweet smell of burning upholstery, insulation, and carpet filled the air; and in a strange way, I felt proud to be an American, if not for a couple days. Protests are still going on, but the rioting has stopped, and so my vile vigilantism is on hiatus. It has been the largest civil rights demonstration to date, with protests occurring all over the world; the history books will certainly tell a grand story about the events of this year. I look at social media and see that people are posting less about black lives and police brutality, must not be as trendy as it was a month ago. People might not be buying as many flowers, they might be patting themselves on the back, celebrating in their self-satisfaction, but I’m not satisfied. There is something rotten in America, something still makes my nose hairs curl when I breathe deeply. That’s why this weekend I’m going to Mount Rushmore, I’ve got a date with a very colorful person, an orange man with a penchant for self-serving compliments and inciting violence. Armed to the teeth with newly made screams, I’m not sure what I’ll do once I arrive. Maybe I'll drench the cars in the parking lot with my disdain, maybe I’ll muster the courage to throw my voice at the man himself. All I know is I must be heard; I’m not going to stop until America wakes up and smells the blood-stained roses. There is a good possibility that I will be arrested this time, hell I could even be killed. If it’s the latter I wonder if people will buy me flowers, give their prayers to my family. Sooner or later though, I’m sure I would end up like all the rest, just another black body to be swept under the rug.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 5, 2020 20:15
|
|
|
In,
|
|
#
¿
Jul 7, 2020 12:13
|
|
|
Beyond the Glittering Wall, Chapter III: Speak of the Devil and... Flash: https://freesound.org/people/earwicker23/sounds/193712/ 798/800 words The candles are burning low, allowing darkness to creep closer. It’s the last hand of the night, though Gregor seems like he wishes we’d play more; he’s still wide awake. “Royal flush,” Duncan proudly exclaims. Gregor and I groan and throw our cards to the center of the table. “Well look at that, not even Gregor the Great can best me!” he cheers. The room is full of memoirs from Gregor’s glory days as a knight of The Order, his unkept armor collecting spider webs, his shield and family crest hung above the hearth. Duncan grabs Gregor’s greatsword from the wall and throws it over his shoulder triumphantly. “Devils will probably run back to hell at the mere sound of my laughter,” Duncan says, letting out an exaggerated laugh. Gregor slams both his hands on the table, it shakes the candles and one cup falls over, spilling ale onto the surface. “You’re a fool if you think that laughter makes devils run! If anything, it’s the other way around,” Gregor said angrily. Duncan and I exchange glances then look back to Gregor. He’s usually not so serious; I wonder what’s gotten his goat? The old knight sighs, he grabs the greatsword from Duncan and returns it to the mount on the wall. “I’m sorry Greg, it was just a joke.” Duncan recoils in shame. “No prospective knight within a hundred leagues of The Mouth would dare to downplay devils,” he says, staring at the greatsword. “Sometimes I wonder if you even realize what becoming a knight means. Maybe you aren’t ready.” The wind soughs against the window. Duncan, shaken by Gregor’s words, slips back into his seat: eyes glued to the dripping ale. “Come on, Gregor. No one understands Duncan’s dreams better than you.” I say with concern. “You’ve seen Dunk swing a sword, you know better than anyone that he’s got what it takes.” Gregor turns to me, then to Duncan; his tirade hit harder than he thought. “I don’t doubt his strength,” Gregor puts his hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “But having a tall stature and a powerful swing only go so far when facing devils. The real thing is much different than it is in the stories that you’ve heard from Old Tom.” The wind is howling now; there is a quiet sound of a metallic moan coming from outside. But I ignore it, my focus is purely on Gregor: his eyes are wide, and he’s visibly distressed. “You actually saw one, didn’t you?” I ask. The room is very still, Gregor never told anyone in town that he saw a devil in person. “Tell us, please Gregor. If I’m to become a knight I need to know,” Duncan pleads. Gregor begins to pace, scratching his head. “He’s right. If he shouldn’t take them lightly, then who better than you to tell him why?” Gregor stops and shoots me a quick glare. There’s no way he can avoid it now. “It was a nightmare,” his throat tightened. “It was walking around the edge of a burning cottage. It was only a silhouette. All the horses stopped and turned wild when it looked at us, somehow, I knew it was smiling. Then came the laughter, a terrible noise unlike anything I’ve heard before or since. It echoed through my very soul, and I still hear it when I lay my head down to sleep…” The candles in the room flicker, we’re both unable to say a word. The metal moaning came again, louder now. A crash came following it, sending shivers down my spine. We all turn to the window. “drat, the goat’s gate must’ve broken its latch again” Gregor moves to a cabinet and grabs a cord of rope. “You boy’s think about what I’ve said. This will take just a second.” He goes out into the night, the door slams shut behind him. A few moments pass and we hear it again; the crash vibrates through the room, and every candle blows out. Duncan and I jump from our seats and race after Gregor. We rush through the door and turn the corner. It’s so dark I can barely see. My eyes widen and my jaw hangs loose. Gregor’s goats, they’re standing upright on their back hooves, front hooves twisted together as if holding hands, motionless, forming a frozen circle in the grass. There’s a large red stain at the center of the ring. The gate crashes against the latch again, it sounds different, a quiet laughter weaved into hellish reverberations. Duncan slowly stumbles toward the road. I follow. The wind howls and the gate crashes again, and again, more frequent than it should. The laughter, louder and clearer with each crash. We run, but still hear it echoing in our heads… moaning and laughing.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 12, 2020 23:51
|
|
|
In
|
|
#
¿
Jul 14, 2020 14:53
|
|
|
In, and would love an item.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 28, 2020 16:04
|
|
|
You offer it to me freely? Very well, In with LOTR: The Fellowship of The Ring, for hellrule, and to ensure that i post.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 5, 2020 16:47
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Nov 10, 2025 13:47 |
|
|
prompt - LOTR: The Fellowship of the Ring Hellrule - Use no dialogue or inner monologue A Most Troubling Offer 927/1000 words Farmer Maggot stepped onto his front porch with a plate of fried sausage, onions, and mushrooms. The savory steam of the dish billowed out into the brisk morning air, catching the attention of the farmer’s three dogs who quickly raced to his side. With endearing snouts and paws, the dogs begged for a morsel of their master’s meal. The farmer happily obliged and gave each a healthy portion of sausage. Maggot ate his breakfast as he scanned the farm for any sign of trespassers, hobbit or otherwise. Much to his relief, everything was in order, not a single mushroom cap nor turnip top in sight had been disrupted during the night. The farmer was never keen on disruptions, not the least of which the kind that concerned his prized crops. He left what remained of his breakfast on the porch for the dogs, and went inside to wake the family. Together they worked as the sun rose: picking the ripest turnips and mushrooms. A quiet sound of giggling came from the road, sending the dogs into an alarmed pursuit of growling and barking. The farmer gave chase after them and ran into the lane where he saw four small hobbit children running away, leaving a trail of mushrooms behind them. Maggot shook his fist and shouted threats at the children, as he often did; warning that the next time he caught them he would feed them to his dogs. He cursed and mumbled beneath his breath as he returned to work. A stout pony was hitched to a small wagon, and soon after the farmer departed on his journey to Bree and The Prancing Pony inn, fine fare and hot temper in tow. The East Road was as busy as it had ever been, folk all the way from Buckland were traveling west with carts filled with preparations for Mr. Bilbo’s birthday. Each hobbit that passed gave Mr. Maggot a hearty salutation, but he would merely give a small wave and nod of approval to them in return. The day was growing hotter, and sweat had begun clinging to the farmer’s red cheeks when he finally arrived at the west gate of Bree. There the crooked gate-keeper, whom Maggot had never thought well of, stopped the farmer and gave him a concerning message. Bill Ferny, an even less savory resident of Bree, was looking to have a word with Maggot. The farmer scoffed and moved along without saying a word, he had little desire to speak with foreigners, except for those who bought his produce or traded for it with good beer. The inn was already in an uproar when Maggot arrived. Burly men with dark hair and tattered clothes were drinking beer enthusiastically in the parlor, though it was barely past mid-day. Among them stood Bill Ferny, a short and unkempt man with thin hair and a weasely smile. Maggot deliberately directed his gaze away from Ferny and walked to the bar to show his goods to the innkeeper. Luckily, Barliman was in good spirits and cheerfully agreed to trade three large wheels of cheese, two casks of beer, and one hot meal in exchange for the produce. Farmer Maggot agreed and sat at the bar, happily awaiting his dinner of herbs and stewed rabbit. Across the room, the strange glances of the rowdy men shifted towards the farmer, and soon four large men, including Bill, approached. They insisted on sitting with the farmer, feigning good cheer and friendship. Bill leaned in close to Maggot, put his arm around the hobbit’s shoulder, and gave him a most troubling offer. They wanted him to lure Mr.Bilbo away from the party on the night of his birthday and deliver him to the men; Bill told Maggot that he would be rewarded handsomely with land and gold should he agree. Maggot lept out of his seat, and began to shout and curse at the hecklers, such an indecent request was practically an assault on the farmer’s character, and he demanded that the rogues give an explanation. The men didn’t understand why the hobbit was so worked up, after all, he had a bad reputation for being a curmudgeon that didn’t think fondly of others, even his fellow hobbits. The farmer’s face turned bright red, he bit his lip and clenched his fist, attempting to hide his shame. He told the men one last time to leave him alone, but Bill was undeterred. He warned Maggot that he had friends who would take revenge on the farmer and his family, should he fail to cooperate. Barliman came back to the parlor with the stew and quickly broke up the quarrel, he threw the thugs out for nearly an entire year for the disturbance, but later forgot and would serve them again. The stew was left on the bar, the farmer had lost his appetite. Maggot left for home after exchanging apologies and farewells with the innkeeper. As the pony clopped on toward Bamfurlong, the farmer smoked stoically, sending soft white clouds into the crepuscular sky. Maggot rounded the last hill on his way home, in the lane there were two adult hobbits that were pointing at his mushroom and turnip patches, but they were not there to cause trouble. They were two parents of the children he had scared away, and they had come to apologize to the old curmudgeon. Mr. Maggot wouldn’t accept their apology until they joined him for supper and drank beer with him, he insisted that it had been him who was out of line.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 10, 2020 04:27
|
|