Teh Hamburglar said:

im going to write an unwanted pregnancy and the resulting abortion.

Click to expand...

But that's what everybody's writing!

grumble, grumble, gotta cut 200 words, grumble

I think my rough draft ended up being somewhere in the 3000-word range. I will need to parse it down a tad.

Cyan said:

But that's what everybody's writing!

Click to expand...

Well, let me get in on that before the flood.

(1586 words)

No One Has to Know, Not Even You and Me



Sorry, I don't leave them archived, but if you want a copy, just PM me.

Alright -- first time trying out this thread (have wanted to for a LONG time, but didn't want to bother posting if I didn't have something to share). I'm not a very good writer, so I considered this something of an excersize in trying to help remedy that. I apologize if it seems cliche, but you gotta start somewhere, I guess.

------

"Back Home"
Word Count: 878

Jake had seen some downright disgusting shit in his day, but nothing he could conjur held any comparison to the sorry sunnuvabitch that sat across from him.

"Cigarette?" said the monstrosity.

Jake mulled it over in his mind for a few seconds. Sure, he wanted a smoke -- hell, he wanted a drink, a bath, a bed, and something to eat -- but would he take any of that from this fucking thing?

"Sure."

The creature bent over the dried up prune of a table that seperated the two, it's lanky, meaty arm extended -- in its fingers sat the ungodly cigarette; blood and slime dripping from filter. Against his better judgment, Jake took it. "How 'boutta light?"

The emaciated figures face contorted in some god awful way. Jake could see the bone structure now: a nice, exposed frontalis bone, complemented by hanging, dripping sacks of flesh and blood. Delightful.

"Not so lucky." the damn thing didn't have any lips, so it was surprising that it spoke so well. "Not here, anyway. Maybe back home, huh?"

Back home. Jake knew it, of course, where he was and where he was headed. So the gate of hell wasn't some fiery desert filled with demons holding pitch-forks. It was an office room - small, smelly, moist, and occupied by some zombie with the habit of offering smokes without a light. I guess it's a good start, he thought.

The creature extended its hand, or what was left of it. Realizing he might not get far without showing a little maturity, Jake grabbed what felt like nothing but wet bone and gave it a good shake.

"I'd tell you my name, but I'm afraid I've forgotten it some time ago. Useless things here, names. I'm one of the damned, obviously. There's lots of us -- and, as disgusting as I look, believe me when I tell you that I'd be considered better looking than most here."

Reassuring.

"Anyway," said the thing, "I'm like a Judge. I'm here to make sure that you're supposed to be here. There's a Hell," the creatures neck make a god awful cracking noise as it turned to survey the room -- as if more convincing was needed to assure the room itself was where hell's interviews were conducted. "And so, obviously, there's a Heaven."

Obviously. Jake didn't need to think twice about why he was sitting here talking to a corpse. He hadn't been his best; not in his 42 years was he ever his best. "So I plead my case or what?" said Jake, indifferent. If ever someone didn't have a case, it'd be him, he thought.

"Exactly. You tell me what you think I don't already know about Jacob James Kendall, and we see if you're actually cut out for this place."

"Don't you think that's a conflict 'a interest? You being what you are n' all -- maybe an angel'll be better suited to say if I'm fucked."

"Oh, if I know anything Jacob, it's the ways in which people fuck themselves.
How do you think I got this job? I'll be a fair judge."

"Isn't it too late for me to fix what I did? Go back n' unkill the people I killed? Go back n' resurrect the niggers I killed 'cuz I didn't like that color? I mean, tell it to me straight dead-head -- what the fuck can I tell you to convince you that I oughta be servin' outta sentance as the big guy's right-hand man?"

If a jawbone could grin without skin, Jake could've sworn that that's what he saw. The thing almost looked pleased -- thrilled to see honesty from a murderer who, in another life, might have lied left and right to get out of paying for a check at a shabby diner.

"I'm surprised Jacob. It's often difficult for folk to accept the fact that they're rotten -- more rotten than the face you're staring at right now. Rotten down to the core; no humanity, nothing. Liars, cheaters, adulterous -- they all take some time to realize the truth. But murderers, they seem to come around so quickly. They don't beat around the bush, trying to find an out, an alibi. I'm always impressed by the honesty of murderers, they figure it out so quickly!"

Jake was finally annoyed. "Find out what so quickly?"

"Why, that it's too late, Jacob. That it's too late. We don't bring you in here to help you – we bring you here to make sure that you're broken. There's nothing worse in hell than a damned that doesn't think he deserves what's coming. So pretensious."

"So you're not really a judge at all, huh? You're justa rotting fuck who tells people what they already know. I bet it was somethin' of a shock when Hitler got here – bet you were a real reality check for that guy."

No answer back. It seemed almost as if the demon was shocked by Jake's outburst. It's
head bent down (that same goddamn cracking noising filling up the room) as if in thought.

"Why Jacob," said the thing. "You really are magnificent. You've come to me with honesty – made my job very quick – and you even helped me remember my name."

I took some creative liberties with the biology of snails.

Supernatural Geographic (1599 words)

There once lived a snail of no particular name or significance. He was a modest snail, middling in size, humble in presentation. His shell was a cascading striation of varying shades of grey; his slimy mucous coating didn’t glitter with any particular gleam, nor was it especially viscous or some putrid shade of green. He was simply your average, everyday, friendly neighbourhood snail. All in all, he was less conspicuous than a stain on someone’s shoe. That was until today, when that was exactly what he became.

The snail of course noticed no change within himself. His experience of this event was merely exterior in nature. An instant before his sudden envelopment in darkness, his visual sensation was of a wide vista, full of colour, streaming light, and contours of varying shape, size, and stature. This infinite void, eternal in its emptiness, seemed from his perspective to last forever. In reality, the towering machination of his demise remained in position for one half of a second before the lumbering apparatus once again swung along a path shaped by a series of internal axes and pivots.

As one sole raised towards the sky, carrying with it one new passenger of miniscule demeanour, a soul of a rather different type remained suspiciously on Earth. Continuing on in its repetitious pattern of muscle stretches and contractions which auspiciously controlled the writhing motion of a transportation method long bred into it over a litany of eons, the snail remained within the confines of its natural tendencies. It was not until the snail noticed that the ground was by some unknown manner proceeding further and further away from his belly that he became aware of any difference. Snails, not being well-known for their mental fortitude or fastidiousness, tend not to become aware of such novel sensations in an immediate manner, and are thus slow to adapt to unfamiliar circumstances.

At some eventual point in time however, the truth of his situation caught up to him, as he realized that the friction usually present along the length of his underside had mysteriously vanished. The coarse rolling texture which had once paved the path before him was now beyond the periphery of his senses. As well, the wind, typically ever flowing against him, had apparently decided to cease existing. The snail paused in its motions in order to consider these curious oddities. There seemed to be no immediate cause or reason for these unexplainable events. He then pondered that brief moment in time, seemingly shrinking in length in concert with the dissipation of its memory. Engulfed in another dimension of thought, reality once more began to seep into awareness, at first a drip, then a pour, followed by an eruption in his cocoon of self-contained consciousness. The cause of this fissure was the realization that he now seemed to be upside down. Off in a distance of untellable space, the plane of a horizon slowly sank in latitude while twirling in counter clockwise direction. Utterly befuddled, the creature decided to explore its once familiar surroundings, for the first time illuminated by foreign perspectives.

As he could no longer rely on dichotomies of friction to push himself forward, the question of locomotion was about to pass through the bewildered animal’s mind. The solution presented itself beforehand however, pre-empting any sort of cognitive response. It would seem, as the snail discovered, that the process of levitation functions at the mere behest of willpower. Aware of a particularly interesting patch of texture somewhere above (or below?) him, the snail began to drift silently and without effort towards this vast, brown coloured expanse.

When his displacement was great enough that the plain he sought hung directly overhead, the wall now looming before him became obvious in its absurdity. Cracked ridges rose and fell, lines of dark grooves bore into the surface in every direction with no discernable pattern, and small antennae protruded in abundance. Expecting a tactile resistance of some kind as it approached the barrier, the sudden darkness which enshrouded the snail came as a surprise, shortly after it occurred at any rate. This turn was somehow different from the now almost bereft memory of the void which began this intrepid voyage through the ether. His floating trip through this hollow space continued on, occasionally interrupted by an instance of mild illumination or what appeared as slight, quick movements registering all around him. At long last, he ruptured through the veil on the other side of the expanse and passed into a new universe, intensely filled with overpowering brightness. The fur covered, distorted plain which had borne his passage slowly shrank and eroded from his mind as he floated further and further away.

In this state of post-existence, time and space had become meaningless. Dimensions no longer held dominion, matter was mere holographic display, and gravity bore little gravitas. The weak and strong forces which once bonded the building blocks of creation together -- quarks, leptons, and everything in between -- ceased to have effect. All existence was perceivable to the snail only in a state equal to that which itself now belonged: a vacuous reflection. The atmosphere carried no vibrations or molecules at all it seemed. Objects which were once solid are now perfectly permeable. All that was, was now transplendent in its infinite accessibility. Up, down; left, right, around and around; it was all the same. The passage of time was now also as relevant to the livelihood of the snail as the electromagnetic forces which no longer afflicted the small creature. In the post-existence reality, there are no limitations to yield before, and thus no impasse to exploration existed. The snail, long late to the land of the living, devoted its ethereal self to that one activity which it could now perform unheeded, and the only one which retained any meaning.

Prior to its death, the known universe had but two realms of which the snail was aware. There was only either the supportive ground beneath it, or there was the sky above it, divined by dull blue hues, constantly alternating in shade. The snail, quite familiar with the world of the below, headed instead towards the land of the above, which had forever mystified it. The distant emptiness stretched on and on, a region of uniform design, ever pure in all directions. However, as the snail rose, it began to feel an odd tingling sensation surge through his body. From the core of his being through to the tips of the stalks on his head and reverberating out through the drops of slime oozing out from his behind, forming a virtual trail of breadcrumbs. The sensation increased in ferocity in concordance with the change in his elevation. The snail slowly became more and more aware of this unscrupulous disturbance. Then, several seconds after it actually occurred, the snail noticed that the once blank field in front of him had transformed into a pulsing, stroboscopic barricade of warm and comforting pure white light.

Being a somewhat cautionary creature by nature, the sudden and utter alien qualities of this event disturbed the deeply rooted survival instincts embedded within the snail’s consciousness. He decided, as much as a snail can decide things, that perhaps traversing any further into the illumination would be unwise, having halted his advance in self-agreement. Spinning himself around with the relative rapidity of a distant star travelling around the surface of a planet, the snail determined itself to once more return to the world it knew below. So much had already deviated from the pattern of existence which it had become accustomed to, that the snail decided it was content in its current state. As the bath of alluring light splashed out of perception and the tingling sensation homogenous in its ringing receded, the clutching feelings of familiarity and safety returned.

Thus for a while thereafter, the lonely shadow of what was once a tiny life flowed ever onwards. Shortly after defying the call of that big bright light in the sky, the snail discovered that the universe was a lot larger than he had ever given it credit for. There were entire realms ruled by colours and patterns it had never dreamed of. Fractals of overlapping streams and curves, bends and twists, sometimes dark and occasionally luminous, flat or otherwise turbulent in nature, paved the land. Never ceasing in its forlorn journey, the snail was witness to more wonders of the world than any still living creature had ever known to exist, and yet unable to understand its experiences of the artistry at hand.

There came a point in its travels where the snail was absorbed by an atmosphere of pure blue, populated by moving triangle-shaped creatures of multiple colours and size. The blue eventually gave way to green, then brown, and finally black. The creatures densely packed above appeared not to inhabit this rather intimidating region. For a long time nothing happened, then eventually something appeared in the dark canvass. It was a small, dithering ball of light; it bobbed and swayed in quick little bounces, from one direction to another quite randomly. In the flash of an instant, the light gave way to a series of large tusks, which passed through the snail before he could even become aware of their presence.

The snail continued its journey downward, eventually breaching into a churning tornado of light, which seemed to expand on forever. Completely devoid of life, and seemingly never ending, the snail stopped moving, deciding that it had reached the end of the universe. And what a boring end it was.

Requisite


Part 1:

When the snow began to fall the old man was wading through a lifeless stream with his head bowed and his chest heaving. To the east rolled miles and miles of dead field, and to the west lay the forest he intended to enter. He dug his hands into the pockets of his plaid jacket and loped up a small muddy embankment and winced twice as the wind slashed and numbed his face. He gazed up at the leafless branches trembling and thought of his freezing son and then entered the forest.

Then he stopped and looked back one last time.

He saw the smokeless chimney of his log cabin home through the narrow slots of sky created by the forest’s many trees. His son was squatting in the warmest corner of the cabin, wrapped in several blankets, awaiting the return of his father. The old man didn’t want to keep his son waiting much longer, so he turned back toward the forest and continued on. He quickened his pace and ambled toward the steeple that peeked just above the tallest trees to the west.

The old man was walking toward a Catholic church that had recently accepted donations to pay for the construction of a local pastor’s newest accommodations. To show its appreciation, the church had decided to distribute its leftover lumber to those who’d been generous enough to donate. The old man had donated ten dollars, and he planned to use his share of the lumber as kindling to keep his son warm throughout the coming blizzard.

The snow thickened and the bitter wind pushed against the old man as he hurried through the forest. Thoughts of his son fled from his mind as thoughts of fate and causality and free will took their place.



Part 2:

The old man’s son picked up a paper airplane and tossed it into the opposite corner of the room. He watched it soar into the cold, ashen fireplace. His father had been gone for only ten minutes and he had already grown bored. The windows of the cabin fogged slightly as the boy breathed and passed time by thinking of the sun and the moon and the stars.

Won’t be much longer now, he thought. Dad’ll be back soon and he’ll bring the fire back with him.

His stomach growled as more and more snow piled upon the home’s windows. Outside it was getting dark and the wind was howling and through the fog on the glass the boy saw the pale moon wink at him. He winked in return and talked to the moon until thoughts of his father faded from his playful, distracted mind.



Part 3:

The old man was halfway through the forest when he considered that maybe his son’s fate was to live. He had to think that. Why else would he be making the trip? Why else would he be getting the lumber? To save yourself, you old fool. You cannot save your son. He will die and that will be that.

Don’t tell yourself that, he told himself. You’re just pretending that fate is the one who’ll kill your son to avoid the guilt of not saving him.

Maybe.

Just then the old man fell face first into a pile of shit. A hole about the size of a deep puddle had been dug, and for some reason, a bunch of animals had defecated in it. The shit got in his mouth and in his ears and over his jacket and in between his fingers and then the snow began to flurry.



Part 4:

The dying sun and growing shadows played upon the glossy coating of the church pews. The way the light passed through the windows and bounced off the oak woodwork and marble floors made the church seem like a possible haven for those who wished to escape the impending storm.

It seemed warm—and felt safe now—but the pastor knew the building was not insulated well enough to guard against the infectious cold.

As the pastor and his volunteers prepared to leave, the old man, covered in shit and quiet desperation, burst through the double-wide doors and brought forth an icy gale that filled the room with the stink of his shit.

The pastor looked at the parishioners who’d volunteered to help distribute the lumber and gave them a wary frown. “You’ve come far too late,” he said. His voice echoed slightly.

“I got careless. Didn’t think ahead.”

This wasn’t quite right. The old man had planned to leave sooner, but had spent most of the day in the closet of his bedroom. He’d been sitting in there. Old letters from his wife spread out around him. But he wasn’t reading them. He couldn’t bring himself to do that. So he just sat there. For most of the day he was paralyzed with the thought of a sand castle being swallowed up by the summer tide.

And then, for some reason, that made him think of a beach he’d once visited, in the winter, when he was just a child. There wasn’t any sand on that beach to build a castle, so there was nothing to wash away. The tide would always be there, but as long as it was the winter, there would be nothing to wash away.

Then the old man wondered if a beach without sand was still a beach. He thought about asking the pastor, but he figured that the pastor would think he’s changing the subject.

“For God’s sake. Are you thinking of no one but yourself? The temperature is dropping now and soon the snow will be too thick to see through. You’re endangering us by making us stay any longer than we should.”

The old man looked down at his feet for a moment, then looked back up at the pastor. He was feeling guilty again. There were few moments nowadays when the old man wasn’t feeling guilty.

“Please,” he said. “My son.”

“We’ll give you the lumber, of course. We are Christians, after all. Come along—let’s hurry now.” The pastor led the old man to a bin of lumber next to a statue of the Virgin Mary. A few pink and green candles were still lit. A few others had been put out recently. Several bouquets of purple and red carnations lay at the Virgin’s feet.

The old man reached into the bin and found six two-by-fours, each four feet in length, and stacked them in his arms and prepared to make the trip back home. The old man hated physical labor, which made him a terrible father.

“Thank you for donating,” the pastor said. “The church couldn’t survive without people like you.”

“I donate because my wife used to.”

“That’s a touching thought,” he said.

“No it’s not,” the old man replied. He hoped that the pastor didn’t really think it was a touching thought. But the pastor didn’t care one bit whether or not it was a touching thought.


Part 5:

Why did the old man go all this way through the forest to get a few pieces of lumber? It didn’t make any damn sense to the pastor. He’d walked through a forest. Forests are supposedly the best sources of kindling. He could have gathered some wood near the edge of the woods and that would have been that. But that wasn’t that. So the pastor supposed that the old man wasn’t telling him something.

The pastor asked himself: does faith in God mean I have to have faith in people? Because if so, I don’t think I have faith in God after all.

The pastor couldn’t figure out why he didn’t trust the old man. The smell was awfully off-putting, but that wasn’t it. He could stomach the smell. He hadn’t even mentioned a word about it yet. He figured it would seem rude to make the old man feel uncomfortable about it, but even ruder to pretend that he wasn’t covered in shit. So the pastor got the exchange over and done with:

“You know you’re covered in shit, right?”

“Yes sir. Yes I do.”

“And you know you smell something awful, right?”

“I think they might be related.”

“How’d you—or why—did you cover yourself in all that?” the pastor asked.

“Fell into it. In the forest.”

“Right. The forest. You’re heading through there again?”

“Got to. Son’s waiting at home.”

“You realize that six two-by-fours might not be enough to make it through this blizzard, don’t you?”

The old man looked around the room. There was no reason for him to remain in the church, so he walked toward the doors and pushed them open and breathed in the freezing air.

It was snowing badly now. No where near as bad as it would be, though.

The pastor and his volunteers followed the old man out of the church. They strapped a padlock to the door and said goodbye to one another and went their separate ways. The pastor walked alongside the old man as he neared the forest.

“You do realize that, don’t you?” the pastor asked again.

“I have some firewood in the house already. We weren’t completely dry. We’ll have enough.”

“I hope so.”

The pastor didn’t really care if the old man had enough firewood. It’s not that he wanted the old man to die. Just that the old man’s life and death were no priority of his own.

The old man has a son for God’s sake, the pastor told himself.

His son to take care of. Not mine. Can’t save everybody. We each gotta try to save somebody else and if we all save one other person it should work out. And I have my own to save. The old man is supposed to save his own. No one but him is going to do it. No one but him can.

Listen to yourself.

Yeah, I’m listening.

The forest loomed on the horizon, shrouded by the blizzard’s flurry. The old man would have to go through that in this? The poor son of a bitch.

The pastor looked to the north. His home was about a mile that way and stood around 150 feet from the edge of the woods. The pastor would not have to walk through the forest. Only alongside of it.

“Well,” the pastor said, “I think this is where we split up.”

But the old man didn’t seem to be paying the pastor any attention.

The old man entered the forest as the pastor watched the dark trees gobble him up. He looked back at where the old man had stood and noticed their two sets of footprints embossed in the snow. The pastor felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. And it wasn’t from the cold.

The pastor’s footprints continued alongside the forest, but the old man’s simply ended where they may. This made the pastor feel guilty.

He couldn’t quite understand why he was feeling guilty, though. He didn’t know that this was the last time he would see the old man alive. The pastor didn’t know that the next time he’d see the old man he’d be in a cheap old coffin next to a cheap old coffin sized just right for his son.

But the pastor did know that the two would be buried next to the grave of the old man’s wife. He’d known that for awhile now.

It’s not too late. You can save him. And maybe even the boy.

It’s too late.

Their deaths will be on your hands. If they do die. And they might.

Why would their deaths be on my hands? I wouldn’t be able to change a damned thing even if I tried. That’s the way of the world. We’ve all learned to live with it by now.

Not all of us.

You’re right. Just the gullible ones live with it. It’s much easier to deal with a lie that stings than a truth that stabs.

And with that the pastor entered his home and forgot all about the old man.



Part 6:

A hawk flew overhead as the snow covered branches began to freeze and the dirt paths that ran through the forest began to disappear. The moon was brighter now but the old man could not tell through the angled flurries of ice and snow.

He buttoned up his jacket and hid his hands in its warm sleeves. For a moment he lost his balance on the ice below and juggled the two-by-fours without dropping any.

He was numb to the bone, but the snow and sleet still stung whenever the wind picked up and seemed to throw the whole world at him. He wasn’t completely numb, so he couldn’t help but remain conscious of all the pain and discomfort he was to experience in the forest.

How nice of you, God, the old man said to himself. Throw me into this world and give me this awareness. Well I reckon I don’t want it anymore. And there I go again. Saying I don’t want it. Like it’s some kind of choice.

The old man stopped as if expecting a reply. But nothing of the sort came.

So he stumbled back onto what he assumed was the dirt path hidden beneath the snow. His ears were not yet numb and his face was littered with frozen mucus dangling from his facial hairs. It felt like a million tiny bees stinging his face. And when the wind blew, it felt like a billion tiny bees stinging his face.

But he kept on through the forest, thinking of all the souls he’d kill just to feel alive again. He thought of his son, too.

Eventually, he reached a fork in the path and went left. It didn’t matter what way the old man went. Both paths led right to old man’s cabin.

His feet were numb in his boots and this is what worried the man the most. He’d always had vulnerable feet. It ran in the family.

It was in the blood.

He looked down and felt as if he was floating along the ice and snow beneath him. It was an odd sensation that the old man enjoyed quite a bit. He felt relaxed, and he didn’t know why. And then he figured it out.

You can’t feel anymore, he told himself. You like this.

What do you mean?

You’re numb. And defeated. This is what it feels like to give up. This is what it feels like to realize you’ve lived long past the point where life and anything in it will satisfy you. You’re a bitter old man. And you’re nearing the end. And ain’t nobody gonna come save you.

So the old man forgot about his feet and his ears and his nose and his face and his son and he stopped moving. He couldn’t figure out why.

Then he looked down and realized he’d walked into a bear trap.

The pain was branching up his thighs and cutting into the meat not yet affected by the cold. He looked down at his feet again and all the ground below him was red and the steel trap dug into his ankle a clean two inches. He was lucky that it hadn’t sliced his foot right off. But he couldn’t stop to wonder about how lucky he really was.

He looked around and saw nothing but white. Then he looked down and saw nothing but red.

The old man was panicking now. His first thought was to reach into his jacket and take out the Mauser his father had given him on his wedding day and he remembered that his father told him that when someone starts a family as a new man he should have a gun so he went on ahead and gave him the pistol he’d used in World War I. The sound of the wind swelled around the old man. He yelled out for help and screamed and said all kinds of stuff he didn’t even realize he was saying. Everything became automatic.

The wind drowned out his yells and he would’ve been lucky if anyone within a mile could hear them. His son certainly couldn’t. And even if he did, the old man had instructed him to stay in the cabin until he returned. And the old man trusted his son enough to obey.

He thought of his wife and his thoughts became erratic and he couldn’t figure out where he was anymore. He didn’t know how much time had passed since whatever had happened happened. In the corner of his eye he saw a figure in grey and it was running toward him and lifting up its dress as it struggled along. The old man could see now that it was a woman. He yelled out to her.

“Thank God,” he said. “Please help me.” He tried to sound polite but ended up whimpering. The pain resonated through his voice and filtered through the flurries around him. Some of that pain must have hit the woman and the old man figured that’s why she must’ve come running.

She looked at the man and stood there. The old man was confused.

“I—“ he started. “I got caught up in the bear trap. I don’t know how I didn’t see it.”

But the woman just stood there. She was about twenty years old and attractive and had brown hair and eyes that seemed as if they’d never laid sight on blood in all her life. Her face paled and her eyes darted away when she noticed the old man looking into them. She backed away a few feet. She looked as if she was about to bolt.

“Will you please help me?” the old man asked again. But the woman remained frozen in place. She looked down again at the old man and noticed this time that he was holding a gun. The old man caught her looking at it.

“It’s loaded. If you don’t help me I’m going to have to blow my foot off. My son is in the cabin a mile that way and I need to get to him soon because there ain’t no way the boy’s gonna stay warm through this much longer.”

All of this was too much for the woman to bear. She didn’t know how to react. She too didn’t know where she was anymore. She too lost track of the time. Everything became automatic.

She turned away and ran as fast as she could and she didn’t know why but she had to get away from that old man because she didn’t know what to do about anything anymore. She’d spent her whole life without seeing anyone in that kind of pain and she couldn’t bear the sight of it. So she figured that’s why she was running away. But she didn’t try to justify it.

The old man was screaming now and he sounded like he was possessed by the devil. He could still see the woman struggling to wade through the knee deep snow and a sudden resentment overwhelmed the man. He turned the safety on his pistol off and lowered the hammer and fired two shots at the woman’s feet. They whizzed through the snow and the woman jumped and fell onto her side. She wasn’t hit but she thought she was. She tried to get up and struggled and the old man thought about firing another but his resentment wore off and he felt guilty again. So he just yelled and yelled and yelled.

The woman was out of sight and the old man could see nothing but white again.

He was left with only himself.

You shouldn’t be surprised by any of this.

I don’t think I am.

That’s good. It’s not good to be surprised by things.

The old man was now completely numb and he couldn’t feel his arms or his legs and he watched as the pistol slipped from his hand and onto the ground. He picked it up again and didn’t know what to do because he didn’t want to shoot his God damned leg off. He didn’t want to shoot his God damned anything off.

You don’t have to, he told himself. But the old man already knew this.

He thought of his wife and the day he met her. They were picking dandelions behind her father’s barn and it was summer and the sun beat down and everything felt perfect. She turned to look at him and he turned to look off into the distance at the horses running over the hills a long way away. Then he turned back toward his wife. She was still looking at him. That made the old man feel loved and it’d been a long time since the old man felt anything like that.

He looked down at his feet for the last time and breathed in the freezing air around him. He pointed the pistol at himself and tipped over on his side and a subdued pain reverberated through his bones. He enjoyed not feeling everything that he was meant to feel. And then the thought that had haunted him his whole life haunted him a final time.

Leave it all behind. It’s not worth it anymore. Let’s be nothing. Let’s finally be nothing.

Whatever you say, amigo.

Don’t feel bad. None of this was your fault.

And yet I’ll leave this place thinking it was.

I suppose there’s not a damn thing you can do about that.

Yes sir, he told himself. I couldn’t do a damn thing even if I tried.

And with that the old man fired a single shot into his head and became nothing.

Amigo.

nitewulf said:

really, what do you mean, i am confused as hell.

Click to expand...

Heh, it's just the first cheesy, melodramatic scene to come to my mind after reading Ward's post. =P

Oh good. I was a little worried that the lockdown might impact the challenge...

I mean really, what's more important, some video game conference thingy, or us writing?

...and as I hit enter, "500 Internal Server Error" :lol

Oh geez... I totally forgot about this.

Stupid E3.

It looks like I'll miss this one

I know, Cyan! I was all SONOFA--and I just got back in!

The bitch exploded. There was no denying the video. The dog had definitely exploded. One moment there was a large standard poodle playing with its owner, the next there was a flash and the owner lay dead and the dog was gone.

The crime scene was coated in a red slime of gore. A smell that could kill a fisherman stabbed through everything, leaving its mark in my clothes deeper than the slime could. The victim was slumped on floor lying next to four paws. Boys on the force had dubbed it "The Jihadist Poodle Case". Damn the Sarge for putting me on the case, I hated it, the whole thing stank like my suit after the crime scene, a stench that followed me all the way back to the precinct. It was going to be a bad day.

The victim was Ella Phoenix, former beauty queen, turned cosmetics magnate. Her whole life had been built around vanity, and seeing her face mutilated by the explosion in her million dollar house next to the paws of her designer dog, I had to admit the killer had a clever sense of irony.

"Hey Noche here's your copy of the victim sheet." My partner Chisan said handing me a folder.

"Told you to call me by my last name, Lobo." I growled as I yanked the folder away from him.

"Well I think." he began but I cut him off.

"Look, they might be all pals in surveillance where you transferred from, but this is just a job. Last names will suffice." I said opening the file.

There's a saying, "Behind every great fortune lies a great crime." My eighteen years on the force had not proven it wrong. Page after page of Phoenix's file told of suspected crimes. The usual money laundering, outsourcing illegal animal testing of her cosmetics and that was just the beginning.

"What's this 'Suspect in Gents Investigation'?" Chisan asked.

"It's a prostitution ring investigation." I said, "Weren't you in surveillance? You didn't know about it? That's how we got this video."

"No I wasn't assigned to it. Hey, back to the murder, do you think it could've been some animal rights activist?"

I rolled my eyes; the kid would even smell like a rookie if I could smell anything other than the stench in my suit. "What kind of animal activist commits murder by blowing up a poodle?"

"You got a point."

I put down the folder and made for the door.

"Where you going?" Chisan asked following.

"I'm going to find the lead of the Gents investigation."

"Why?"

"Think Chisan." I said without slowing. "There are easier ways to kill someone than shoving explosives up their dog's ass. Whoever did it was sending a message, but to whom and why? Money laundering? Every rich person does that. Animal rights we already excluded. So what's left? The prostitution ring. Someone was sending a message."

I paused in the middle of the hallway.

"They would've needed to see Phoenix to trigger the explosion otherwise he might've missed." I muttered and turned to Chisan, "If someone other than the police had placed their own cameras in Phoenix's house would surveillance know?"

"Absolutely, they always check for existing bugs and cameras. No way they'd miss something."

"What about after the cameras were in place?"

"Obviously we'd see and hear them putting them in." Chisan said with a chuckle.

"Right."


Detective Ward was the entire Gents investigative team. Evidently someone was trying to kill the investigation. Seems that Phoenix was just one of the players involved. The main suspect Helen Scribs, widow of Senator Scribs, was so well connected it had been impossible to get a warrant. Ward said that he knew Scribs had files in her master bedroom that proved not only the prostitution ring but that it was fronted by the Triad.

"The Triad?" Chisan laughed, "That's just an old wives tale."

"Thank you for your time Ward." I said putting on my stanky jacket, "I'll try to get a warrant for Mrs. Scribs for the murder of Ella Phoenix."

"What?" Ward and Chisan said in unison.

"No judge will ok a warrant for her." Ward said.

"Besides Lobo," Chisan piped, "you've got no proof."

"If she's as well connected as Ward says she is, I don't need any. With charges this serious, she'll come to me lest it hit the press."


The speed with which the call came surprised even me.

"This is Helen Scribs." Her voice was icy.

"You even got my cell number." I replied, "Impressive."

"Shut up. You know I didn't kill Ella Phoenix. Why are you trying to pin this on me?" She demanded.

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." I said faking a yawn, "I figure if you didn't, then you must know you're next on the list. Perhaps you'd do well in working with us. It might even save your life."

Her silence was telling.

"Meet me at 6 am at dock 38 container 32. Alone." She said finally and hung up.

I picked up the phone and called Chisan. He was clueless but could be counted on to stay hidden and call backup if needed. I set my alarm and fell asleep.


My alarm clock was flashing 12:00. The damn power had gone out again, I picked up my watch.

"6:15?!" I shot out of bed, was dressed and in the car speeding towards the docks by 6:18.

"You idiot! You idiot! You idiot!" I shouted as I weaved in and out of traffic sirens blazing. My first real break in the case and I had overslept.

It was almost 6:30 by the time I arrived at dock 38. Container 32 was easy enough to find. There were already police standing around it a huge gaping hole in the side of the container. Familiar red slime coated the container. A young police officer tried to stop me.

"Detective N. Lobo." I said flashing my badge. "What happened?"

"15 minutes ago people reported hearing an explosion I only just arrived." He explained.
In the container a chair seated the lower half of Scribs; the upper half was obviously all around me.

They had beaten me to her. But why go through all the trouble to kill her here? More police cars streamed into the dock. I looked at the chair, she had been tied. Why would someone want to keep her tied to one place, and why here? The only reason to do that would be...

"If they wanted to kill someone else along with her." I said aloud.

I was the target. But who else knew I would be there. My blood ran cold, there was only one name.

I darted for my car.


"Get me Detective Ward!" I yelled into my hand radio as I sped onto the freeway.

"He's not responding sir."

"I don't care if you have to wake him up, pull him out of his house and get him to the station this instant!"

I switched bands to the dispatcher, "This is Detective Lobo, I need as many cars as you can spare at 112 Tonto Nombre Street, Late Senator Scrib's house, for possible murderer apprehension."

The orders started streaming through the radio.

"You idiot! You idiot! You idiot!" I pounded on my steering wheel as buildings blurred in red and blue around me.

How could I have missed it? Chisan had been on the surveillance team, he'd known about the investigation, he'd have access to the videostream. Then he put in for a transfer to homicide and killed his first victim to get the information he needed, which was where the files were. After that it was just a matter of exterminating the other people who knew. Ward was probably already dead; a timed explosive in Helen Scribs was supposed to kill her and me. But I had been late.

My car ran into the curb. I was first to arrive. I ran across the yard to the house, gun drawn. A dog came running across the yard to me. I froze remembering the poodle. Chisan exited the house holding a stack of files under one arm a hand in his pocket. The dog continued to run at me, a slow smile spread across Chisan' face as he fingered the object in his pocket. The visions of red slime came to me.

I turned my on the dog. There was a high pitched "Arf!" as it was hit by my bullet. I turned to Chisan and suddenly found myself on the ground a sharp pain in my left shoulder. I was shot.

Chisan's face appeared over me, "You're lucky I'm not as good with a gun as I am with explosives Noche." he said as he kicked my gun away and aimed at my face.

I could see the top of a triad tattoo on his neck barely covered by his collar. I closed my eyes and waited for the bang, but instead the sound of sirens came to my ears. I opened my eyes Chisan getting into my car and driving away. By the time I told them to look for my car he would've swapped to a different car. He was gone. Neighbors were starting to come out of their houses as I heard a familiar voice.

"Lobo?"

"Sarge." I said through gasps of pain.

"Lobo! What happened?" The Sarge said looking at my shoulder.

In the distance I could hear someone say, "What the hell did you do to my dog?!"

It was going to be another bad day.

Go easy on me gents, I had to cut out 1000 words.

Forgot about this. What does everyone think about a week extension?

I dunno we've already got a few entries.
I've already started reading/critiquing so if you've submitted that's what I'm judging.

I wouldn't think a whole week would be necessary. OT was only really closed a day. If two or three people want an extra few hours, I don't see why not.

DumbNameD said:

Forgot about this. What does everyone think about a week extension?

Click to expand...

Probably not necessary, we've already got a decent number of entries, and can expect at least a few more.

Now, if they shut us down again...

P.S. ronito- she exploded? *high five*

Whew, this one's proving difficult to write. I'm going for a very specific style of language, and it takes a great deal of effort to get right. Plus, I had to do much more extensive research than usual.

Not quite halfway done...

Cyan said:

Whew, this one's proving difficult to write. I'm going for a very specific style of language, and it takes a great deal of effort to get right. Plus, I had to do much more extensive research than usual.

Not quite halfway done...

Click to expand...

I'm on my third story attempt, and while I have some hopes for its concept, I'm about 400 words from the limit and just hit the climax. Oi.

viciouskillersquirrel said:

Oh geez... I totally forgot about this.

Stupid E3.

It looks like I'll miss this one

Click to expand...

That's a weak excuse. I'm at E3, and I submitted something. Knuckle down.

"The Fine Print" - 1600 Words

Mortimer Graves was roused not by the familiar ding-dong of his clock striking six, but instead at some as-yet-unknown hour by a stray feline licking happily at his face.

His eyes pulsed with vision as he propped himself on his elbows, blurring in-and-out like a schizophrenic camera trying to find its sanity first and focus second. As the initial daze wore off, Mortimer took stock of his surroundings. Concrete edifices rose from both sides, the sunlight forming a neat column between them. He figured it must've been sometime around Noon already.

His sense of smell arrived next as his nose was hit with a sharp whiff of whatever was pooling at the end of the alley. Human waste? The runoff from last night's dinner service? A mixture of both (and a number of other unfathomable ingredients) the likely answer.

And then there was touch. A bubble of pain ruptured just beyond Mortimer's right shoulder and crawled down his back. Whatever force of nature had dropped him here had the nerve to land him right on top of his suitcase. He twisted his arm around to massage the sore spot as he lifted himself onto his feet. The world teetered for a few moments before coming to rest.

As he bent down to retrieve his belongings, the stray went in for another taste. Shooing it away, he wiped the slimy drool from the corner of his mouth.

"Pink?" Mortimer wondered to the wind as he stared at the back of his hand, "Am I bleeding?"

Rooting around in his mouth provided no lost teeth and his silver tongue remained thoroughly uncut.

He shrugged and made his way towards the street, hoping that some familiar sights might give him bearings. Sadly, there were none to be had. The buildings were buildings, the carriages outside them were carriages, the people walking around (as few as there were) looked like people, but not one triggered a single memory in Mortimer's head.

"What libation's so powerful to take me this far from home?" he queried to himself.

As a traveling salesman, he knew Cottell and Mainstown and Dougland and Two Egg. He knew all the cities in the region well and the countryside that spanned between them. This, wherever Mortimer had ended up, was a place that he had never been to before.

Scanning up and down the street, he saw that it didn't go terribly far and only turned onto a handful of avenues before disappearing down a hill. Though he had been abroad in his younger years and seen many interesting things, he also knew that the places where he normally peddled his wares didn't have hills. No elevation. Flat as the top of an anvil!

The first thing he always did when selling somewhere new was gather information. He called it "Learning the Locals." After all, an industrial population needed different wares from a farming one, and whatever the quirks may end up being, Mortimer would have to tailor his pitch to suit.

A man in a woolen cap exited a building just down the way, holding what looked to be a newspaper under one arm while attempting to roll a cigarette between his fingers.

'Perfect,' Mortimer thought, 'a man who likes to know what's going on and understands the local etiquette.' He had been to towns where smoking wasn't allowed indoors, and this was probably one of them.

"Hello, sir!" he entered with, hand extended. The man, who looked older and rougher in the face than anticipated, made no effort to stop what he was doing. The salesman had encountered this type before, but Mort nonetheless withdrew his palm awkwardly.

"I'm Mortimer Graves! How might a fine gentleman like you be doing on this day like this?"

The man in the woolen cap didn't even look up from his cigarette, which he seemed to be fumbling with at the moment, but instead cocked his shoulder towards the door behind him. Mortimer got the clue and shuffled through the doorway, his large, hard-boxed suitcase banging against the frame as he went.

He found himself in a diner of sorts, and thanked his lucky stars for it. They were always fantastic places to gather intel, and though he wasn't specifically looking for that kind of data today, if a sale presented itself, by god he'd make it! Unfortunately, it was empty save for two gentleman towards the back having a silent conversation, and the half-eaten sandwich on the plate between them.

Amongst the portraits and paraphernalia hanging from the walls were advertisements for brands he'd never heard of before: Carlton Cola, Kiefer's Red Sack Brewing Company, Thunderhead Oil. There was even one for another sales company, T&E Bretton's Fine Potions and Elixirs. He'd never crossed paths with a T&E man before.

"Can I get you something, darling?" a sweet voice called to him, "Why don't you have a sit-down at the counter here."
"Oh yes, thanks! I think I will!" Mortimer replied to an older, but surprisingly soft-skinned woman who'd just emerged from the kitchen. He sidled up to the bar and rested his suitcase on top of it, as he always did. "Mortimer Graves," he offered.
"Alright, Mortimer. How about a Carl?"

"A.... Carl?" the salesman puzzled, just before recalling the ad he'd seen moments ago, "Uh... yes, a Carl would be just fine right now."

"Sure thing, honey."

"Oh, hey, miss, I didn't catch your name!" Mort always went for the name. A name familiarizes someone, and familiarizing someone meant a potential sale.

"Mortimer, right?"

He nodded, smiling personably.

"Well, Mort. You can call me Denise," she answered, reaching below the counter to find a glass, "I run this joint with my husband Norman. Probably bumped into him on the way in."

"I did. Handsome man" he lied, "Not much of a conversationalist, though."

"Oh, he doesn't talk anymore. Went mute a few years back. I blame the smoking, of course. And getting older doesn't help. Used to have some pretty heated arguments with Bill and Walker back there," she said, pointing to the pair at the back of the diner, "Now they sit in silence mostly and watch the day pass by. Guess he must've been the catalyst."

"Lost his voice, huh?" Mortimer opened his pitch. He had not expected the opportunity to present itself so early, "Have you ever heard of Piper's Potent?"

"Can't say I have," Denise replied, with genuine innocence, as she sat down his drink.

"It is *the* cure for what ails you! It's multitude of sixteen rare plant extracts from the darkest regions of Africa would work wonders on Norman's condition! I noticed he was having some trouble rolling that paper out there, too. Does your husband get the shakes?"

"On occasion," Denise bit.

"Some All-Steady spread right on the trouble spots should clear that up in days! Why I've got some right here in my -- "

Mortimer stopped short as he opened his suitcase. Amongst the prismatic vials of snake oil and common alcohols disguised as curative drugs that lined the inside of his luggage, he spied a small, wooden box labeled Ferris' Cosmic Brine. It sparked the first reliable memory he'd had all day.

'Damn me!' the salesman cursed, 'I forgot entirely about the delivery in Dougland! I was supposed to be there at 2! Oh Christ, the boss is going to have my neck for this!'

"Something got ya dear?" Denise queried at the sight of her customer's sudden blankness.

"What time is it?! I have to know what time!" Mortimer barked, as politely as he possibly could.

"It's about a quarter past one, Mr. Graves."

"And is there a train station around here that can take me to Dougland?!" He was getting more distressed by the second.

"D... Dougland? Sure, I've lived in Hillcrest most of my life, but I've never heard of a Dougland, much less this 'train' thing you're talking about. I'm sorry..."

"Oh, god," he panicked, "What's the fastest way to get anywhere from here?!"

"Well, most people take the carriages, but the young ones seem to favor their hoverboards these days."

"Hoverboards... what? Huh? Where the heck am I? Am I delusional?!"

"No, sir... you're still in the People's Union of Blackwell. Maybe one of those medicines you've got there would help?" Denise worried.

"B... Blackwell..."

Confused and bewildered, Mortimer was ready to try anything, but he knew for a fact none of his wares actually worked. Well, except for the Cosmic Brine. He tore into the box and removed two miniature flasks each containing a thick, pink-colored ooze. One was labeled "1 - To go where you've been" and the other "2 - To remove all harm done."

"Well, here goes," Mortimer gulped before removing the stoppers and emptying the contents into his gullet.

In an instant, the diner exploded into a litany of colors, some in a spectrum he'd never experienced before. He felt as though he were being lifted into the air by a hook in his stomach, higher and higher until the rainbow swirled down into an invisible drain, leaving only the dark.

Denise, astonished at the disappearance of her customer, picked up one of the consumed vials that had tumbled onto the counter. Putting on her reading goggles, she noticed a line of small text at the bottom of the label:

"Do Not Imbibe On An Empty Stomach, Lest Effects May Vary."

****

Mortimer Graves was roused not by the familiar ding-dong of his clock striking six, but instead at some as-yet-unknown hour by a stray dog licking happily at his face.

I hate to say it, but I wouldn't expect anything out of me. I'm on my 10th straight day of work, have a sinus infection, and a busy night coming up. I'm going to try to get something banged out, but if my head stays as fuzzed as it is now, I doubt I'll have anything near ready.

crowphoenix said:

I hate to say it, but I wouldn't expect anything out of me. I'm on my 10th straight day of work, have a sinus infection, and a busy night coming up. I'm going to try to get something banged out, but if my head stays as fuzzed as it is now, I doubt I'll have anything near ready.

Click to expand...

Sinus infection? Come on man! What could possibly be a better inspiration for slime?

Aaron said:

That's a weak excuse. I'm at E3, and I submitted something. Knuckle down.

Click to expand...

Hell, I've got a major exam this weekend that I'm studying like crazy for, and I'm still going to submit something.

Granted, maybe I should've kept studying instead. But I couldn't miss a challenge!

Oh, that reminds me. I almost certainly won't have time to comment on people's stories this time. Apologies.

"The bitch exploded"

Perfect!

The Indeterminable
Word Count: 1592

Faces hidden in a well. Mysteries around the corners and on the fringes; vision tainted with slime and other unknown liquids. I can't help but look at this and wonder what the fuck is going on. Chimera creeping up through the floorboards, its multiple heads dancing to and fro as if listening to its own natural beat.

The top of the cliff did little to hide the ever-frightening three-thousand-foot drop into the canyon floor below. Covered in slick, dew-soaked moss, the cliff itself seemed to beckon unfortunate humans and animals to take a casual fall off its top. Thankfully, the two people about to scale its side were fairly experienced. Brother and sister, the two rarely did anything together but when they did it was something exciting and dangerous; bordering on insanity with a touch of the suicidal. They called it the Cliff of Death precisely because of some ill folklore that had circulated around the area pertaining to its existence. Villagers close by spoke of a creature that would appear just as one began to climb down its rocky, barren surface. At this point the moss fanned out as if colliding with an unknown barrier, or maybe the moss itself was petrified of whatever territory it was mistakenly wandering into. The buds that seemed to wander past this border seemed to shrivel and wither instantaneously. When the creature appears the world apparently freezes in its motions and the universe itself seems to become static. From then on, there is only the abyss.

“So what do you think of the... ugh... story?” Maurice asked his sister as they began to slowly scale the cliffs, struggling slightly trying to find any footholds.

“I think it's a bunch of bullshit, bro.” Ellen responded.

“I'm sure we're closing in on that 'point' or whatever where we're going to die.”

The cliff became tougher and tougher to find footholds on as the two siblings descended further and further. Both had harnesses on that were tied way up at the top, but even still the face of the cliff was impossibly designed. Kinda like God decided to trip on acid and in his infinite brushstrokes began to paint and erode the landscape into something malformed and grotesque. It was late afternoon by the time they'd climbed down halfway, a process that would have been much faster had it not been for the rough terrain. The sun pierced the clouds like bullets through water, and the canyon floor below became incredibly breezy, almost to the point where the sand kicked up and shrouded the entire world below in a brown, hazy facade. A slight noise began to hum around the two, like that of a mosquito crossed with a bird's call. An irritating noise that drilled its way into the recesses of their brains, rattling around and eroding their sanity. And in that second the rope broke.

This other painting, it's definitely just as perplexing. A child's face distorted into thousands of glass shards that are connected by thin strands of blue. As if some sort of critique of the fractured individual in the modern world, forever unsure of just who he or she is and in scrambling to find that meaningless, dynamic persona that person becomes lost in the inimical playground of life. In the corners I notice some references to drug, sex, violence, media, videogames. Another critique, perhaps? That our world is inherently the reason for this child's fragmented soul?

The world was rushing to catch up with Maurice and Ellen in the split seconds of their rope coming apart. The best rope you can buy, my ass. Maurice thought just as he turned to look at the ground. The sandstorm seemed to echo a “hello” as they were both caught in its grasp. Wind buffeted them around, buoying them like toys thrown haphazardly around by a child in its tantrums, before slamming them into the earth like a drunken bar denizen demanding another drink for his rusty, disgusting mug. Maurice was the only one who woke up. Ellen had vanished. His light, short-cut brown hair had become dusty to the point of tainting it blonde. His clothes had been ripped to shreds, falling off him in clumps and pieces as he tried to stand up. Eventually, he was completely naked, his slightly cut figure unprotected against the destructive elements. He waded through the enshrouding storm, unable to see more than a few feet in front of him. A lone creature floated above the ground, beckoning to him with slight hand gestures. The creature floated above the air while sitting cross-legged, its hands on its legs. The creature had the lower body of a human (although completely black) and the upper head of a ram, with curling horns. The sand never once touched its frame. Each grain fleck would head in its direction and then completely change course some distance before its skin. Maurice held a hand up to his head, his left eye unblocked and focused on it.

“Is this what you expected?”

Maurice was taken aback. It can speak in human tongue...

“Are you the creature that the lore talks about? You send stupid climbers scaling that cliff to their deaths?”

“They only die because they made the choice to die. I control their fates only through their choices...” The creature cocked its head, and smiled.

“What choices do I have to make?” Maurice asked, impatiently.

“The ultimate decision will be made by me. The rest is merely what your human mind chooses as correct. You choose the remains of the day. Either your death, hers, or everyone you have ever known, felt, or loved.”

How can... what... ? But the stories said that the cliff only killed those who scaled it... not... no....

“You have two trials. The first begins now.” The creature then began to weave a spell which made the sandstorm disappear. Maurice could see a figure far away, tiny red minutiae surround its image. She's bleeding, she's dying. He began to walk towards her, disregarding the creature. As he walked he began to feel a slight tug on his right arm, and then a sting that became even more intense. He looked down to see that strings had appeared and were tugging on his arm, biting through the skin, blood welling from the lacerations.

“If you fail to listen, your arm will be sliced in twain.”

This picture is nothing more than a field of roses, but parts of it are blotched out like negatives. As if the mise en scene of this picture was a dichotomy within itself. The two parts work together to cancel each other. The yin and yang between a world of color and a world that encompasses the complete absence of it. I enjoy this painting.

Maurice began to listen as the creature telepathically spoke with him. The first trial requires a sacrifice. To make it to her you have to brave the strongest sandstorm ever known. The sand will tear at your bare, naked skin. You can make it to her alive, but not without losing a piece of yourself. How many pieces... well, that's entirely up to you. The sandstorm came from the north, manifesting itself between two mesas far off in the distance. Maurice could feel the wind increasing even from possibly hundreds of miles away. He began to run. The storm hit within a minute, and he wasn't even a third of the way to his sister. The sand stung hard, biting off chunks of his skin and blurring his vision, so much so that he began to run blindly. He could feel the flecks cutting into his sides, his genitals, his legs. Blood didn't bother welling up because by the time it made it to the surface, it was lost to the scarring wind. As the sand began to cut into him deeply, as the pain became borderline insane, the storm subsided. Maurice found himself in front of his sister's prone form. He knelt beside her. She, too, was naked. She had bled out to the point of unconsciousness, but not death. A rock protruded from her side. It could have punctured an organ. There's no way to save her now.

“Good job.” The creature said.

Maurice stroked his sister's long, brown hair. He didn't know how he was going to withstand whatever was going to be asked of him next.

“Your second trial is not a sacrifice of the body, but of the soul. You will become nothing more than a shell. Do this and everyone but you is saved.”

Maurice began to choke back tears.

“If there's no way out, I'll do it. Get it over wit-”

He fell backwards, eyes dull and lifeless, pulse vibrating but no activity anywhere else. Ellen woke up as her wound healed, and tried to wake her brother up, but it was useless.



The film reel in the art museum ended. A man who had been perusing the paintings that day stopped and looked over at one, final painting.

A floating creature, knees crossed, with a man's body but a ram's head. The Baphomet. A barely-visible upside-down cross painted on its chest. The creature looking down upon a fallen man. A man lost to its power, corrupted by its Satanic energy. A woman nearby, looking on in horror. The creature's eyes seemed to glow red in the museum light, pools of blood mirrored in their reflections.

Title: Awake!
Word Count: 1,040

“This is complete nonsense!” Dr. Samer exclaimed, exclamatedly.

How embarrassing. Especially since I was only a couple minutes early today according to my wristwatch—almost late. My horse was rather awnry this morning. Does the good doctor really need to say this in front of the whole class? I showed the proof right here, and then I worked out the algebra right here, I told him.

“No…no. I’m sorry, but I can’t accept this, I can’t even read what you tried to write. It looks like a mess of squiggly lines. Gobblety gook. Malugo? Have you been daydreaming again?”

Angry now, I snatched the stapled test papers from the professors grip. I knew what exactly what I was doing. I knew how to solve every damn problem on that test. I looked at my work. He was right, a seemingly random mess of squiggly lines and half-baked numbers. Whoa. Yet, somehow this pile of nondescriptions represented precise mathematical calculations in my mind. It made no sense. Why the fuck can’t I write down what I had in my head in a way that other people could understand?

“Why the fuck can’t you?”

Uhhh, did Dr. Samer really just swear in front of the class?

“I did”, Dr. Samer laughed, “Have you ever thought that maybe the problem is that you simply cannot read?”

I looked at the next paper down on the stack of corrected tests only to see a swamp of intersecting lines and freedraw scribbles, blurry and out of focus. What the fuck is going on?

“Try harder. Try to make out symbols or numbers.”

I focus harder on the paper, concentrating and letting the alphabet stew take shape. The more the random lines twisted into discernable mathematical shape, the more reality around me begins to fade and lose focus. Everything starts to turn white and I immediately break concentration and watch as the world around me changes back to its nominal, idle state.

“Your existence here and the ability to read are mutually exclusive things. The part of your brain that creates this place is the same area that you use to read.”

“So that’s it, I’m dreaming.” A new calm enveloped me as I remembered this fact that I had heard in Psychology class.

“Are you my subconscious? Am I having a conversation with myself right now?”

He seemed to ignore this question.

“Tell me, Malugo. What did your math test cover?”

“Derivatives. But you’d know that, being my professor and all, right?”

Ignore.

“Derivatives…very interesting.” An all-knowing grin slowly creeped across his face like the small tremors preceding a volcanic eruption. “See you soon.”

My alarm woke me up at 7:30am on Monday, June 1st. My immediate reaction was to look at the clock. Numbers and symbols. I can read—everything is back to normal. Then I hit the snooze button. Still in a haze from the little amount of sleep that I got, I shower and then rush through traffic in order to get to school on time by mere seconds. Math class. Today I get to see what I scored on our second chapter test on derivatives. I know I got 100%. Nobody studies like I do. I knew every problem on that that damn test like the back of my hand.

Dr. Samer smiled at me as he handed me my test. If only he knew about the dream I had the previous night!

“Top score in the class” he said approvingly.

I smiled back at him, knowing the rest of the class would be jealous. I looked at my score. 97…97!!!

“What did I do wrong?”

I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“You forgot to include the constant on one of those problems. Simple mistake.” Samer said, turning back around at me “The constant. When taking antiderivatives, constants never fully disappear, they may become hidden or abstracted, but they're still there. The constants never really change, it’s just that more gets tacked on. I’m glad to see you can read today, Mr. Malugo.”

Shock and awe.

“You were late, Mr. Malugo”

“No I wasn’t. My cell phone said I was 15 seconds early. It uses the world clock.”

“No, not to this class. I’m talking about another plane of existence. You remember the dream. What is the difference between the dream plane, and this plane we’re in now?”

The rest of the class gazed upon us like they were trying to decipher a train-wreck in an abstract painting.

“Uhhhhm, you’re still here, and I’m still in Calculus class. I can read. Everything seems more in focus. My dream seemed to take place at least a hundred years ago.”

“There are added dimensions to this place, no doubt, but constants remain.”

“Dr. Samer, you’re talking like…”

“Like the dream you had was the derivative of the place you are in now. Astute observation. If dreams are the derivative of ‘reality’, then what happens when go another level of consciousness above ‘reality’?”

My jaw dropped, and the rest of the class must have thought we belonged in the loony bin by this point.

“There is no reality.” I said monotoned, as if repeating a passage directly from a textbook, “There are an infinite number of cascading levels of consciousness.”

“Not quite. There is a reality, and you were late entering into this—what you and me in another time and place might call a simulation. Think about the class you’re taking right now. You’re dealing with infinites, and coming up with finite solutions. Although there is an infinite number of levels of consciousness, using calculus you may find a way out. I, as a constant, was programmed into this simulation as a security measure in order to get people like you out. A last ditch emergency measure for those who entered the simulation later than the agreed upon instantaneous convergence point. You must find the solution before the 5th level of consciousness. After that point I may be much, much harder to recognize. Til we meet again.”

Just then I awoke from my sleep pod, having had one hell of a weird dream and according to the cpu implanted in my hand, running several milliseconds off-schedule to Dr. Samer’s Calculus class.

Timedog's back. Awesome.

And Malugo!

ronito said:

Sinus infection? Come on man! What could possibly be a better inspiration for slime?

Click to expand...

True. Though I'm not really at a loss for inspiration. It's just focus I need. Maybe staring at a blank text document will help.

I don't have time to proof-read this, it's rough draft. I have too much math to do.

Some of the stuff won't make sense to people who haven't taken calculus. Some of the stuff won't make sense to people who have taken calculus because I'm about 7 shots of alcohol deep right now and maybe fucked up some concepts.

in any case, I hope I can finish the shitload of math homework i have right now while semi-wasted!

crowphoenix said:

Timedog's back. Awesome.

And Malugo!

Click to expand...

Hell yeah dude. I'll never stop using Malugo, it's the dumbest/coolest name ever invented!

Let's begin shall we gents?

nitewulf: sometimes I wondered what certain passages had to do with the story at all, that made parts feel like you were meandering. I love the terribly old for our late 20s line that's brilliant. You really hit your stride at the end it was really wonderful, but the beginning just didn't seem to gel with the end.

Aaron: Is it a dark and stormy night? What's this? A Crow piece? Good use of the secondary objective. It feels though that I'm missing the impact. Perhaps more discussion on the disagreement or something. Well done however.

Keeblerdrow: Oh oh oh! I know what goes in the blanks! Wet.

HeyMonkey: I like how you just sorta let the piece grow on its own. Nice imagery and symbolism. Really liked it. But where was the slime?

Spoo: I like the conversation, though it takes me by surprise how little the whole prospect of damnation bothered Jacob. I see what you were getting at, but still made him seem unreal a bit. Also I felt the ending was over-reaching.

“Chekhov’s Gun”
Words: 1,531

In honor of E3, a REALLY short entry.

Just short of the coronation
Words: 210

All he could do was look on in silence. In horror.

Peaking out from behind a tree, he cursed his inability to frown. He had only been a few minutes late on account of some stupid Drakees holding him up for the only gold coin he had. Upon reflection, what he had thought was bad luck had saved his life… assuming the adventurers didn’t feel like searching every last nook and cranny to grind.

All he could do was wait and hope they’d pass him by. He heard footsteps, walking in unison, like an army walking in single file. Closer and closer the adventurers drew near. Please not this space, please not this space! Closer and closer… then further and further. Oh thank the Goddess! Wobbling and hopping along, he made his way over to his friends… his poor poor friends.

They were going to practice becoming a King today, as they did everyday. They were getting so close, just a little bit more and they’d have mastered it! Now… they were anything but kingly. Their little slimy bodies were destroyed, their smiles slashed and hacked apart. But try as he might, he couldn’t frown.

“I hope they don’t run into those Drakees,” he thought to himself, before wiggling away.

ronito said:

nitewulf: sometimes I wondered what certain passages had to do with the story at all, that made parts feel like you were meandering. I love the terribly old for our late 20s line that's brilliant. You really hit your stride at the end it was really wonderful, but the beginning just didn't seem to gel with the end.

Click to expand...

waaaaat? you don't like the hanging fuckbox??? that's probably my BEST idea in a long time! :lol

the story is supposed to be a day in the life and usually how it ends up within my group of friends...starting w/ two ppl not actually doing/saying anything because we already said all there is to say to each other, then one by one ppl start to show up and it ends up a small hang out. beyond that i cant really explain much, its pretty much what i wanted to write.

Blargh, completely dissatisfied with what I've written (no slime!), and basically no time to fix it. And it started out so well...

Cyan said:

Blargh, completely dissatisfied with what I've written (no slime!), and basically no time to fix it. And it started out so well...

Click to expand...

You're telling me. My second story was sort of an alternate take on my first story (perspective shift and different setup) and my third (the one posted) is altogether different.

I struggled to fit both concepts into the word limit, but the one I ended up finishing felt more cohesive anyway.

ronito said:

HeyMonkey:.... But where was the slime?

Click to expand...

It was ninja slime, hidden in one line. I could have gone for much, much worse slime, and almost did, just for you guys. :lol

Cygnus: Nice descriptions but really try to be less verbose especially at the beginning, sometimes I felt like you were trying to kill me with words. I love the take on the secondary objective

EB: Strive for the best wording some of the wordings seemed weak. Editing would've helped as it seems to me that you spend time telling us what we can deduce. Also dude, word limit, you're at like almost 3800 words.

Belfast: Can something be thoroughly uncut? I think have a large part of the exposition in the middle made it drag a bit especially after the quick clever beginning. WHAT IS THE STARDATE?!

Zephyr: Seems like you spent most of your description on the first part, leaving the end a bit wanting and really the end was the important part. Also once you said trial I knew what was going to happen.

Timedog: The thought of Malugo taking a class makes me laugh for some reason. Didn't batman do the whole dreaming/reading/writing thing? I had to read it twice to make sure I got it. Nice to see Malugo back.

Ward: All the dialogue left you little room for description. Even the shooting seemed matter of factual (of course that's what you were probably going for).

Ezekiel: haha! Should've used that two challenges ago.

ronito said:

Cygnus: Nice descriptions but really try to be less verbose especially at the beginning, sometimes I felt like you were trying to kill me with words. I love the take on the secondary objective

EB: Strive for the best wording some of the wordings seemed weak. Editing would've helped as it seems to me that you spend time telling us what we can deduce. Also dude, word limit, you're at like almost 3800 words.

Belfast: Can something be thoroughly uncut? I think have a large part of the exposition in the middle made it drag a bit especially after the quick clever beginning. WHAT IS THE STARDATE?!

Zephyr: Seems like you spent most of your description on the first part, leaving the end a bit wanting and really the end was the important part. Also once you said trial I knew what was going to happen.

Timedog: The thought of Malugo taking a class makes me laugh for some reason. Didn't batman do the whole dreaming/reading/writing thing? I had to read it twice to make sure I got it. Nice to see Malugo back.

Ward: All the dialogue left you little room for description. Even the shooting seemed matter of factual (of course that's what you were probably going for).

Ezekiel: haha! Should've used that two challenges ago.

Click to expand...

Yeah, after two false starts, I was in quite a rush to get my story finished. I suppose I could've taken some of today to sort out the pacing, but I wasn't sure how long I'd be at work, and thus, didn't know if I'd get the time to do that or not.

As always, thanks for the feedback!

ronito said:

Cygnus: Nice descriptions but really try to be less verbose especially at the beginning, sometimes I felt like you were trying to kill me with words.

Click to expand...

Heh, I've heard that before (a few times actually). What can I say, I love me some adjectives. I'll cut back next time.

I still have to read all of the submissions posted after my own, but so far everything's been pretty enjoyable in one way or another. I look forward to reading the rest of it tonight. After all the punishment my body took today at work, I'm not going anywhere for a while.

Ok, false alarm, I don't completely hate my story anymore. I think it'll turn out ok. Everyone can breathe a sigh of relief now.

I just woke up and....Ugh, that wasn't executed well. I need to get back on a normal sleep schedule.

The Hand that Rocks the Ladle... (1,480 words)

Bud Brauer was a private eye. Not one of the stylish ones, with cigars, a big desk, and shades. He was the poor man’s private eye, charged cheap and did half-assed work. His office was a rented utility closet in a local car dealership, the kind that would sell you the stapler off of the receptionist’s desk if you were interested. His desk was a lumpy suitcase, and his cigars were a pile of chewed up pen caps.

He was behind in his rent; the dealership was threatening to kick him out into the hall. He could work with that, but he didn’t want to contemplate it. He’d miss the freedom provided by an office smaller than a phone booth. He thankfully wouldn’t have to contemplate it today; a client had knocked on his door for the first time in weeks.

--

“Hi, the name’s Bud Brauer, you?” Bud asked as he extended his hand.

“Call me Pete,” the client answered as he completed the handshake. Pete was unusual, even by the standards of the average homeless person. His long, dark hair was tossed about in an Einsteinian fashion, making him look quite unlike the average African American as well.

“So what needs investigating, Pete?” Bud asked as he sat down on his crumbling wooden chair.

Pete slid a chair out from the wall and sat. He dunked his hand into a pocket in his moth-eaten jacket, fishing out a disorganized stack of pamphlets and printouts. He thumbed though the pile and Bud leaned in.

“What’s all this?” Bud asked.

Pete answered, still searching, “Got these from the internet, library computers. Did you know they’ll let you print stuff for free?”

Bud nodded slightly. “Ok, but what does this have to do with an investigation?” He shoved a pen end into his teeth and began to nibble.

“Conspiracies, man,” Pete answered, still distracted with finding a specific leaflet. “Ah! Here we go!” He plucked a ragged sheet of paper from the mess and presented it to Bud.

Bud studied it and replied, “Heinz? The ketchup people?”

Pete nodded. “That ’57 Varieties’ shit, it doesn’t make any sense! They make way more varieties of condiments than that!”

“So you want me to investigate false advertising?” Bud asked with his eyebrow raised.

“No, something else. That slogan establishes that H.J. Heinz Company lies. You know about their delayed shipments lately?” Pete asked.

“Bad batch of ketchup, what about it?” Bud answered.

Pete retrieved a pair of printed images from his pile, saying, “These were taken today and showed up in somebody’s online photo album.” Bud leaned closer, noting the presence of what seemed to be delivery trucks with a forest in the background. Pete continued. “See how they’re marked? They’re Heinz Company delivery trucks. What’s odd about them is that they’re not coming from the local factory, they’re going to it.”

Pete let that sink in briefly before surging ahead. “They’re coming from the Park.”

“Wait, the National Park?” Bud asked.

Pete nodded enthusiastically. “Huckelstein National Park! They don’t have any reason to drive through that trail; it’s longer than the usual routes. There’s literally no good reason for those trucks to be there.”

Bud chomped down on the pen lid and thought it over. He needed the money; his client could pay up-fron… He stopped chewing and his eyes darted upward, meeting Pete’s gaze.

“Uh, if you don’t mind me asking, how exactly are you going to pay me?” Bud said.

Pete tossed a plastic bag full of coins onto the suitcase, explaining, “I’m a bottle collector. There has to be at least fifty bucks in there.”

Bud smiled and rose, extending his hand. Fifty would be plenty to hang on to his little corner; the dealership didn’t value it too highly. As the two men shook hands, Bud said, “Well, thank you, Pete; I think I’m going to relish this opportunity”.

--

Huckelstein National Park, 11:07 AM

Private Investigator Bud Brauer waded through the dense underbrush hopelessly lost. He always had hated this park. There were no signs; trails were being covered with new plant life constantly, and it was home to around fifty billion poisonous species of spiders, tree frogs and salamanders. The people the park was named after had hated it too. The Huckelstein brood had lost a full ten generations of its members to this woodland abyss, eventually they got wise, sold the park and bought a houseboat.

Despite being hopelessly lost, Bud had found an area of interest. One of the ponds had been disturbed recently; the surface growth of muck was suspiciously patchy, as if the slime had been meticulously whisked away. Bud jotted it down and moved further along the bank. His foot caught on something and he fell, awkwardly twisting and splashing into a mud puddle. Fresh tire marks led from the pond up to the road, about 500 meters extant.

“Tire-tracks here? That’s odd,” he said.

He shook swamp water from his notepad and scratched in the occurrence. Something was definitely up. ‘Maybe Heinz was dumping its waste into the park like the dozens of other local corporations. Maybe their drivers are rednecks who decided to go offroad’. Bud shook his head. ‘Too easy, too boring’. He would have to investigate further. Bud smiled and arched an eyebrow.

“Time to pay a visit to the mysterious Mr. Heinz!” He shouted triumphantly to no-one in particular.

--

Heinz Manufacturing Plant, 1:35 PM

“Hi, I’d like to arrange an interview with Mr. Heinz,” Bud asked, directing the question toward the front desk and the secretary manning it.

“Oh, uh, and who are you with, sir?” she said.

“I’m with an Ad Firm… Sellstuffz United, we want to advertise some of your purple ketchup, things like that,” Bud replied.

The secretary nodded suspiciously and picked up her phone. Bud began sweating. ‘This isn’t working’. Each boop of the tele-pad triggered a grim “glurp” in his skipping heart, and he regretted for a moment skipping that last checkup. He had to act fast.

He ran past the desk, arms windmilling in a lunatic fashion. “BATHROOM!” He didn’t stop at the restroom door, instead pushing further into the bowels of the building.

--

Heinz Manufacturing Plant, 1:42 PM

Through his impressive skills at reading English signage, Bud Brauer arrived outside a fairly important-looking room. His suspicions were confirmed a moment later as he read the name from a brass plate. “Harold R. Heinz,” he said aloud, in the same instant questioning the wisdom of this habit.

The room was occupied, the door no doubt locked. He spotted a vent near the ceiling and formulated a plan. He had a screwdriver in his pocket; it now went to work on the vent fastenings. He gently set the grate on the ground and crawled in. His socks were still moist with swamp water; they chafed uncomfortably against his feet. He progressed along the vent until he could clearly hear what was transpiring in the room beyond.

“So what about the other sites, are we bringing in more of the stuff?” Mr. Heinz asked over the phone.

“Do you really have to know why?” He responded to a question from the other side.

Mr. Heinz sighed, and said, “Spices, Jack. Need to say more?”

“I knew it!” Bud shouted, his voice rudely reverberating in the pipes. The phone conversation died, and Bud heard the familiar beeping and booping of phone digits. ‘Probably alerting building security, crap.’

Bud slid as fast as he could backward through the vent, mumbling to himself. He popped out into the hall, losing his shoes in the process. Two security guards were bearing down and him. Bud picked up his left sneaker and called upon the impulses he loved best, the stupid and half-baked ones.

He began shouting gibberish before screaming, “I have a bomb in my shoe! I have a bomb!”

The guards didn’t waver, so he upped the ante. He yanked at a shoe-lace, making sure they saw it. “Don’t make me pull it! Back off, man! Back off!” They slowed and glanced at each other, unsure of their next course of action. Bud tore ahead, leaving them behind. He let out a cry of, “Soup de jour: Justice!” to the confused stares of employees in the lobby.

Before the guards could catch the intruder, he was out into the parking lot and still sprinting. A notebook jostled in his pocket, his hair flapped in the wind and he held his shoe above his head with an indecipherable look in his eyes.

He passed by a street corner and took no notice of the wild-haired homeless man wheeling a shopping cart up to the curb. The man stopped and laughed, shaking his head. He amusedly muttered something about lying execs and turnover rates and continued on his course, lugging along his bundle of papers.

Actually, just in case no one caught why I left those words at the end of each character blank:

My Dear Friends,

By the time you read this letter, I will be the late Mr. Roger Harrison.

I have little time left, but I feel that I owe you an apology and an explanation. The former is easily done. I will not lard it down with excuses, temporizing, or equivocation, but rather speak plainly: I apologise. I apologise for what I have done, for the unfulfilled hope that I dangled before you, fruit before Tantalus.

The latter, I fear, will take more doing.

You will recall the tale of how I came to invent the serum—a dead fiancé, mad experiments, and the final, accidental discovery. I shall not recount it here. It is important to note, before I go on, that this tale is a lie. It was a lie of necessity, however, and I hope you will come to see why I did not make the truth known.

I begin, like Copperfield, with my genesis: I was born in Bedfordshire, to parents of means but no status. I shall spare you the particulars, save for one important point: the event took place nigh three hundred years ago.

As a child, I was given tutors in reading, writing, and the courtly manners; my parents wished me to move in high circles, despite my inferior birth. I despised courtly manners, but delighted my tutors by taking an interest in the ideas of Descartes and Bacon, and in their new philosophy of the natural sciences. I read all I could of natural philosophy, and once I was of age, I left home and came to Gresham College at Bishopsgate. It was there that I first attended the lectures of Robert Boyle.

At last, I had found my calling! I could not turn away as he spoke of the jarring seeds of matter, of the properties of air under pressure, of the primacy of rigorous experiment. The moment his lecture was finished, I hurried forward to the lectern. “Professor Boyle,” said I (the more fool me, for he was not a professor), “I wish you would take me on as your student.”

He gave me a look of disdain. “Certainly not,” said he, “I’ve no time to tend children.”

I was not dissuaded. I followed Boyle to his home, badgering him all the while, and waited outside until he left the following morning, when I followed him again and badgered him further. I became a very plague on poor Boyle, beleaguering him for days, until at last he agreed to take me on. “But,” said he, “I tolerate neither sloth nor dullness of mind. Should you fall into either, I shall send you away at once!”

He did not send me away. Indeed, I was his most industrious student, his quickest, his keenest. I learned all I could wish of the new sciences of physics and chemistry, and soon I began to aid Boyle in his experiments and even to conduct my own, with his blessings.

I also aided him in his more peculiar and secret work. For while Boyle despised the ancient alchemists for their lack of rigor, he was fascinated with their ideas—the multiplication of metals, the philosopher’s stone. So, I soon found, was I, although unlike Boyle, it was not metals that interested me, but the panacea. The elixir of life. What wonders might a man see if he but lived long enough? What might he discover, what experiments perform? Boyle’s obsession became mine.

Alas, Boyle was never to find the stone—his health failed, he retired from public life, and if he conducted further experiments, I know nothing of them. With his death, I became disenchanted with the College, and with the natural philosophers. Bacon and Descartes’ grand new philosophy, I believed, had come to naught.

I continued Boyle's studies of the ancient alchemists. And I soon made a discovery, one of no little importance. I found that in their treatises, the greatest of the English and French alchemists spoke with great respect of the alchemy of the Mohammedans—Geber, Rhazes, and Alkindus. The heathen lands of Arabia, I found, had learned the arts of distillation, purification, and crystallisation long before the Christian lands had; indeed, the Mohammedan alchemists had practiced something akin to the rigorous experimental methods of Boyle.

I decided that in order to progress in my alchemical studies, I would have to travel to Arabia and seek out a Mohammedan teacher. I bade my few friends and my parents farewell, and I left England, not knowing if I should ever return.

My journey to Arabia can be summed thusly: tedious and disagreeable.

I arrived lighter of frame and purse, Boyle's death still weighing on my mind. And it seemed my travels had been in vain—of the ancient Mohammedan alchemists there were few records, and if any alchemists remained, they hid themselves well. But as before, I would not give up easily. I met with sheiks and amirs, and perused their libraries (courtly manners proved of some use after all). I spoke with scholars. I searched the markets for scrolls and old books.

It was in the markets that I made my discovery—an ancient volume scribed by Rhazes, which the man at the stall swore had been looted by his grandfather during the sacking of a palace many years before. I cared not a whit whence it came, only that I had it. I began reading at once.

According to Rhazes, solitude was paramount in the quest for the philosopher’s stone. I packed up food, water, and my apparatus, and traveled to a desert cave to begin conducting experiments.

I toiled in that cave for many years; in the early days, I left occasionally to fetch supplies, but after a time, the locals began to bring food and water for “the mad Englishman,” and soon I could remain and conduct experiment after experiment. Rhazes’ text helped only a little at first. His methods were sound, but his language was odd and metaphorical, almost incomprehensible. Gradually, as I labored in my cave and ignored the outside world, I came to see underneath his metaphor, and my understanding sharpened.

Rhazes spoke of alchemy, the art of transformation. But alchemy was not merely the transformation of base metals, it was also the transformation of the self—of the soul. First, purification. Filtering impurities from the soul; burning out flaws with the searing flame of reason. Second, conjunction. Reconstituting the purified soul; enlightenment of the spirit. Finally, sublimation. Attaining the glory of the whole; the unification of the soul with the limitless Soul of All. Panacea.

It was more than two hundred years later that I emerged from my cave to a changed world. A former British colony had become a great world power, the Russian Empire another. England's influence on the world had waned; the sun had set on our Empire.

Boyle's death still haunted me. And to my surprise, I found that his name was remembered. Some of his ideas had borne fruit, and the natural philosophers of this age spoke glowingly of his contributions to the sciences. What, I wondered, could he have wrought given more time? To what might the Boyles of this new age aspire, if they did not succumb to old age? I became determined to reproduce my life serum, to create enough for the natural philosophers. Perhaps enough for the thousands of thousands of people in all the world.

I traveled to the New World, and there I found a partner, a fair-minded and well-spoken man of business. He aided me in finding accommodations and laboratory equipment, and introduced me to many natural philosophers. He helped me to secure funds for my serum, to begin the work of mass production. And he shielded me from the newspapermen who descended once word of our project escaped.

Soon we leased a production facility, and I prepared it for the production of the serum.

But how quickly things can change! Two days ago, my partner, who I thought so fair-minded, showed another face. He raved over the ideas of a Scotsman named Smith. Smith’s theory of the unseen hand of greed, he told me, would ensure the success of the serum. We would charge enormous sums for its use, and the wealthy would queue up to pay us. He rejected the idea of giving serum to natural philosophers. We argued at great length, but I was powerless; the production of the serum had passed beyond my control. My sole leverage was that I alone knew the formula. Still, careful analysis of the process I had put in place for the facility would yield that information.

Production could not be allowed to go forward. The noble art of alchemy was not meant for the enrichment of venal men. Last night, I destroyed my notes and equipment. I dismantled key parts of the facility. And I destroyed my private cache of serum, assuring my impending death. The formula will die with me.

I have been a fool, and for this I apologise. I forgot the words of Rhazes, and what they meant. I forgot that in alchemy, what is important is not the destination, but the journey. The quest. Giving the serum to other men would have circumvented that journey. This would not only be a disservice to those men, but an act of hubris—panacea is not mine to give.

All that I have to give are the words of this letter. Remember Rhazes, and remember the three stages of the Great Work.

Purification.
Conjunction.
Sublimation.

Godspeed,

Roger

viciouskillersquirrel said:

Oh geez... I totally forgot about this.

Stupid E3.

It looks like I'll miss this one

Click to expand...

Me too, this would of been my first entry. I'll wait till next time though. Can't wait!

Yeah, I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with this particular piece. I just threw it out there and I wanted to at least make the ending interesting or unique. I didn't particularly jive with the theme this time, I think.

Hope it's not too late for me:

The Choking Bite (1413 words)

The clouds crawled across the night sky like a viscous sludge hiding the slime-occluded moon. Down below in the sticky, hot streets, the human press crawled along the byways, a million footed millipede. Summer had descended on the city, a humid, suffocating blanket squeezing the breath out of a million mouths. David Provan slouched along a back alley with seemingly no aim, no home. In truth, he had an apartment, a career, a dog. But, every once in a while, that wasn’t enough and he would leave it all behind to skulk along the streets, hoping that tonight would be the night. Excitement. Danger.

It all started when he was watching the news after another tortuous day at his uninteresting job. The newscaster was droning a gentle hum about the latest pandemic. It came every year. David looked forward to her indignant report about the overblown publicity that this year’s plague received.

But, nestled in between commercial breaks, the reporter struck David with a seeming revelation. This city, his city, was the most dangerous in the world. David had lived here all his life and always felt safe. Sure, Mom always told him not to ride the subway after dark but he had and all had been well. She also told him not to talk to strangers and that tin cans cause cancer. Provan knew that his city was safe for the denizens. Only tourists got robbed. Only cheating wives and gangbangers got murdered. He didn’t know why he felt so strongly about the city, maybe it was civic pride.

“I don’t even like this shithole though,” he thought as he sat contemplating this mysterious, new protectiveness.

The idea hit him like a cold splash of river water. He would prove that it was safe out on the dark streets. If he could spend a night or two out on the streets without being robbed or stabbed, he would know the streets were safe even if that news tart tried to say differently. So, dressing in his best suit and coat - trying to look like a fat mark, flush with ducats and begging for a knife wound – David hit the streets. He hit them the next night and the night after. Night after night, he would enter the soupy darkness and walk along the streets and alleys, his feet seeming to stick to the hot pavement.

He would strike the pavement but the pavement never struck back. No shadow man disconnecting from the alley side blackness to demand his money or his life. No murdering creeper stalking him and flashing in mirrored shop faces as he tried not to notice. Only the atonal ticking of passerby’s feet and, occasionally, a prostitute to demand, and to be refused, an offering of seed.

It began to vex David that nothing happened. Here he was – begging for it - and nary a criminal to be found. The city had once been like a comforting guard dog, familiar but dangerous, but now seemed like a snarling mongrel with no teeth. He began to walk further afield hoping to find the bad place. He walked longer and more frequently but always nothing. Sure, he wanted to prove it was safe. But, if a city couldn’t even trim the weak, how could it ever be strong?

The problem began to gnaw at his mind and spread into his waking life like a slow pool of oil slithering its way across the pavement. The city had to have a bite. It had to be dangerous and he couldn’t see it. Was he a special case? Were the statistics wrong? Maybe he looked too alluring as a mark. The predators sensed a trap and scampered away to look for proper prey. With this in mind, he began to change his costume. Wearing jean shorts and a t-shirt, wearing khakis and a button up shirt, wearing sweatpants and a hooded sweathshirt. Always to be disappointed, always another safe night.

“Where did that bitch reporter get those statistics anyways? It's made up bullshit.” He fumed idly to himself as he worked tiredly in his office after another long night. His dark-rimmed eyes sparked sullenly from the shadow depths of his eye sockets as he worked his way through police reports trying to pinpoint the high crime neighborhoods, planning his now-nightly ramble.

He had been dreaming for a long time of being robbed. His fevered brain conjured a thousand different scenarios as he slept. One time, he might be the celebrated hero when he stopped a robbery from happening. Another time, he might be hapless victim, quaking and horrified at the black gape of a gun barrel as he is relieved of his belongings.

After many sleepless nights, as he was idly wandering down a midnight-dark street lighted only by the radiance spilling from a corner store, David noticed that a man in a suit and surgeons mask was pointing a gun at a clearly terrified clerk. He had always wondered how he would feel when he finally found some crime. It hit him like an orgasm: victory! He spared a moment to wonder if he would have felt the same had the gun been pointed at him. No telling. “What should I do?” he wondered as so many of his forerunners surely did. Probably unlike his precursors, he wondered whether he should do nothing. Crime was seemingly a rarity in the city maybe he should let this budding criminal flower into a thorn bush.

After some thought, he decided that he had to do something so he would try an ambush. He would try apprehending the scum as he came out of the store with his spoils. Crouching out of site below the store window, Provan crept along until he was just behind where the door would be when it opened.

Waiting, with nothing but his breathing and the muffled commands coming from inside the store, he began to daydream about the moment when he would triumphantly turn the would-be robber over to the authorities. In fact, he became so engrossed in his thoughts that he nearly missed his chance for victory.

He came back to himself as the shop bell jangled a merry salutation as the robber walked out of the shop. David would have missed his chance had the villain not stopped to look around for observers.

As it was, David charged forward just as the masked man started to walk away and so he wasn’t able to get full force into his tackle. The robber, stunned by the sudden attack, fell into the wall just beside the doorway. Barely able to keep his feet, the man managed to wrench away from Provan, but lost his gun in the process, and ran off down the street. David, stopping to pick up the dropped weapon, ran after the criminal hoping to recover the purloined money. Clattering down the street, the now irate shopkeeper’s shouts of “Police!” harried them along the pitch black way.

Suddenly, as he was passing through pitch black darkness at an alley entrance, David ran into a heavy obstruction, which gave way and fell to the sidewalk with a hideous thud as he barreled a few steps onward. He could hear the heavy pattering of his quarry’s feet as he ran off but knew that he should check on whoever he ran into. Stooping to feel around, he felt the immobile sponginess of a very fat man.

Blinding light flooded the alleyway as a spotlight came on and a commanding voice descended on David like the voice of Almighty. “Freeze!” Followed by another authoritarian cry. “Put the weapon on the ground and interlace your fingers behind your head!”

Stunned and blinking, Provan tried to get his bearings as he did as he had been commanded. Looking at the person he stumbled into, he realized that it was a body now, a police officer leaking blood from the head and not appearing to breathe.

As his hands were cuffed by the living and livid police officer, Provan wondered if the shopkeeper saw him chasing the perpetrator, he wondered if the police would believe that the gun he had wasn’t his, wondered if he would get off for a dead cop, wondered if they would believe he was out at 4am for a lazy stroll and if they would believe he wasn’t an accomplice to the robbery. Hoped it was all a dream.

The city had teeth all right.

nitewulf - "The Endless Summer"
Aaron – “A Jelly of a Most Unusual Flavor”
keeblerdrow – “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way To”
hey_monkey – “No One Has to Know, Not Even You and Me”
Spoo – “Back Home”
CygnusXS – “Supernatural Geographic”
EBCubs03 – “Requisite”
ronito – “Lobo and the Beauty Queen”
Belfast – “The Fine Print”
ZephyrFate – “The Indeterminable”
Timedog – “Awake!”
Ward – “Chekhov’s Gun”
RurouniZel – “Just short of the coronation”
Botolf – “The Hand that Rocks the Ladle…”
Cyan – “Panacea”

1. nitewulf - "The Endless Summer"
2. hey_monkey – “No One Has to Know, Not Even You and Me”
3. Belfast – “The Fine Print”

Hard to decide between my top two, there. Ultimately, hey_monkey's just icked me out a little too much. :O

Scribble, where'd you go?

I had to do some light research for that, Cyan, and all I have to say is safe search my ass. And also, thank you.

Gotta finish reading so I can get my votes in!