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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #6 - "Playing With Fire"
- Thread starter Cyan
- Start date
- Status
Mike Works
Member
i think we should mix it up a little next challenge, be it wordcount or story typeCyan said:
as for the number of submissions, i typically don't have time to start writing until sundays, and that might be the same for others
Chasing After the Sun
word count: 963
"Forgive me, honored ancestors, for what I'm about to do," Running Shadow begged with his dirty palms clasped firmly together and head bowed before the clay alter, with its dollops of curves spires standing for each long passed relative.
"Of course we don't, you fool!" raged the familiar voice of his grandfather, who had been dead for more than ten seasons. There was no sight of any decrepit figure, but the feeling of his presence was thick as warm gruel in the calm spring air. "The Peak of the World is where the Sun has its home. Stupid boy, even if you reach the summit, you're only going to get burned!"
"Burned is better than living without her," Running Shadow declared in defiance. Swift Breeze was the prettiest girl in their village, who many courted but none could claim. Running Shadow spoke in a clear, proud voice, but he had been cursed by the Frog God. So she would listen to him with rapt attention from the darkest night until dawn, only to shriek and flee in terror from his face like a toad. Even a child among the Soaring Eagle Tribe knew such a curse could only be lifted once a dozen years, so impatiently he sought instead to pull the Sun down from the sky, and cast the world in everlasting night.
The altar of his ancestors had been set at the very base of the Peak, though Running Shadow was far too close to see the summit or either side. Just the gently winding path through its arid and dust choked land to reach up to where bright green and silver streams flowed, which was as far as any man or woman dared to climb. Raising a bag formed of salamander skins, Running Shadow started off with his sandals kicked up spirals of dust.
The desert path was well traveled and easy to cross, lasting no more than a few seasons. Running Shadow stopped only to drink from the Blessed Spring of Renewal, and to converse with the animals that had gathered there. Most told him to turn back and give up his foolhardy quest. Yet among them was an ancient eagle who bore a single ruby eye. He took the boy aside and taught him the calls that might aid him if he ever neared the summit.
Then the forest loomed, and the season had turned to winter, though the branches and leaves formed a full canopy that bore the snow, leaving all underneath sheltered from storm. This was the home of the Green Tribe of Forgiveness, who welcomed him into their simple huts and held great feasts night after night, in honor of the bold task he sought to accomplish. Months passed and Running Shadow was too fat to find his legs, forcing him to roll away while he still had use of his now stubby arms.
Still determined, he rolled uphill, where great grooves and tunnels had been carved into the earth in crisscrossing pathways that left him lost for an age. He stopped to wonder what could have cut these paths when a gigantic worm slipped around the corner with its mouth wide, swallowing up this morsel without slowing down. The old worm had no teeth left to bite, so it simply sucked on the poor young man for a month or more, taking all of his fat away and returning Running Shadow to a lean young man.
Any more suckling would leave him a bony skeleton, so he held his nose and dared to open a blackened vial of Forbidden Vapors. Immediately, the worm was sputtering and choking, then spitting out Running Shadow into the high horizon. The boy called out to the eagles as he had been taught, and was rescued from certain death by a collection of claws, though the birds were quick to ask for tribute against letting him fall. This he paid in stone eggs, certain to hatch into whatever bird lay upon them.
With bloodied shoulders, Running Shadow was set on his feet before the Peak of the World with night deep around him. It was a pleasant glade with grass and trees, and a single pointed hut dominating the horizon. Within would be the Sun quietly resting, yet before it sitting on a boulder was the Frog God himself, squat and green as smoke trailed from his long pipe.
"A toad from the Blessed Spring leapt here to tell me what you intend," the Frog God remarked as it blew a few puffs into the air, drifting off to form clouds. "Tell me all of your journey and your reasons behind it, and I might let you pass."
Left with little choice, Running Shadow went on in great detail from his meetings with Swift Breeze, to his determination and his preparations for the climb, bargaining with both beasts and gods before finally starting up the Peak where once again this wicked god was keeping him from success. So long did he speak that he failed to notice the faint sparkles of light before the Sun rose from its hut, illuminating the entire World that lay beneath.
In that moment, the Frog God leapt to his webbed feet, casting aside his pipe to part the clouds, and gestured down to the land below. "Look! Down in the valley there is your village and there is your Swift Breeze, but there is a man on her shoulder and a baby in her arms. For six years you have done what others warned you against, and this is your reward!"
Running Shadow peered down to see his love lost to him forever, and the tears of sorrow spilled from his frog face, frozen as his heart was now, to fall as hail.
word count: 963
"Forgive me, honored ancestors, for what I'm about to do," Running Shadow begged with his dirty palms clasped firmly together and head bowed before the clay alter, with its dollops of curves spires standing for each long passed relative.
"Of course we don't, you fool!" raged the familiar voice of his grandfather, who had been dead for more than ten seasons. There was no sight of any decrepit figure, but the feeling of his presence was thick as warm gruel in the calm spring air. "The Peak of the World is where the Sun has its home. Stupid boy, even if you reach the summit, you're only going to get burned!"
"Burned is better than living without her," Running Shadow declared in defiance. Swift Breeze was the prettiest girl in their village, who many courted but none could claim. Running Shadow spoke in a clear, proud voice, but he had been cursed by the Frog God. So she would listen to him with rapt attention from the darkest night until dawn, only to shriek and flee in terror from his face like a toad. Even a child among the Soaring Eagle Tribe knew such a curse could only be lifted once a dozen years, so impatiently he sought instead to pull the Sun down from the sky, and cast the world in everlasting night.
The altar of his ancestors had been set at the very base of the Peak, though Running Shadow was far too close to see the summit or either side. Just the gently winding path through its arid and dust choked land to reach up to where bright green and silver streams flowed, which was as far as any man or woman dared to climb. Raising a bag formed of salamander skins, Running Shadow started off with his sandals kicked up spirals of dust.
The desert path was well traveled and easy to cross, lasting no more than a few seasons. Running Shadow stopped only to drink from the Blessed Spring of Renewal, and to converse with the animals that had gathered there. Most told him to turn back and give up his foolhardy quest. Yet among them was an ancient eagle who bore a single ruby eye. He took the boy aside and taught him the calls that might aid him if he ever neared the summit.
Then the forest loomed, and the season had turned to winter, though the branches and leaves formed a full canopy that bore the snow, leaving all underneath sheltered from storm. This was the home of the Green Tribe of Forgiveness, who welcomed him into their simple huts and held great feasts night after night, in honor of the bold task he sought to accomplish. Months passed and Running Shadow was too fat to find his legs, forcing him to roll away while he still had use of his now stubby arms.
Still determined, he rolled uphill, where great grooves and tunnels had been carved into the earth in crisscrossing pathways that left him lost for an age. He stopped to wonder what could have cut these paths when a gigantic worm slipped around the corner with its mouth wide, swallowing up this morsel without slowing down. The old worm had no teeth left to bite, so it simply sucked on the poor young man for a month or more, taking all of his fat away and returning Running Shadow to a lean young man.
Any more suckling would leave him a bony skeleton, so he held his nose and dared to open a blackened vial of Forbidden Vapors. Immediately, the worm was sputtering and choking, then spitting out Running Shadow into the high horizon. The boy called out to the eagles as he had been taught, and was rescued from certain death by a collection of claws, though the birds were quick to ask for tribute against letting him fall. This he paid in stone eggs, certain to hatch into whatever bird lay upon them.
With bloodied shoulders, Running Shadow was set on his feet before the Peak of the World with night deep around him. It was a pleasant glade with grass and trees, and a single pointed hut dominating the horizon. Within would be the Sun quietly resting, yet before it sitting on a boulder was the Frog God himself, squat and green as smoke trailed from his long pipe.
"A toad from the Blessed Spring leapt here to tell me what you intend," the Frog God remarked as it blew a few puffs into the air, drifting off to form clouds. "Tell me all of your journey and your reasons behind it, and I might let you pass."
Left with little choice, Running Shadow went on in great detail from his meetings with Swift Breeze, to his determination and his preparations for the climb, bargaining with both beasts and gods before finally starting up the Peak where once again this wicked god was keeping him from success. So long did he speak that he failed to notice the faint sparkles of light before the Sun rose from its hut, illuminating the entire World that lay beneath.
In that moment, the Frog God leapt to his webbed feet, casting aside his pipe to part the clouds, and gestured down to the land below. "Look! Down in the valley there is your village and there is your Swift Breeze, but there is a man on her shoulder and a baby in her arms. For six years you have done what others warned you against, and this is your reward!"
Running Shadow peered down to see his love lost to him forever, and the tears of sorrow spilled from his frog face, frozen as his heart was now, to fall as hail.
Camelot, 90210
1000 words
Five weeks into the semester and Lance still wasn't used to the crowds. Having been home schooled by his adopted parents for the last decade the comparative chaos of a public high school was disconcerting. He only ever felt comfortable when he was alone with Gwen. Recalling her name alone sent a shiver through his entire body. She affected everything around her, literally. Plants visibly grew, flowers bloomed, the sun burned brighter and time slowed. Ivy crawled up the lockers to the ceiling of the crowded hall, occasionally grabbing unsuspecting freshmen and hanging them upside down for the rest to mock.
A golden ray penetrated the thick mob, which quickly parted. Soon the illuminated form of Gwen walked by, entourage in tow. She briefly glanced over her shoulder. The moment stretched into seconds as her eyes fixed on his own. The voice on the PA system slowed into a low droning. Her perfectly bronzed face formed a smile and her round lips parted, revealing pearly white teeth. She bit down gently on her lower lip. Lance felt his lungs empty. Life rushed back like a thunderclap. Gwen was striding down the hall, chased by indecipherable valley girl speak, leaving a score of slack jawed faces in her wake.
Lance was jostled and felt himself pushed into a bathroom. The door gave way and his hands and face slapped against the cold tile floor. A pair of golden sneakers resolved into view after a moment: King, the resident big man on campus. Lance recalled their introduction on his first day of school. The principal had marched him directly towards a tall, dark haired slab of a man donning a brilliant, gold varsity jacket. Surrounded by a gang of jocks at the cool table, Mrs. Lake had threatened to confiscate his jacket if he didn't take good care of the new kid. His face had been a picture of fear and submission. Lance rose to find a much different countenance. He was confident, maybe disdainful. Lance stared at his own reflection in King's jacket, crippled at the thought of what might come next.
"I know about you and Gwen."
Hearing the name ignited a spark within that quickly spread through his limbs. Lance met King's eyes, hoping to betray the defiance that was about to overwhelm him.
"I'll give you chance to make this right. The custodian, Mr. Fisher, is holding onto something. Something precious. He'll know. You bring it to me and Gwen's all yours. What do you say?"
"Where is he?"
King smiled broadly, then ran his fingers over his shock of black hair, meticulously teased and spiked to resemble a crown. He put his arm around Lance and led him out to the now empty hall.
"He's in the basement, past the furnace. He has a weakness for weed and I know exactly where you can get some."
He pointed in the direction of the principal's office. Before Lance could ask the obvious question, King yanked on a nearby fire alarm. Within moments the hall was flooded with klaxon warnings, flashing lights and panicked bodies. The principal's door flew open. Mrs. Lake emerged, bathed in a harsh red light, and darted down a distant hall. Lance felt a strong shove from behind and found himself fighting a tidal wave of students heading towards the exit. Something brushed his head. An arm of ivy was sweeping the crowd, probing. Lance reached up a hand and the plant snaked around his wrist. There was a violent tug and he was quickly lifted above the crowd.
Using the moving mob as a platform he swung from vine to vine and arrived at the end of the hall in no time. But the ivy was not letting go. He spun around in midair, frantically searching his pockets for the swiss army knife. He pried it open with his teeth and took a vicious swipe at the plant. Lance sommersaulted to break the fall and rolled into the office. A quick scan revealed a giant, green safe. The thick steel door yielded immediately to his touch. Inside he could see stacks of cash and bags of marijuana. He grabbed a single bag, stuffed it into a back pocket and turned to flee. Mrs. Lake stood akimbo at the doorway, a quizzical look frozen on her face. Her eyes ranged over Lance's shoulder and widened at the site of the opened safe. But before she could react, Lance slipped by, threw open the door to the stairwell and disappeared from sight.
In contrast to the silent darkness of the basement his footfalls against the steel mesh of the stairs sounded like explosions. He felt naked, exposed. He reached the concrete floor but the explosions continued. He turned a corner to find a hulking, mangled beast of green copper pipes. Flames spit out in all directions: the furnace. To Lance's horror, the copper tubes twisted and turned, as if to acknowledge his presence. Between the pipes he could see the faint outline of a single door: Fisher's door. The pipes' gesticulations continued; legs and arms formed before a long neck detached from the ceiling, raining debris, swept low and, unmistakably, faced him. The monster roared and a tongue of fire licked close enough to shave.
Lance found himself on his back, looking up. The monster loomed. Behind it though, something was crawling across the ceiling, from a hole in the concrete. A ray of light stabbed through the hole: Gwen. The monster reared and spat but the flames approached like molasses. Lance quickly rolled to avoid it, scrambled to his feet and sprinted under the legs of the monster. The copper limbs shifted to block him but they moved with painful deliberation. He passed easily, ducked under a slow whipping tail, put his shoulder into the door and tumbled to a stop. Lance opened his eyes to find a pair of golden sneakers.
"I'm impressed. I guess you can date my sister. Hey, where's the weed?"
1000 words
Five weeks into the semester and Lance still wasn't used to the crowds. Having been home schooled by his adopted parents for the last decade the comparative chaos of a public high school was disconcerting. He only ever felt comfortable when he was alone with Gwen. Recalling her name alone sent a shiver through his entire body. She affected everything around her, literally. Plants visibly grew, flowers bloomed, the sun burned brighter and time slowed. Ivy crawled up the lockers to the ceiling of the crowded hall, occasionally grabbing unsuspecting freshmen and hanging them upside down for the rest to mock.
A golden ray penetrated the thick mob, which quickly parted. Soon the illuminated form of Gwen walked by, entourage in tow. She briefly glanced over her shoulder. The moment stretched into seconds as her eyes fixed on his own. The voice on the PA system slowed into a low droning. Her perfectly bronzed face formed a smile and her round lips parted, revealing pearly white teeth. She bit down gently on her lower lip. Lance felt his lungs empty. Life rushed back like a thunderclap. Gwen was striding down the hall, chased by indecipherable valley girl speak, leaving a score of slack jawed faces in her wake.
Lance was jostled and felt himself pushed into a bathroom. The door gave way and his hands and face slapped against the cold tile floor. A pair of golden sneakers resolved into view after a moment: King, the resident big man on campus. Lance recalled their introduction on his first day of school. The principal had marched him directly towards a tall, dark haired slab of a man donning a brilliant, gold varsity jacket. Surrounded by a gang of jocks at the cool table, Mrs. Lake had threatened to confiscate his jacket if he didn't take good care of the new kid. His face had been a picture of fear and submission. Lance rose to find a much different countenance. He was confident, maybe disdainful. Lance stared at his own reflection in King's jacket, crippled at the thought of what might come next.
"I know about you and Gwen."
Hearing the name ignited a spark within that quickly spread through his limbs. Lance met King's eyes, hoping to betray the defiance that was about to overwhelm him.
"I'll give you chance to make this right. The custodian, Mr. Fisher, is holding onto something. Something precious. He'll know. You bring it to me and Gwen's all yours. What do you say?"
"Where is he?"
King smiled broadly, then ran his fingers over his shock of black hair, meticulously teased and spiked to resemble a crown. He put his arm around Lance and led him out to the now empty hall.
"He's in the basement, past the furnace. He has a weakness for weed and I know exactly where you can get some."
He pointed in the direction of the principal's office. Before Lance could ask the obvious question, King yanked on a nearby fire alarm. Within moments the hall was flooded with klaxon warnings, flashing lights and panicked bodies. The principal's door flew open. Mrs. Lake emerged, bathed in a harsh red light, and darted down a distant hall. Lance felt a strong shove from behind and found himself fighting a tidal wave of students heading towards the exit. Something brushed his head. An arm of ivy was sweeping the crowd, probing. Lance reached up a hand and the plant snaked around his wrist. There was a violent tug and he was quickly lifted above the crowd.
Using the moving mob as a platform he swung from vine to vine and arrived at the end of the hall in no time. But the ivy was not letting go. He spun around in midair, frantically searching his pockets for the swiss army knife. He pried it open with his teeth and took a vicious swipe at the plant. Lance sommersaulted to break the fall and rolled into the office. A quick scan revealed a giant, green safe. The thick steel door yielded immediately to his touch. Inside he could see stacks of cash and bags of marijuana. He grabbed a single bag, stuffed it into a back pocket and turned to flee. Mrs. Lake stood akimbo at the doorway, a quizzical look frozen on her face. Her eyes ranged over Lance's shoulder and widened at the site of the opened safe. But before she could react, Lance slipped by, threw open the door to the stairwell and disappeared from sight.
In contrast to the silent darkness of the basement his footfalls against the steel mesh of the stairs sounded like explosions. He felt naked, exposed. He reached the concrete floor but the explosions continued. He turned a corner to find a hulking, mangled beast of green copper pipes. Flames spit out in all directions: the furnace. To Lance's horror, the copper tubes twisted and turned, as if to acknowledge his presence. Between the pipes he could see the faint outline of a single door: Fisher's door. The pipes' gesticulations continued; legs and arms formed before a long neck detached from the ceiling, raining debris, swept low and, unmistakably, faced him. The monster roared and a tongue of fire licked close enough to shave.
Lance found himself on his back, looking up. The monster loomed. Behind it though, something was crawling across the ceiling, from a hole in the concrete. A ray of light stabbed through the hole: Gwen. The monster reared and spat but the flames approached like molasses. Lance quickly rolled to avoid it, scrambled to his feet and sprinted under the legs of the monster. The copper limbs shifted to block him but they moved with painful deliberation. He passed easily, ducked under a slow whipping tail, put his shoulder into the door and tumbled to a stop. Lance opened his eyes to find a pair of golden sneakers.
"I'm impressed. I guess you can date my sister. Hey, where's the weed?"
Cyan said:
neither was I. But the word count limit forced my hand. I would have gone with a more traditional arthurian finish, i.e. an encounter with Mr. Fisher, revealing himself to be Lance's dad, being "healed" by the weed, and then turning the tables on King.. but that's much too much plot for a short story.
As I wrote the story I started to add in more elements of the green knight legend and then realized that the ending of that story could bail me out.
I really need to do a better job of cutting down on the plot and focusing more on one or two scenes. Everything I've written feels so crammed in there.
People say Vegas is built on sin. What a bunch of bull. Everyday I see the old women who complain about the casinos' greed step over homeless beggars and then plunk a dozen quarters in a slot machine. Every night I see men who complain about immorality stuffing money into some stripper's g-string. I see those that claim to be pious calling on Jesus' name so they can win the next hand. Vegas isn't built on sin. It's built on a single rule: Given long enough the house always wins. And it is my job to keep people in the casino long enough for the house to win.
I'm the guy who gets repeat gamblers to come to the casino and makes them stay until the house wins. I check out my blackberry and study the list of gamblers I've got coming in today. Movies would have you think that casinos are only interested in millionaires and stars. Millionaires don't get rich by losing money and stars just want to party. Give me a soccer mom, I'll get much more money out of her. I pull out my first cigarette of the day as the elevator doors open to the lobby. The bible says that God breathed life into man. But it's wrong. Life's first breath has a slight hint of tobacco.
My pack is eight cigarettes lighter and my day twelve hours shorter since my first cig of the day when Miss Sanalu walks into the lobby. My last gambler of the day. She's a consultant of some kind. I don't really remember or care. My other gamblers were unusually lucky today, and if I want to get the next commission bonus Sanalu will have to lose.
"Hello Miss Sanalu. Did you enjoy your flight?" I say with a practiced smile.
"Yes, thanks. You always get me the best tickets." she says slipping out of her black jacket exposing her dark blue dress that slithers down her body.
"Always the best for our customers." I reply.
We make the normal conversation as I lead her to the tables. She's instantly at home buying chips and scoping the scene. Soon she settles on a table and begins to play blackjack. I take out my billfold crack it open non-chanlantly and say, "Can I buy you a drink?"
The billfold is a secret weapon. Showing large amounts of cash whets people's appetite and avarice. It's never let me down before. As I see Sanalu's eyes glance over the stack of green bills between leather I know it wont fail me again.
Flashing a smile Sanalu says, "Only if you drink with me."
I need her to lose, of course I wouldn't leave. On top of that Sanalu is fine to look at. She has a voluptuous body, and a face of refined but unforced beauty. Her long auburn hair settled nicely on the hint of breasts beneath her dress. Still I can't look too eager. She has to lose and like me enough to return.
"Well...I'm not supposed to drink on the job." I lie.
"Come on." She says mischieviously.
"Wellllll..." I say pretending to debate internally and signal for a waitress to bring us drinks.
"What can I get for you?" The waitress asks.
"Johnny Walker Red. For the both of us." Sanalu says without looking up from the table.
"Wow." I say as the waitress leaves, "You don't mess around."
"It's been a hard week."
"Blackjack!" The dealer calls. Sanalu collects her winning chips. As she bends a glimpse of her breasts show and then disappears as she sits back up.
The hours pass, the glasses of whiskey rise and fall and are replenished, the billfold is shown and hidden, and Sanalu keeps winning. I try to disguise my dismay, which isn't too hard as with every drink Sanalu keeps inching closer. I can feel her inviting warmth next to me. As time passes I find myself fixated on her ivory neck and the way her lips move when she talks. Arousal courses through my veins, or perhaps it's the nicotine. Suddenly Sanalu collects her chips and stands.
"W-Where are you going?" I stammer.
"I'm tired and drunk. I should go to my hotel." Sanalu yawns.
"And give up? You're winning?" I said panic creeping into my voice. If she left now my balance on the books for the week would be shot.
"My luck will be back tomorrow." Sanalu says putting on her jacket.
"Tomorrow? My list shows you're only here for today."
"That was my plan. But perhaps I'll try out the Hard Rock casino tomorrow. Thanks again for the drinks." Sanalu turns to leave.
My mind races through a maze of alcohol. Tomorrow. If I could just get her back tomorrow, early preferrably. A hung-over gambler plays even worse than a drunk one. I could make up my losses easily. "Wait!" I almost yell, "If I can get you a room here for free will you gamble here tomorrow morning?"
Sanalu stops and walks towards me. "You can do that? At this late hour?"
"I'll see what I can do." I say pulling out the billfold again.
"Perhaps." Sanalu whispers stepping forward closing the distance between us. "Perhaps I could stay in your room?"
Nope. That's not the nicotine coursing through my veins.
Rays of sunlight shine through curtain cracks. Sanalu is nowhere to be found. My mind goes over the events of last night. My heart sinks when I notice my billfold on the table empty except for a small note saying "Thanks." I collapse on my couch and pull out the first cigarette for the day. She had played me for a fool. I take in a long, slow, drag as I consider what to do. I could report her to the police, or worse the casino thugs. Nah. I'll wait. She'll come back like they always do. And when she does I'll make sure the house wins. The house always wins.
I'm the guy who gets repeat gamblers to come to the casino and makes them stay until the house wins. I check out my blackberry and study the list of gamblers I've got coming in today. Movies would have you think that casinos are only interested in millionaires and stars. Millionaires don't get rich by losing money and stars just want to party. Give me a soccer mom, I'll get much more money out of her. I pull out my first cigarette of the day as the elevator doors open to the lobby. The bible says that God breathed life into man. But it's wrong. Life's first breath has a slight hint of tobacco.
My pack is eight cigarettes lighter and my day twelve hours shorter since my first cig of the day when Miss Sanalu walks into the lobby. My last gambler of the day. She's a consultant of some kind. I don't really remember or care. My other gamblers were unusually lucky today, and if I want to get the next commission bonus Sanalu will have to lose.
"Hello Miss Sanalu. Did you enjoy your flight?" I say with a practiced smile.
"Yes, thanks. You always get me the best tickets." she says slipping out of her black jacket exposing her dark blue dress that slithers down her body.
"Always the best for our customers." I reply.
We make the normal conversation as I lead her to the tables. She's instantly at home buying chips and scoping the scene. Soon she settles on a table and begins to play blackjack. I take out my billfold crack it open non-chanlantly and say, "Can I buy you a drink?"
The billfold is a secret weapon. Showing large amounts of cash whets people's appetite and avarice. It's never let me down before. As I see Sanalu's eyes glance over the stack of green bills between leather I know it wont fail me again.
Flashing a smile Sanalu says, "Only if you drink with me."
I need her to lose, of course I wouldn't leave. On top of that Sanalu is fine to look at. She has a voluptuous body, and a face of refined but unforced beauty. Her long auburn hair settled nicely on the hint of breasts beneath her dress. Still I can't look too eager. She has to lose and like me enough to return.
"Well...I'm not supposed to drink on the job." I lie.
"Come on." She says mischieviously.
"Wellllll..." I say pretending to debate internally and signal for a waitress to bring us drinks.
"What can I get for you?" The waitress asks.
"Johnny Walker Red. For the both of us." Sanalu says without looking up from the table.
"Wow." I say as the waitress leaves, "You don't mess around."
"It's been a hard week."
"Blackjack!" The dealer calls. Sanalu collects her winning chips. As she bends a glimpse of her breasts show and then disappears as she sits back up.
The hours pass, the glasses of whiskey rise and fall and are replenished, the billfold is shown and hidden, and Sanalu keeps winning. I try to disguise my dismay, which isn't too hard as with every drink Sanalu keeps inching closer. I can feel her inviting warmth next to me. As time passes I find myself fixated on her ivory neck and the way her lips move when she talks. Arousal courses through my veins, or perhaps it's the nicotine. Suddenly Sanalu collects her chips and stands.
"W-Where are you going?" I stammer.
"I'm tired and drunk. I should go to my hotel." Sanalu yawns.
"And give up? You're winning?" I said panic creeping into my voice. If she left now my balance on the books for the week would be shot.
"My luck will be back tomorrow." Sanalu says putting on her jacket.
"Tomorrow? My list shows you're only here for today."
"That was my plan. But perhaps I'll try out the Hard Rock casino tomorrow. Thanks again for the drinks." Sanalu turns to leave.
My mind races through a maze of alcohol. Tomorrow. If I could just get her back tomorrow, early preferrably. A hung-over gambler plays even worse than a drunk one. I could make up my losses easily. "Wait!" I almost yell, "If I can get you a room here for free will you gamble here tomorrow morning?"
Sanalu stops and walks towards me. "You can do that? At this late hour?"
"I'll see what I can do." I say pulling out the billfold again.
"Perhaps." Sanalu whispers stepping forward closing the distance between us. "Perhaps I could stay in your room?"
Nope. That's not the nicotine coursing through my veins.
Rays of sunlight shine through curtain cracks. Sanalu is nowhere to be found. My mind goes over the events of last night. My heart sinks when I notice my billfold on the table empty except for a small note saying "Thanks." I collapse on my couch and pull out the first cigarette for the day. She had played me for a fool. I take in a long, slow, drag as I consider what to do. I could report her to the police, or worse the casino thugs. Nah. I'll wait. She'll come back like they always do. And when she does I'll make sure the house wins. The house always wins.
God damn it. My story is complete shit. Ugh.
Hopefully I can still fix it, but... blah. I now understand the temptation to put a bunch of disclaimers and shit in front of a story. :/
P.S.
Come on folks, let's get some entries!
Hopefully I can still fix it, but... blah. I now understand the temptation to put a bunch of disclaimers and shit in front of a story. :/
P.S.
Come on folks, let's get some entries!
I don't wanna be the guy who killed the writing challenges. 
bob_arctor: I liked it. Made me chuckle. Now if that wasn't your aim...
DaveDough: There's some issues with imagery. Example: Pendulums swing back and forth some wordings just don't work. Also it's a bit obvious you didn't need the last line at all. I also felt that you spent most of your time going through the history when really the more interesting route would be to give fire more detail as it is it feels sorta two dimensional.
Barrage: It seems disjointed. You spend the first paragraph or so introducing us to the character who is really unimportant to the story as it's about everyone else. Seems like you thought up good characters but didn't have the time/space to use them effectively.
nitewulf: The father figure is too cliche (sweating, little angel, twirling, candy) it really takes away anything endearing that could have been done with him. Also the knife was nice, but introduced way too late.
Aaron: It's hard to find fault with this. And I love the creativity. One thing I would say however that the bulk of it is the travelling of the young man and he's alone this gives it a plodding tone. If you were thinking about expanding this I'd look at adding either another character, or something to break it up. Still very well done.
Iceman: I liked it. But it does feel like you put the e-brake on towards the end. I could tell there was more to it.
DaveDough: There's some issues with imagery. Example: Pendulums swing back and forth some wordings just don't work. Also it's a bit obvious you didn't need the last line at all. I also felt that you spent most of your time going through the history when really the more interesting route would be to give fire more detail as it is it feels sorta two dimensional.
Barrage: It seems disjointed. You spend the first paragraph or so introducing us to the character who is really unimportant to the story as it's about everyone else. Seems like you thought up good characters but didn't have the time/space to use them effectively.
nitewulf: The father figure is too cliche (sweating, little angel, twirling, candy) it really takes away anything endearing that could have been done with him. Also the knife was nice, but introduced way too late.
Aaron: It's hard to find fault with this. And I love the creativity. One thing I would say however that the bulk of it is the travelling of the young man and he's alone this gives it a plodding tone. If you were thinking about expanding this I'd look at adding either another character, or something to break it up. Still very well done.
Iceman: I liked it. But it does feel like you put the e-brake on towards the end. I could tell there was more to it.
some of my action sequences aren't meant to be visual, they are open ended. introducing it earlier would have made the whole story moot. this story is more like a dark fairy tale. hammy, sure, that is for effect. this particular story is all about the setup and the ending. rest is up to the reader.
one could of course instead chose to write what the protagonist would do instead...but thats not what i was going for here.
the last story for instance was meant to be comic book action, but i dont think some ppl got it. it (story #5) was meant for the video game/anime crowd. i'm not really sticking to a form here.
one could of course instead chose to write what the protagonist would do instead...but thats not what i was going for here.
the last story for instance was meant to be comic book action, but i dont think some ppl got it. it (story #5) was meant for the video game/anime crowd. i'm not really sticking to a form here.
AlteredBeast
Fork 'em, Sparky!
"The Weight of All Things"
"When do we operate?"
"It's not that simple, Jim. We've done the biopsy, now there's chemo and other non-operative procedures. If all else fails, then we can start even thinking about an excisional biopsy."
"Listen here, you hack. You don't know me. I will tell you what you are going to do. You are going to do a CAT scan, X-Ray or whatever the hell you doctors do to figure out how big and exactly where my tumor is. Then you are going to go in and remove it."
"Well, at least you are in a positive, albeit somewhat derisive mood."
"Positive? The only thing that I am positive about is that this operation is going to hurt like hell, and then I'll get over it. You'll collect a large insurance check for the sloppiest work you've ever had to do and I will live. And that will pretty much be it. So when will it be?"
"I believe you should think about this, Jim. Non-surgical treatment options have come a long way since the 70's. Many cancers can be driven completely away with radiotherapy alone. I really think..."
"I don't pay you to think, I pay you to act. Schedule the damn surgery."
"How is it, Jim, that you can overcome any illness, any fall, or any calamity out there? You're what, 77 and you don't look a day older than 50, other than the scars left over from previous operations."
"Just lucky, I guess. I'm a real fighter." He grinned sarcastically. He felt very much the opposite, though. "My father was a fighter, too. He lived to be 103 and even then, it wasn't age or sickness that brought him down, it was a plane crash."
Jim Barnes had told that same story a thousand times to explain his resiliency. Over the years, his father's death and age changed around a few times, but the point was always the same; he had a blessed lineage and no one should ever doubt his durability.
That wasn't the real reason, of course. Nobody can outrun death forever. His father actually died at the age of 43 from a mild heart attack...hardly a 'fighter'.
That was over 100 years ago, though. Things had changed since then. When he bargained his 'life' for immortality, he lived an incredibly happy existence. He had sex with beautiful women, built up an incredible wealth, and fathered many beautiful children, all of whom had passed away. He wept every time he thought about it.
Every day of his life wore on him like a dead weight. He could avoid death as long as he wanted to, as the agreement went, but Jim couldn't avoid the ache of life.
Over the years, he had gone through 6 operations for cancer in different parts of his body. Each time, the doctors successfully cut out the cancerous tissue but left Jim slightly less a whole man. That wasn't it, though.
His deal with the devil was very precise. He thought out the details for several weeks before signing his name in blood with his debtor. He thought to outsmart the devil to live forever, but his clause stated 'everlasting life', not everlasting health or comfort. Once he grew tired of his life, as the devil so eloquently put it, all he had to do was ask vocally and he would come to collect his debt.
Jim had grown tired of life.
The impetus for his deal with the devil was his fear of death; of the unknown. He would now welcome a natural death with open arms. He knew, however, that that could never be. As soon as he would say the word, the shackles would be placed over his senses and he would begin an infinite service to the devil.
The pain in his side flared up, and a familiar voice crept into his thoughts.
Mortal coil
Full of toil.
Endless work.
No way to shirk.
No way out but one.
Nothing else can be done.
Not suicide...something better.
Wish it away, and meet your debtor.
The voice... not an audible one, but a presence in his mind.
He never heard, or rather perceived the voice until his first bout with cancer. He had lived under his agreement a rather pleasant 84 years before that. He never thought that it would end up like this.
On the eve of his 120th birthday, or 45th to those that thought they knew him, his doctor broke the bad news to him; he had cancer.
That was the first and only time he thought chemotherapy was the wisest choice. As he lay in bed, drowning in his own sweat and vomit, choking from unbearable heat, shivering his strength away, he heard in his mind a distant voice chanting that foul poem. Repetitious. Thousands of times.
He pulled through, of course, and beat cancer. There were no incisions or excisions. No scars but the ones on his mind. He swore he would never deal with the pain that way again. The quickest route to end the pain would be the route he would choose. The voice subsided and he lived a normal 'life' until cancer struck again 7 years later.
That time he noticed the voice was louder, the verse more pronounced and meaningful. He beat cancer that time and it subsided again. His body, aged beyond comprehension from the inside, started to feel the residual pain and suffering that poisoning your body and cutting tissue from it assuredly must cause.
13 years later, it came back. Cancer had attacked his spleen, a tumor the size of a golf ball. The pain doubled him over. He thought his pain were something similar to his testicles being in a vise grip and being smashed a little more each day. He knew, though, very well indeed, that all of this physical pain was nothing as horrifying as hearing that wailing voice chant that poem. The fear of that horrid screeching sound from the pits of hell kept him from visiting a doctor even though the pain was almost too much to bear. He pissed and defecated blood, yet he still would no go to the hospital to have his tumor removed.
It wasn't until his paper boy found him passed out on his porch that the paramedics came and surgery was forced upon him to 'save his life', as the doctors put so simply put it. How little they actually knew! He was unconscious for days after the surgery and his soul's warden saw fit to torture his mind during that time. He awoke screaming at the top of his lungs and every orderly in the hospital had to restrain him to keep him from trying to kill himself. It wouldn't have worked anyway.
The voice was right, after all.
...no way out but one...wish it away and meet your debtor...
All he had to do was say the words and his suffering would be over. The horrible nightmares, the physical pain of every moment, waking and sleeping, of his "life."
no way out but one.
...
Bah, some cleanup and rushed editing. Sorry I couldn't have another day or two to work on it. My wife and I are going to California for the weekend and I have been running errands all night in preparation.
"When do we operate?"
"It's not that simple, Jim. We've done the biopsy, now there's chemo and other non-operative procedures. If all else fails, then we can start even thinking about an excisional biopsy."
"Listen here, you hack. You don't know me. I will tell you what you are going to do. You are going to do a CAT scan, X-Ray or whatever the hell you doctors do to figure out how big and exactly where my tumor is. Then you are going to go in and remove it."
"Well, at least you are in a positive, albeit somewhat derisive mood."
"Positive? The only thing that I am positive about is that this operation is going to hurt like hell, and then I'll get over it. You'll collect a large insurance check for the sloppiest work you've ever had to do and I will live. And that will pretty much be it. So when will it be?"
"I believe you should think about this, Jim. Non-surgical treatment options have come a long way since the 70's. Many cancers can be driven completely away with radiotherapy alone. I really think..."
"I don't pay you to think, I pay you to act. Schedule the damn surgery."
"How is it, Jim, that you can overcome any illness, any fall, or any calamity out there? You're what, 77 and you don't look a day older than 50, other than the scars left over from previous operations."
"Just lucky, I guess. I'm a real fighter." He grinned sarcastically. He felt very much the opposite, though. "My father was a fighter, too. He lived to be 103 and even then, it wasn't age or sickness that brought him down, it was a plane crash."
Jim Barnes had told that same story a thousand times to explain his resiliency. Over the years, his father's death and age changed around a few times, but the point was always the same; he had a blessed lineage and no one should ever doubt his durability.
That wasn't the real reason, of course. Nobody can outrun death forever. His father actually died at the age of 43 from a mild heart attack...hardly a 'fighter'.
That was over 100 years ago, though. Things had changed since then. When he bargained his 'life' for immortality, he lived an incredibly happy existence. He had sex with beautiful women, built up an incredible wealth, and fathered many beautiful children, all of whom had passed away. He wept every time he thought about it.
Every day of his life wore on him like a dead weight. He could avoid death as long as he wanted to, as the agreement went, but Jim couldn't avoid the ache of life.
Over the years, he had gone through 6 operations for cancer in different parts of his body. Each time, the doctors successfully cut out the cancerous tissue but left Jim slightly less a whole man. That wasn't it, though.
His deal with the devil was very precise. He thought out the details for several weeks before signing his name in blood with his debtor. He thought to outsmart the devil to live forever, but his clause stated 'everlasting life', not everlasting health or comfort. Once he grew tired of his life, as the devil so eloquently put it, all he had to do was ask vocally and he would come to collect his debt.
Jim had grown tired of life.
The impetus for his deal with the devil was his fear of death; of the unknown. He would now welcome a natural death with open arms. He knew, however, that that could never be. As soon as he would say the word, the shackles would be placed over his senses and he would begin an infinite service to the devil.
The pain in his side flared up, and a familiar voice crept into his thoughts.
Mortal coil
Full of toil.
Endless work.
No way to shirk.
No way out but one.
Nothing else can be done.
Not suicide...something better.
Wish it away, and meet your debtor.
The voice... not an audible one, but a presence in his mind.
He never heard, or rather perceived the voice until his first bout with cancer. He had lived under his agreement a rather pleasant 84 years before that. He never thought that it would end up like this.
On the eve of his 120th birthday, or 45th to those that thought they knew him, his doctor broke the bad news to him; he had cancer.
That was the first and only time he thought chemotherapy was the wisest choice. As he lay in bed, drowning in his own sweat and vomit, choking from unbearable heat, shivering his strength away, he heard in his mind a distant voice chanting that foul poem. Repetitious. Thousands of times.
He pulled through, of course, and beat cancer. There were no incisions or excisions. No scars but the ones on his mind. He swore he would never deal with the pain that way again. The quickest route to end the pain would be the route he would choose. The voice subsided and he lived a normal 'life' until cancer struck again 7 years later.
That time he noticed the voice was louder, the verse more pronounced and meaningful. He beat cancer that time and it subsided again. His body, aged beyond comprehension from the inside, started to feel the residual pain and suffering that poisoning your body and cutting tissue from it assuredly must cause.
13 years later, it came back. Cancer had attacked his spleen, a tumor the size of a golf ball. The pain doubled him over. He thought his pain were something similar to his testicles being in a vise grip and being smashed a little more each day. He knew, though, very well indeed, that all of this physical pain was nothing as horrifying as hearing that wailing voice chant that poem. The fear of that horrid screeching sound from the pits of hell kept him from visiting a doctor even though the pain was almost too much to bear. He pissed and defecated blood, yet he still would no go to the hospital to have his tumor removed.
It wasn't until his paper boy found him passed out on his porch that the paramedics came and surgery was forced upon him to 'save his life', as the doctors put so simply put it. How little they actually knew! He was unconscious for days after the surgery and his soul's warden saw fit to torture his mind during that time. He awoke screaming at the top of his lungs and every orderly in the hospital had to restrain him to keep him from trying to kill himself. It wouldn't have worked anyway.
The voice was right, after all.
...no way out but one...wish it away and meet your debtor...
All he had to do was say the words and his suffering would be over. The horrible nightmares, the physical pain of every moment, waking and sleeping, of his "life."
no way out but one.
...
Bah, some cleanup and rushed editing. Sorry I couldn't have another day or two to work on it. My wife and I are going to California for the weekend and I have been running errands all night in preparation.
AlteredBeast
Fork 'em, Sparky!
ohhhh. LOL. The challenge isn't over until tomorrow! Damn! I guess I will try and clean it up and actually finish it by tomorrow. I will leave it as posted until then, just in case. Tomorrow is supposed to be a crazy day
AlteredBeast
Fork 'em, Sparky!
bjork said:
Get cracking then. We await your haiku-ness!
AlteredBeast
Fork 'em, Sparky!
You reached for the stars,
but could only hit the moon...
Playing with Fire.
Bravo on your fine work.
but could only hit the moon...
Playing with Fire.
Bravo on your fine work.
AlteredBeast
Fork 'em, Sparky!
That is what scares me.
With a word limitation,
Your haikus could win.
With a word limitation,
Your haikus could win.
The thief stands poised, his body burning with the rush of adrenaline and fear, but cloaked in the complete darkness. Every inch of his body is tense, each ligament is screaming to tear in a different direction and his muscles yearn for freedom, but his hands remain absolutely motionless, hovering in the air. The darkness cloaking his body seems to creep along his arms, the back of his hands, his fingers. The quiet is abusive, absolute. The faintest idea of a breeze seizes his nerves, the hair on his neck creeping ever upwards and the sweat on his brow turning cold as it melts into his eye, but his gaze remains fixed and unrelenting. The breeze begins to blur, and he becomes unable to find the distinction between reality and falsity, his mind loses focus and in an instant almost everything is ruined.
Boo.
His hands grasp the diamond and had the voice in his ear not set every nerve in his body running then the sounding alarms and sound of clanking shutters surely would have. He was prepared for this, though, and reacted according. The diamond in hand he spun to the shadow he could only make out in the slightest gaze of the neon outside world that had crept into the dusty room. In an instant his foot was in the figures chest, but then his prepared reaction was met with the need for improvisation when his foot was still there a moment later. Two hands gripped around his ankle, he suddenly felt his bodys full weight as it was lifted and disorientation racked his head as he was spun and flung into an opposing wall. His head throbs and his back aches but he stands and moves quickly, trying to readjust to the dim source of light to find his opponent.
The stillness becomes his enemy, the traitorous bastard. He is unable to calm himself, becomes bewildered in the darkness and the knowledge that the police will surround him in no more than a minute. His eyes locate the light creeping across the creaking window and hes off, his thiefs instincts providing nimble footwork and quick pathfinding. One foot against an Egyptian sarcophagus, the other against a marble pillar, and in an instant hes bathed in the neon glow of the nightlife, the moonlight of the 21st century. His feet stumble at the graveled roof for a moment but a quick recovery sends his body diving across one building to the next, knowing full well whats about to happen, and screaming for more agility when the flaming piece of rock hits his leg, sending him rolling across the rooftop and ripping his clothes in bloodied gashes.
Turned around he sees a crater of an exit from where hed left, smoldering rocks scattered about and that faint breeze, now oh-so-real, waving the flames around the approaching silhouette, who cries the flames from his presence.
Fireman... I suppose there are no words for this kind of situation. Id always thought of what would happen if- an outstretched arm and an eruption of flame scorches just an inch to his left. The thief gulps, his words swallowed with whatever dignity and calmness he once had escaping him in the following breath. The famed hero continues to approach slowly, the intimidating figure gaining clarity with each deliberate pace. As he moves to step across the buildings the thief jerks, one foot scraping the other, and a flash of silver cuts at the opposing man.
The thief doesnt wait to see if he hits his target but instead darts away, ignoring the searing pain across his body and the twisted ankle. As he rounds a chimney he sees a serpent of flames fly past him, the heat kissing his face as he flees. Still he moves, dancing across the rooftops and agilely dodging each attack as he works in a winding path away. His breath begins to grow weary, though, and his legs fail to push as the adrenaline sweats away into the gravel.
Enough of this cat and mouse, thief. Fireman stands before him, calm and collected and clearly only having given the thief any thoughts of escape for some sick amusement he derives from criminals suffering. He raises his hand, and states: Taste the bonfire of justice, thief. Any last words. Even the way he asks questions are so harsh and commanding, its like he states everything. The thief smiles.
You shouldnt play with fire... Fireman frowns with a look of distaste, releasing his generically named attack upon the thief, but the thief opts for retreat instead, falling backwards from the building to plummet downwards.
As the thief's body slams against the net and his breath stolen from his lungs, he chuckles to himself and thinks, you might get burned.
--
Yes, it's meant to be bad :lol I apologize to all who read it. I would have at least tried to refine it, but am afraid of not waking up before the deadline when I eventually decide to go to sleep. Still, this was a learning experience - I always thought "creeped" was a word until now.
Boo.
His hands grasp the diamond and had the voice in his ear not set every nerve in his body running then the sounding alarms and sound of clanking shutters surely would have. He was prepared for this, though, and reacted according. The diamond in hand he spun to the shadow he could only make out in the slightest gaze of the neon outside world that had crept into the dusty room. In an instant his foot was in the figures chest, but then his prepared reaction was met with the need for improvisation when his foot was still there a moment later. Two hands gripped around his ankle, he suddenly felt his bodys full weight as it was lifted and disorientation racked his head as he was spun and flung into an opposing wall. His head throbs and his back aches but he stands and moves quickly, trying to readjust to the dim source of light to find his opponent.
The stillness becomes his enemy, the traitorous bastard. He is unable to calm himself, becomes bewildered in the darkness and the knowledge that the police will surround him in no more than a minute. His eyes locate the light creeping across the creaking window and hes off, his thiefs instincts providing nimble footwork and quick pathfinding. One foot against an Egyptian sarcophagus, the other against a marble pillar, and in an instant hes bathed in the neon glow of the nightlife, the moonlight of the 21st century. His feet stumble at the graveled roof for a moment but a quick recovery sends his body diving across one building to the next, knowing full well whats about to happen, and screaming for more agility when the flaming piece of rock hits his leg, sending him rolling across the rooftop and ripping his clothes in bloodied gashes.
Turned around he sees a crater of an exit from where hed left, smoldering rocks scattered about and that faint breeze, now oh-so-real, waving the flames around the approaching silhouette, who cries the flames from his presence.
Fireman... I suppose there are no words for this kind of situation. Id always thought of what would happen if- an outstretched arm and an eruption of flame scorches just an inch to his left. The thief gulps, his words swallowed with whatever dignity and calmness he once had escaping him in the following breath. The famed hero continues to approach slowly, the intimidating figure gaining clarity with each deliberate pace. As he moves to step across the buildings the thief jerks, one foot scraping the other, and a flash of silver cuts at the opposing man.
The thief doesnt wait to see if he hits his target but instead darts away, ignoring the searing pain across his body and the twisted ankle. As he rounds a chimney he sees a serpent of flames fly past him, the heat kissing his face as he flees. Still he moves, dancing across the rooftops and agilely dodging each attack as he works in a winding path away. His breath begins to grow weary, though, and his legs fail to push as the adrenaline sweats away into the gravel.
Enough of this cat and mouse, thief. Fireman stands before him, calm and collected and clearly only having given the thief any thoughts of escape for some sick amusement he derives from criminals suffering. He raises his hand, and states: Taste the bonfire of justice, thief. Any last words. Even the way he asks questions are so harsh and commanding, its like he states everything. The thief smiles.
You shouldnt play with fire... Fireman frowns with a look of distaste, releasing his generically named attack upon the thief, but the thief opts for retreat instead, falling backwards from the building to plummet downwards.
As the thief's body slams against the net and his breath stolen from his lungs, he chuckles to himself and thinks, you might get burned.
--
Yes, it's meant to be bad :lol I apologize to all who read it. I would have at least tried to refine it, but am afraid of not waking up before the deadline when I eventually decide to go to sleep. Still, this was a learning experience - I always thought "creeped" was a word until now.
Mike Works
Member
i doubt i'll have time to create an entry for this challenge, only chance i'll have tomorrow is after soccer, which i'll be exhausted from. there's always a chance, but don't hold your breath.
i'll still read all of the stories and vote though.
i'll still read all of the stories and vote though.
Great descriptions of all the characters, and the crazy melee between the inmates and the circus performers was hilarious. The ending rings true, too. I agree with ronito about the MC, though. You introduce him at the beginning and he actually sounds really interesting, but then he takes a back seat to all the other wacky characters. I would've liked to see him take a slightly more active role... I dunno.Barrage said:
I actually liked the surprise ending aspect of this one. And it did take me by surprise. It changed the whole tone of the story and the main character, from bleak, passive, and hopeless to still bleak, but powerful. I do kind of agree with ronito though, in that it may have changed it too much. I wonder if moving just the "mad wind" bit to the beginning would make it feel more cohesive?nitewulf said:
bob_arctor - I like your style, but man that really could have been a lot longer. I wanted to read more and find out what caused this and how we got to this situation. Very nice writing, but begs to be fleshed out more.
Davedough - What a steaming pile of dog excrement. I mean really. You should be ashamed of yourself for even posting such trash. GTFO of this thread and dont come back you hack.
Barrage - One small pet peeve of mine straight off is spelling, punctuation and grammar. There are times that things are capitalized when they shouldn't and vice versa. Quite a few "i've" words have slipped through and thats a huge eyesore to me. Spelling too was off in a lot of places. Really tarnishes an otherwise good story. Its too distracting.
nitewulf - Excellent entry by you. Very well detailed. Nice prologue/epilogue structure. I cant complain about anything in that story. Good job.
Aaron - Very unexpected story and I have to say, I really enjoyed the setting. You kept the feeling of a Native American's alignment with the earth throughout the whole story. One minor slip up on character names for his love interest, but it was hardly distracting from the story. Nice job.
Iceman - Very cute story. I liked the fantasy aspects symbolizing his inner feelings towards the given situations. You detailed the settings very well and your descriptions were spot on. One of my favorite so far this challenge.
ronito - solid entry. I like the feel of your story and how the cool, attractive guy doesn't always get what he wants. It had a nice feeling about the whole thing.
... unfortunately my work day has caught me not able to review them all in one sitting, so I'll get back to the rest of the stories.
Davedough - What a steaming pile of dog excrement. I mean really. You should be ashamed of yourself for even posting such trash. GTFO of this thread and dont come back you hack.
Barrage - One small pet peeve of mine straight off is spelling, punctuation and grammar. There are times that things are capitalized when they shouldn't and vice versa. Quite a few "i've" words have slipped through and thats a huge eyesore to me. Spelling too was off in a lot of places. Really tarnishes an otherwise good story. Its too distracting.
nitewulf - Excellent entry by you. Very well detailed. Nice prologue/epilogue structure. I cant complain about anything in that story. Good job.
Aaron - Very unexpected story and I have to say, I really enjoyed the setting. You kept the feeling of a Native American's alignment with the earth throughout the whole story. One minor slip up on character names for his love interest, but it was hardly distracting from the story. Nice job.
Iceman - Very cute story. I liked the fantasy aspects symbolizing his inner feelings towards the given situations. You detailed the settings very well and your descriptions were spot on. One of my favorite so far this challenge.
ronito - solid entry. I like the feel of your story and how the cool, attractive guy doesn't always get what he wants. It had a nice feeling about the whole thing.
... unfortunately my work day has caught me not able to review them all in one sitting, so I'll get back to the rest of the stories.
dragonlife
Member
What? Noooooo! I never knew GAF held writing contests! D:
Can someone tell me when they're usually held? Or are they just random and I have to be lucky to see them on time? I would love to enter one...
Can someone tell me when they're usually held? Or are they just random and I have to be lucky to see them on time? I would love to enter one...
dragonlife
Member
Trust me, I would, but the laptop I'm using doesn't have Word...and I'm not in a comfortable-enough environment to writeronito said:
EDIT: Cyan, didn't know you liked to write as well
Nice seeing you again
if you even remember me
Of course I rememberdragonlife29 said:EDIT: Cyan, didn't know you liked to write as wellif you even remember me
the epic ass-kicking I received in Smash.
Anyway, if you can't write anything tonight, the next challenge will probably go up sometime this Sunday.
And of course, you can still read all the stories and vote in this one.
One or two tiny more edits, and my story will be ready to go.
Light (1000 words)
Peter slipped, and cursed as the light flew from his hand, bounced once on its padded side, then fell front-first with a crash and a shattering sound on a patch of sharp rocks.
The darkness was immediate and complete.
Colorful spots filled his eyes. He shook his head to clear them. Dropping the light had been stupid, but there was no need to panic. Rule one of cave exploration was to always bring a backup light. He reached to his belt, pulled light number two from its loop, and flicked it on.
Nothing happened.
The darkness was beginning to press in on him. He could almost feel it seeping down the back of his neck.
He flicked the switch a few more times. Definitely dead. What a piece of junk.
Now was the time to panic. Still, he forced himself not to move a muscle. He held a reasonably clear picture in his head of the cavern he stood in. If he could find the right tunnel mentally, he was halfway there.
Was it his imagination, or was the air becoming staler, harder to breathe? He forced himself to breathe more slowly. He had to think.
No good. He couldnt remember which tunnel led to the exit. Hed marked it carefully with bright chalkrule two of cave exploration was to mark the way you came so that you wouldnt get lost. Usually, youd take a good thick cord to play out behind you as you went, but his had kept getting tangled. The chalk markings hed meticulously placed at every cross tunnel were now useless.
He reached into his pocket, and flung the chalk across the cavern, where it shattered with a satisfying crash.
He breathed out heavily. Rule three of cave exploration was to always go with a partner or group. Hed never cared for that one; cave exploration was meant to be a solitary activity.
He started. Had that been a noise behind him? A rustling sound? His breath was coming faster. Maybe he was hallucinating. People did that, hed heard, when they were trapped in pitch black and there was no light and no way to get out and it was getting darker and darker and he was sure the darkness was leaking through his ears and nostrils and mouth andhe shook himself, breathing hard. Panic was not an option. There had to be some way out of this.
Wait.
Maybe there was.
The first light had ended up about five feet away amidst sharp rocks. He could still picture where it had landed. He still had the second light in his handthank God he had thrown the chalk instead. The first lights bulb was shattered, but the second light probably just had dead batteries. And if he remembered right, both lights took the same type of battery.
He stowed the second light, fell to his knees, and began crawling in the direction he remembered the light going. The floor was damp, damp and dirty and rough.
He hit his knee on something sharp and paused for a moment for the pain to recede. He was sure he was bleeding, but it didnt matter. All that mattered was the light.
He crawled on, more slowly now, holding one arm out in front to search for the rocky patch.
He should have found it by now. Maybe he had started crawling in the wrong direction. Maybe every inch he crawled, every careful placement of hand knee toe, hand knee toe, took him further and further from his goal.
The dark pressed on his eyelids. When had he closed his eyes?
A terrible pain, as something sharp pierced his hand. He had never been happier to feel something so painful. It was a piece of glass. He stood. Slicing up his hands would be a bad idea. Hed need them to get out of here. Hed have to find the light without using his hands.
He poked at the rocks around him with one foot, feeling for anything out of place. Just rocks.
He crouched, leaning on one leg and both arms, and sent his foot out in a slightly wider arc. Still nothing.
His breath came in shallow gasps.
He leaned back on both hands, collecting another piece of glass in his right hand, and shoved his leg out to full extension, making another circle, much larger this time. Rocks and more rocks and more rocks still.
He was dead.
He sat down heavily, only to leap up again with a yelp. The light had been at his feet the whole time. He could have sung.
He picked it up, felt around for the endcollecting two more shards of glass, this time one in each handand unscrewed the battery cap. Hed have to do this carefully.
He unscrewed the cap from the second light, and placed its dead batteries on the ground. If this didnt work, it wouldnt matter what happened to them anyway.
Slowly, almost reverently, he removed the two batteries from the first light. There would be no dropping here. No dropping. Carefully, carefully, he placed the batteries one at a time into the second light. He flicked the switch. Nothing. He flicked it again and again and again.
He was trapped. Trapped until he was found, or until he starved. It would be days either way. Days days days full of nothing but pitch-black night.
He flicked the switch desperately. Still nothing.
The dark was all over him. It covered his arms and legs and hands and feet, it filled his nostrils and forced its way down his throat, it pierced his eyes and ears. He couldnt breathe.
No!
There was one more chance. He leapt up. Hands shaking, he opened the second light again, removed the batteries, reversed them. He flicked the switch.
Light.
Pure, blessed, honest light.
His knee was bleeding. His hands were bleeding. He was shaking all over. But he had light.
The darkness melted away.
Peter slipped, and cursed as the light flew from his hand, bounced once on its padded side, then fell front-first with a crash and a shattering sound on a patch of sharp rocks.
The darkness was immediate and complete.
Colorful spots filled his eyes. He shook his head to clear them. Dropping the light had been stupid, but there was no need to panic. Rule one of cave exploration was to always bring a backup light. He reached to his belt, pulled light number two from its loop, and flicked it on.
Nothing happened.
The darkness was beginning to press in on him. He could almost feel it seeping down the back of his neck.
He flicked the switch a few more times. Definitely dead. What a piece of junk.
Now was the time to panic. Still, he forced himself not to move a muscle. He held a reasonably clear picture in his head of the cavern he stood in. If he could find the right tunnel mentally, he was halfway there.
Was it his imagination, or was the air becoming staler, harder to breathe? He forced himself to breathe more slowly. He had to think.
No good. He couldnt remember which tunnel led to the exit. Hed marked it carefully with bright chalkrule two of cave exploration was to mark the way you came so that you wouldnt get lost. Usually, youd take a good thick cord to play out behind you as you went, but his had kept getting tangled. The chalk markings hed meticulously placed at every cross tunnel were now useless.
He reached into his pocket, and flung the chalk across the cavern, where it shattered with a satisfying crash.
He breathed out heavily. Rule three of cave exploration was to always go with a partner or group. Hed never cared for that one; cave exploration was meant to be a solitary activity.
He started. Had that been a noise behind him? A rustling sound? His breath was coming faster. Maybe he was hallucinating. People did that, hed heard, when they were trapped in pitch black and there was no light and no way to get out and it was getting darker and darker and he was sure the darkness was leaking through his ears and nostrils and mouth andhe shook himself, breathing hard. Panic was not an option. There had to be some way out of this.
Wait.
Maybe there was.
The first light had ended up about five feet away amidst sharp rocks. He could still picture where it had landed. He still had the second light in his handthank God he had thrown the chalk instead. The first lights bulb was shattered, but the second light probably just had dead batteries. And if he remembered right, both lights took the same type of battery.
He stowed the second light, fell to his knees, and began crawling in the direction he remembered the light going. The floor was damp, damp and dirty and rough.
He hit his knee on something sharp and paused for a moment for the pain to recede. He was sure he was bleeding, but it didnt matter. All that mattered was the light.
He crawled on, more slowly now, holding one arm out in front to search for the rocky patch.
He should have found it by now. Maybe he had started crawling in the wrong direction. Maybe every inch he crawled, every careful placement of hand knee toe, hand knee toe, took him further and further from his goal.
The dark pressed on his eyelids. When had he closed his eyes?
A terrible pain, as something sharp pierced his hand. He had never been happier to feel something so painful. It was a piece of glass. He stood. Slicing up his hands would be a bad idea. Hed need them to get out of here. Hed have to find the light without using his hands.
He poked at the rocks around him with one foot, feeling for anything out of place. Just rocks.
He crouched, leaning on one leg and both arms, and sent his foot out in a slightly wider arc. Still nothing.
His breath came in shallow gasps.
He leaned back on both hands, collecting another piece of glass in his right hand, and shoved his leg out to full extension, making another circle, much larger this time. Rocks and more rocks and more rocks still.
He was dead.
He sat down heavily, only to leap up again with a yelp. The light had been at his feet the whole time. He could have sung.
He picked it up, felt around for the endcollecting two more shards of glass, this time one in each handand unscrewed the battery cap. Hed have to do this carefully.
He unscrewed the cap from the second light, and placed its dead batteries on the ground. If this didnt work, it wouldnt matter what happened to them anyway.
Slowly, almost reverently, he removed the two batteries from the first light. There would be no dropping here. No dropping. Carefully, carefully, he placed the batteries one at a time into the second light. He flicked the switch. Nothing. He flicked it again and again and again.
He was trapped. Trapped until he was found, or until he starved. It would be days either way. Days days days full of nothing but pitch-black night.
He flicked the switch desperately. Still nothing.
The dark was all over him. It covered his arms and legs and hands and feet, it filled his nostrils and forced its way down his throat, it pierced his eyes and ears. He couldnt breathe.
No!
There was one more chance. He leapt up. Hands shaking, he opened the second light again, removed the batteries, reversed them. He flicked the switch.
Light.
Pure, blessed, honest light.
His knee was bleeding. His hands were bleeding. He was shaking all over. But he had light.
The darkness melted away.
AlteredBeast
Fork 'em, Sparky!
Terrific story. The last line seems forced until you put it in another meaning.
I didn't really set out to write a story with such similar structure/pacing to my last one, but I guess that's what happens when I run into a deadline head on.
Matchmaker (990 Words)
Hello, is this Mike the Matchmaker?
The voice on the phone was perky, a word that Mike had thought of far too often as of late. Every second time he picked up the phone, the phone that never used to ring, he thought of it. It was on his word of the day calendar the week before he had ripped that page off with particular speed.
This is him, whattya want? He made his voice lower than usual, hoping to scare the woman off. Theyre mostly women, these callers, but there was an occasional male voice - regardless, sinking his voice into his throat in a menacing fashion seemed to get rid of them. This one, however, was unwavering in her determination.
I want to find the light of my life, like it says in your advertisement!
Mike groaned, and suddenly his deep voice fell away in favour of a stripped down monotone he had no emotion when he recited these few lines, which was not always the case. He started off with anger, but then Cindy suggested he try a calmer approach; that lasted a day and a half before anger returned, and then eventually a half-hearted, quickly stated reply that reminded him of another word of the day: curt.
I am sorry, you have been misled by the advertisement placed in the Yellow Pages. The language of the ad has misled you I do not create love connections, entanglements, couplings, associations, romances or, even though it might seem like it based on the advertisement, matches. I make little sticks that create fire. My apologies for the mistake, have a nice day.
Although the words are the same, certain things changed over time: he occasionally added rendezvous into the list when he was feeling particularly cultured, or sometimes would refer to the Yellow Pages as Phone Book to spice things up a little. One thing was always consistent, however: whenever he said the word advertisement, even in monotone, it was dripping in sarcasm.
It was Cindys idea. She had a lot of those, although Mike seemed to ignore a majority of them. When he met her a few months before this call, he was but a humble maker of matches he was widowed, alone but content with his existence. They met at a bar, she came home, and then she never left.
Mike was ambivalent towards this: the house was certainly cleaner after she arrived, and beyond an occasional sexual favour she didnt seem to demand much of him. She had been married once as well, he thinks, although they never really talked: she just cleaned the house, bought the groceries, and went to work. There, she cleaned houses and bought groceries, but for other people; when Mike sat down to think of it, which wasnt very often considering his ambivalence, he was really just another client of Cindy the Maid just a client with benefits.
But then, one evening many months ago, Cindy sat down across from Mike at the dinner table and told him that she had a great idea: he should take out an advertisement for his business. Now, Mike is not a man who laughs, but the pumpkin pie in his mouth found its way out his nose when that particular idea emerged. Mike apologized, but Cindy had already erased her etch-a-sketch-like mind and was moving on to a fun story about the house she cleaned that morning.
A month later, the phone started ringing it was an old rotary phone, used about as often as the red phone in the White House, but every day it would ring. At first, Mike was confused, but then he started to put two and two together. He found the new Yellow Pages in a plastic bag inside his front door, and found his ad under Matchmaker. He made a phone call to the company, but the man on the other end was unsympathetic at Mikes desire to have the entire book reprinted so that he could get less publicity for his business.
Mike asked Cindy why, precisely, she placed the ad she told him it was to help their business. The way Cindy said it, Mike knew that she was presenting an ultimatum: she becomes part of the business, or she leaves. Mike was forced to make a decision: to refuse this concept of shared property and go back to a solitary existence, or to allow the disruption of this formality and deal with the pain. He chose the latter option.
It is a week after the papers were files that this particular perky call arrived, and the woman backed off at the curtness of Mikes reply. Mike put down the phone, and decided to take a quick break. He left his workshop, and entered the house. Things were less clean than he expected; it seemed that Cindy had not picked up the previous days mess, and there was an odd smell in the air. Mike saw on the small table in the kitchen a pack of cigarettes and a book of his matches. Cindy leaving him smokes always meant that she would be out for awhile, although Mike wasnt sure how she thought that her absence wasnt calming enough without the tobacco.
Not one to turn down the gift, however, Mike pulled a cigarette out of the package. He grabbed the book of matches, smiling lightly at how simple but elegant his designs were. The matches were deceptively simple, but there were subtle colour changes that made them unique in his mind. As he put the cigarette in his mouth, he started to forget his troubles with the phone, and he struck the match looking to change his mood entirely.
Mike was dead moments later, his home ablaze.
A month later, and two towns over, his insurance money was being spent in a bar. It went home with a candle maker, and never left until the fire.
Matchmaker (990 Words)
Hello, is this Mike the Matchmaker?
The voice on the phone was perky, a word that Mike had thought of far too often as of late. Every second time he picked up the phone, the phone that never used to ring, he thought of it. It was on his word of the day calendar the week before he had ripped that page off with particular speed.
This is him, whattya want? He made his voice lower than usual, hoping to scare the woman off. Theyre mostly women, these callers, but there was an occasional male voice - regardless, sinking his voice into his throat in a menacing fashion seemed to get rid of them. This one, however, was unwavering in her determination.
I want to find the light of my life, like it says in your advertisement!
Mike groaned, and suddenly his deep voice fell away in favour of a stripped down monotone he had no emotion when he recited these few lines, which was not always the case. He started off with anger, but then Cindy suggested he try a calmer approach; that lasted a day and a half before anger returned, and then eventually a half-hearted, quickly stated reply that reminded him of another word of the day: curt.
I am sorry, you have been misled by the advertisement placed in the Yellow Pages. The language of the ad has misled you I do not create love connections, entanglements, couplings, associations, romances or, even though it might seem like it based on the advertisement, matches. I make little sticks that create fire. My apologies for the mistake, have a nice day.
Although the words are the same, certain things changed over time: he occasionally added rendezvous into the list when he was feeling particularly cultured, or sometimes would refer to the Yellow Pages as Phone Book to spice things up a little. One thing was always consistent, however: whenever he said the word advertisement, even in monotone, it was dripping in sarcasm.
It was Cindys idea. She had a lot of those, although Mike seemed to ignore a majority of them. When he met her a few months before this call, he was but a humble maker of matches he was widowed, alone but content with his existence. They met at a bar, she came home, and then she never left.
Mike was ambivalent towards this: the house was certainly cleaner after she arrived, and beyond an occasional sexual favour she didnt seem to demand much of him. She had been married once as well, he thinks, although they never really talked: she just cleaned the house, bought the groceries, and went to work. There, she cleaned houses and bought groceries, but for other people; when Mike sat down to think of it, which wasnt very often considering his ambivalence, he was really just another client of Cindy the Maid just a client with benefits.
But then, one evening many months ago, Cindy sat down across from Mike at the dinner table and told him that she had a great idea: he should take out an advertisement for his business. Now, Mike is not a man who laughs, but the pumpkin pie in his mouth found its way out his nose when that particular idea emerged. Mike apologized, but Cindy had already erased her etch-a-sketch-like mind and was moving on to a fun story about the house she cleaned that morning.
A month later, the phone started ringing it was an old rotary phone, used about as often as the red phone in the White House, but every day it would ring. At first, Mike was confused, but then he started to put two and two together. He found the new Yellow Pages in a plastic bag inside his front door, and found his ad under Matchmaker. He made a phone call to the company, but the man on the other end was unsympathetic at Mikes desire to have the entire book reprinted so that he could get less publicity for his business.
Mike asked Cindy why, precisely, she placed the ad she told him it was to help their business. The way Cindy said it, Mike knew that she was presenting an ultimatum: she becomes part of the business, or she leaves. Mike was forced to make a decision: to refuse this concept of shared property and go back to a solitary existence, or to allow the disruption of this formality and deal with the pain. He chose the latter option.
It is a week after the papers were files that this particular perky call arrived, and the woman backed off at the curtness of Mikes reply. Mike put down the phone, and decided to take a quick break. He left his workshop, and entered the house. Things were less clean than he expected; it seemed that Cindy had not picked up the previous days mess, and there was an odd smell in the air. Mike saw on the small table in the kitchen a pack of cigarettes and a book of his matches. Cindy leaving him smokes always meant that she would be out for awhile, although Mike wasnt sure how she thought that her absence wasnt calming enough without the tobacco.
Not one to turn down the gift, however, Mike pulled a cigarette out of the package. He grabbed the book of matches, smiling lightly at how simple but elegant his designs were. The matches were deceptively simple, but there were subtle colour changes that made them unique in his mind. As he put the cigarette in his mouth, he started to forget his troubles with the phone, and he struck the match looking to change his mood entirely.
Mike was dead moments later, his home ablaze.
A month later, and two towns over, his insurance money was being spent in a bar. It went home with a candle maker, and never left until the fire.
AlteredBeast
Fork 'em, Sparky!
my submission has been edited...and it sucks worse now. Sorry guys!
Nice Memles, I like the idea behind it, but the delivery needs some work. It entertained me, though.
Nice Memles, I like the idea behind it, but the delivery needs some work. It entertained me, though.
dark steve
Banned
There's no filing for extensions, right?
man, I probably shoulda started this earlier. well, I have the idea, and it's been a while since I've written anything, so I might as well get it out so it doesn't get infected.
man, I probably shoulda started this earlier. well, I have the idea, and it's been a while since I've written anything, so I might as well get it out so it doesn't get infected.
ronito said:
The traveling section was sacrificed due to the word limit, since I couldn't cut either the start or the finish. I had a lot more planned, but there was no way to fit it.
Read your story, and I liked the smooth feel of the narrative, though
the theft
I kept changing her name and ended up confusing myself. It was originally going to be more Ancient China, but oddly some stuff I cut for the word count made it much more Native American, so I fiddled it a bit more in that direction.Davedough said:
Read yours and it was an interesting concept, though I couldn't shake 'Sympathy for the Devil' out of my head, and for a first person narration it came across as a little unfocused. I found it a bit difficult to latch onto.
I could do with using a disclaimer right now =X
A Different Challenge
When it starts to inhale, it is time to find shelter.
A dragon's flames, hotter than a blacksmith's furnace, could ensure that the warrior who went into battle with a greatsword would come out with a dagger, and if he had gone in as a battle-hardened, full bearded, warrior, he would come out a eunuch if, that is, he had come out at all.
That, however, is the only precaution that one should take when fighting a dragon dragons are unintelligent brutes, and their bark is worse than their bite. In the stories, foxes and wolves have their moments to shine, and their prey has to work hard to outwit them. Dragons, on the other hand, only exist to be slain. And with a few swipes of my sword here, there, and under there, I slew the dragon.
I reported my victory to the castle, with one of the dragon's giant claws fastened to my waist.
"Oh, excellent job, Sir Igert!" said the king, who couldn't possibly understand what the job actually entailed. "You really are an amazing man."
"Thank you for being so kind. But today, I have a request. I would like a boat, so that I may travel to other countries in pursuit of dragons."
"But there are enough dragons here, surely?"
"That is very true, your highness. Problem is, however, they all look the same, act the same, and die the same."
Kingdoms around the land could claim to having a brave warriors and knights, but they, could rarely claim to have a dragon slayer. Other kingdoms had poor replicas of me, of course, such as the recent Sir Redwick of Haversbury, who managed to kill one dragon by a mere fluke, but was killed when he fought another. And there was my personal favourite, Sir Lanri-something, I forget his name, who announced that he had defeated the dragon of Renton Cave. The problem with that claim, however, was that his dragon corpse was the size of a crocodile, and more importantly, the skulls of that dragon, its wife and their two children had already been hanging above my fireplace at the time.
"But I will need your sword in surpressing the barbarians around the border."
"With all due respect, your majesty If you want to slay rough barbarians, you have Sir Manoch here, or Sir Riley, who are very well suited for the job. I am a dragon slayer, the only one in the land. Using me for such a task is like using a battle-ax to slice ham."
Growls from the aforementioned knights. The growl of a human man sounds like the purr of a kitten when you have spent a long time fighting dragons.
"Oh, Sir Igert, you're a funny one." he turned to his adviser, and said, "Sir Igert is extremely loyal, and I trust that he will return." he looked at me, smiling, "No doubt with a few exotic dragon heads that I can decorate the castle walls with. Try and get me one with golden horns, if you can."
"Yes, I will try my best."
So he gave me a boat, and I sailed east, until I reached the Eastern country. I spotted a dragon while walking along a river, half submerged in water. It had a long, golden, slender body with the most intricate patterns, a design uncharacteristic of the dragons I know. It was, however, unmistakenly a dragon it had a long snout that sprouted large, black nostrils at the end, which was dragon enough for me.
In my mind, I was already distributing the beast's parts around my household its golden mane would be turned into a fine robe or two, its antler-like horns used as a robe rack. I would make a fine belt with its silver claws, and use its long, golden body as a kind of murial, that would run from the entrance to the sleeping chambers.
"How dare you disturb my sleep, you ugly little man?" it said.
"Shut your trap, and put those teeth and claws of yours to good use if you do not want to die.""
"I wonder how I am able to both keep my trap shut, as you say, and put my teeth to good use at the same time? Unless that is, you're proposing that I keep my teeth clenched with you between them? If so, then I will be obliged."
It rose out of the water, and the water rose with it, engulfing me in an aquatic dome. when the water settled, I found myself staring at its gaping mouth, and thin, its forked tongue flickering and dancing across its long, needle-like teeth. It attempted to take my head , but I held out my sword and he bit that instead. For a moment, we were caught in a game of tug-o-war, but the beast cheated by slamming the tip of its tail into my chest, sending me flying into the trunk of a not so nearby tree. And before I was able to get to my feet, I saw my sword approaching me with murderous intent. I fell back to the ground, so that the treacherous sword would hit the tree instead.
It flew past me, and coiled itself around me, weaving itself in and out of the space around me, trapping me in a constantly changing, labyrinth, where its constantly moving body unfairly serving as the walls. I counted to three, and I plunged the tip of my sword through its body and into the ground, pinning that part of the beast to the ground. Its constant coiling and twisting that served to confuse me now served to hurt it, as the blade of my sword ate at the dragon's skin as it moved. Its beautiful, graceful waving and weaving was counterbalanced by the vicious, solid bite of my sword's blade, which carved its own red, intricate design along the dragon's golden exterior.
I won!
...=P
A Different Challenge
When it starts to inhale, it is time to find shelter.
A dragon's flames, hotter than a blacksmith's furnace, could ensure that the warrior who went into battle with a greatsword would come out with a dagger, and if he had gone in as a battle-hardened, full bearded, warrior, he would come out a eunuch if, that is, he had come out at all.
That, however, is the only precaution that one should take when fighting a dragon dragons are unintelligent brutes, and their bark is worse than their bite. In the stories, foxes and wolves have their moments to shine, and their prey has to work hard to outwit them. Dragons, on the other hand, only exist to be slain. And with a few swipes of my sword here, there, and under there, I slew the dragon.
I reported my victory to the castle, with one of the dragon's giant claws fastened to my waist.
"Oh, excellent job, Sir Igert!" said the king, who couldn't possibly understand what the job actually entailed. "You really are an amazing man."
"Thank you for being so kind. But today, I have a request. I would like a boat, so that I may travel to other countries in pursuit of dragons."
"But there are enough dragons here, surely?"
"That is very true, your highness. Problem is, however, they all look the same, act the same, and die the same."
Kingdoms around the land could claim to having a brave warriors and knights, but they, could rarely claim to have a dragon slayer. Other kingdoms had poor replicas of me, of course, such as the recent Sir Redwick of Haversbury, who managed to kill one dragon by a mere fluke, but was killed when he fought another. And there was my personal favourite, Sir Lanri-something, I forget his name, who announced that he had defeated the dragon of Renton Cave. The problem with that claim, however, was that his dragon corpse was the size of a crocodile, and more importantly, the skulls of that dragon, its wife and their two children had already been hanging above my fireplace at the time.
"But I will need your sword in surpressing the barbarians around the border."
"With all due respect, your majesty If you want to slay rough barbarians, you have Sir Manoch here, or Sir Riley, who are very well suited for the job. I am a dragon slayer, the only one in the land. Using me for such a task is like using a battle-ax to slice ham."
Growls from the aforementioned knights. The growl of a human man sounds like the purr of a kitten when you have spent a long time fighting dragons.
"Oh, Sir Igert, you're a funny one." he turned to his adviser, and said, "Sir Igert is extremely loyal, and I trust that he will return." he looked at me, smiling, "No doubt with a few exotic dragon heads that I can decorate the castle walls with. Try and get me one with golden horns, if you can."
"Yes, I will try my best."
So he gave me a boat, and I sailed east, until I reached the Eastern country. I spotted a dragon while walking along a river, half submerged in water. It had a long, golden, slender body with the most intricate patterns, a design uncharacteristic of the dragons I know. It was, however, unmistakenly a dragon it had a long snout that sprouted large, black nostrils at the end, which was dragon enough for me.
In my mind, I was already distributing the beast's parts around my household its golden mane would be turned into a fine robe or two, its antler-like horns used as a robe rack. I would make a fine belt with its silver claws, and use its long, golden body as a kind of murial, that would run from the entrance to the sleeping chambers.
"How dare you disturb my sleep, you ugly little man?" it said.
"Shut your trap, and put those teeth and claws of yours to good use if you do not want to die.""
"I wonder how I am able to both keep my trap shut, as you say, and put my teeth to good use at the same time? Unless that is, you're proposing that I keep my teeth clenched with you between them? If so, then I will be obliged."
It rose out of the water, and the water rose with it, engulfing me in an aquatic dome. when the water settled, I found myself staring at its gaping mouth, and thin, its forked tongue flickering and dancing across its long, needle-like teeth. It attempted to take my head , but I held out my sword and he bit that instead. For a moment, we were caught in a game of tug-o-war, but the beast cheated by slamming the tip of its tail into my chest, sending me flying into the trunk of a not so nearby tree. And before I was able to get to my feet, I saw my sword approaching me with murderous intent. I fell back to the ground, so that the treacherous sword would hit the tree instead.
It flew past me, and coiled itself around me, weaving itself in and out of the space around me, trapping me in a constantly changing, labyrinth, where its constantly moving body unfairly serving as the walls. I counted to three, and I plunged the tip of my sword through its body and into the ground, pinning that part of the beast to the ground. Its constant coiling and twisting that served to confuse me now served to hurt it, as the blade of my sword ate at the dragon's skin as it moved. Its beautiful, graceful waving and weaving was counterbalanced by the vicious, solid bite of my sword's blade, which carved its own red, intricate design along the dragon's golden exterior.
I won!
...=P
Submissions are closed. Here are the entries:
bob_arctor - Heavy-handed - and then Sean Bell was a zombie.
Davedough - Confession - an ancient, destructive power battles his brother for supremacy.
Barrage - Children of All Ages - inmates visit the circus.
nitewulf - Protected - a little girl's father helps her to be brave and protect her mother.
Aaron - Chasing After the Sun - Running Shadow seeks to overcome the curse put on him by the Frog God.
Iceman - Camelot, 90210 - OMG, Lance <3 s Gwen 4eva!
ronito - The House - a Vegas floor manager is sure the house always wins.
AlteredBeast - The Weight of All Things - a man makes a deal with the Devil for eternal life.
bjork - Cocky - bjork was full of crap.
batbeg - Man of Fire - a jewel thief gets chased down by a superhero.
Cyan - Light - a cave explorer is trapped in the dark.
Memles - Matchmaker - he doesn't create love connections, entanglements, couplings... just little sticks that make fire.
Scribble - A Different Challenge - a dragon-hunter encounters a new kind of dragon.
Voting is now open, and goes until midnight this coming Saturday.
bob_arctor - Heavy-handed - and then Sean Bell was a zombie.
Davedough - Confession - an ancient, destructive power battles his brother for supremacy.
Barrage - Children of All Ages - inmates visit the circus.
nitewulf - Protected - a little girl's father helps her to be brave and protect her mother.
Aaron - Chasing After the Sun - Running Shadow seeks to overcome the curse put on him by the Frog God.
Iceman - Camelot, 90210 - OMG, Lance <3 s Gwen 4eva!
ronito - The House - a Vegas floor manager is sure the house always wins.
AlteredBeast - The Weight of All Things - a man makes a deal with the Devil for eternal life.
bjork - Cocky - bjork was full of crap.
batbeg - Man of Fire - a jewel thief gets chased down by a superhero.
Cyan - Light - a cave explorer is trapped in the dark.
Memles - Matchmaker - he doesn't create love connections, entanglements, couplings... just little sticks that make fire.
Scribble - A Different Challenge - a dragon-hunter encounters a new kind of dragon.
Voting is now open, and goes until midnight this coming Saturday.
I finished my first draft somewhere around the deadline, but it was over 100 words too long. Also, I condensed it all to crap and hate the way I wrote the ending. It just never gelled even though I did kind of like what I was trying to squeeze out of the concept. During the week, I got distracted by the team fortress 2 update and a bit of mario kart.
Ah, bummer. I was wondering what had happened to you.
Well, if you feel like it, you can always post what you have anyway. It doesn't really matter that it's over the word limit now that we've passed the submission deadline anyway.
If you don't, that's cool too.
But don't miss the next challenge!
Well, if you feel like it, you can always post what you have anyway. It doesn't really matter that it's over the word limit now that we've passed the submission deadline anyway.
If you don't, that's cool too.
But don't miss the next challenge!
- Status