Man, why do you have to eat food? It's kind of a waste of time isn't it, and I don't see why it's necessary! I'm gonna invent an invention where you don't have to eat food ever again and also it'll slow down time so that you can have more free time. LOL, I'm Timedog!
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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #54 - "Creeping Dread"
- Thread starter Aaron
- Start date
- Status
crowphoenix
Banned
I'd settle for an invention that just gives me more time. Eating is too awesome.
Cermintorva, Mnenlic, My Son
776 Words
Tonight, Mnenlic thought to himself, testing the chains that bound him to the wall, the world ends and were the cause.
Never in his short twenty years had he thought he would see the fall of an empire, a people, and an ideal, but he had witnessed all three in the course of a night. Or, he would have, had he not been caught.
He tested his restraints again. There was enough slack. He looked across the tight, stone room at the steel door sealing him within. Only the soft glow of fluorescent moss between the cracks of the stone gave any illumination. If he wasnt quick about his task, his captors would come back. They would come back and torture him, wanting to know who had sent him to spy on them. For the future of their people, he couldnt be made to talk. He needed to die.
There was a time when he had wanted nothing more than to run through the grassy fields of Perilope. His father had always promised to take him there. But the safety of their world took precedence, and that holiday would always come last. Life would always come last.
But why him? Why did he have to risk everything? He knew the answer to that question. Though he didnt like the answer, he understood his place in it. It didnt make what was to come any less harrowing.
The minutes passed, and he waited, finding it increasingly difficult to keep whatever he had eaten down. He wouldnt want to die in such an undignified manner, but there was something about impending death that made Mnenlic shake. When his stomach churned, he squatted. Both of the devices came out of him in a flush. There was enough slack in his chains to retrieve both. He paused to listen, but couldnt hear anything outside his cell.
There wasnt much time. He disregarded the smell wafting from the items, and set about turning them on. The comm link came to life with a crackle and hum; the other item pulsed with the rhythm of his heart. He looked at its deep red glowing surface before turning his attention back to the comm link.
Halo, Mnenlic said, using the mans codename, can you hear me?
Static answered him.
Halo... please come in.
Again, there was only static. Tears hugged the corners of his eyes. He was to die, alone, without ever warning them; without ever fulfilling the mission he had been sent to die for.
Inter... rence... Tinko... hear...
Mnenlic looked at the comm link. He moved it around in the air, trying to position it for a better signal. Theyd used his call sign, Tinko, and had heard him. Theyd heard him. Despite what was happening, he laughed.
Halo, we have been compromised.
There came no answer.
Halo, visitors and indigenous. Just saying it brought a chill to Mnenlic. Their own people were working to bring down everything they had built since the birth of their world. All for the promise of something intangible.
Youre... about... saw?
Three snake heads. Four lioness. A smattering of the mazin. Code to imply that hed seen three of their most astute leaders, four of their generals, and a host of other men and women with lesser, but still important, positions. All within the complex. All bent on the destruction of their people.
Return.
Mnenlic looked at the comm link. It was an impossible request. There wasnt much time, and he did not have the energy to explain his predicament. He would face his fate.
Please tell Rosalina that I love her, as all he managed to get out. He held the comm link to his lips and whispered its self destruct phrase, then dropped it to the ground as it smoked and ate itself from the inside out.
That left the other device. It throbbed in his hand, sealing his fate. He placed it against his chest and pressed a button. Sharp claws shot out and embedded themselves into his skin.
Even as the device burrowed into him, emptying him onto the floor, he knew he was doing the right thing. Even as his screams filled the room, and the door was unlatched and pushed open, ten men standing in its entrance, he knew he was doing the right thing. Even as he died in the chains that bound him, he knew he was doing the right thing. And when the darkness took him, and his secrets died with him, protecting those that had sent them, he knew he was doing the right thing. Tonight, the world would end, and they were the cause.

776 Words
Tonight, Mnenlic thought to himself, testing the chains that bound him to the wall, the world ends and were the cause.
Never in his short twenty years had he thought he would see the fall of an empire, a people, and an ideal, but he had witnessed all three in the course of a night. Or, he would have, had he not been caught.
He tested his restraints again. There was enough slack. He looked across the tight, stone room at the steel door sealing him within. Only the soft glow of fluorescent moss between the cracks of the stone gave any illumination. If he wasnt quick about his task, his captors would come back. They would come back and torture him, wanting to know who had sent him to spy on them. For the future of their people, he couldnt be made to talk. He needed to die.
There was a time when he had wanted nothing more than to run through the grassy fields of Perilope. His father had always promised to take him there. But the safety of their world took precedence, and that holiday would always come last. Life would always come last.
But why him? Why did he have to risk everything? He knew the answer to that question. Though he didnt like the answer, he understood his place in it. It didnt make what was to come any less harrowing.
The minutes passed, and he waited, finding it increasingly difficult to keep whatever he had eaten down. He wouldnt want to die in such an undignified manner, but there was something about impending death that made Mnenlic shake. When his stomach churned, he squatted. Both of the devices came out of him in a flush. There was enough slack in his chains to retrieve both. He paused to listen, but couldnt hear anything outside his cell.
There wasnt much time. He disregarded the smell wafting from the items, and set about turning them on. The comm link came to life with a crackle and hum; the other item pulsed with the rhythm of his heart. He looked at its deep red glowing surface before turning his attention back to the comm link.
Halo, Mnenlic said, using the mans codename, can you hear me?
Static answered him.
Halo... please come in.
Again, there was only static. Tears hugged the corners of his eyes. He was to die, alone, without ever warning them; without ever fulfilling the mission he had been sent to die for.
Inter... rence... Tinko... hear...
Mnenlic looked at the comm link. He moved it around in the air, trying to position it for a better signal. Theyd used his call sign, Tinko, and had heard him. Theyd heard him. Despite what was happening, he laughed.
Halo, we have been compromised.
There came no answer.
Halo, visitors and indigenous. Just saying it brought a chill to Mnenlic. Their own people were working to bring down everything they had built since the birth of their world. All for the promise of something intangible.
Youre... about... saw?
Three snake heads. Four lioness. A smattering of the mazin. Code to imply that hed seen three of their most astute leaders, four of their generals, and a host of other men and women with lesser, but still important, positions. All within the complex. All bent on the destruction of their people.
Return.
Mnenlic looked at the comm link. It was an impossible request. There wasnt much time, and he did not have the energy to explain his predicament. He would face his fate.
Please tell Rosalina that I love her, as all he managed to get out. He held the comm link to his lips and whispered its self destruct phrase, then dropped it to the ground as it smoked and ate itself from the inside out.
That left the other device. It throbbed in his hand, sealing his fate. He placed it against his chest and pressed a button. Sharp claws shot out and embedded themselves into his skin.
Even as the device burrowed into him, emptying him onto the floor, he knew he was doing the right thing. Even as his screams filled the room, and the door was unlatched and pushed open, ten men standing in its entrance, he knew he was doing the right thing. Even as he died in the chains that bound him, he knew he was doing the right thing. And when the darkness took him, and his secrets died with him, protecting those that had sent them, he knew he was doing the right thing. Tonight, the world would end, and they were the cause.

Didn't like how my first story choice was developing. I've chosen a completely different story, completely different tone. It'll be a bit of a departure for me... but should be a good exercise. Someone once told me I had a gift for dark comedy and I've tried to fight that fate for a while. This should help me confront it.
Four page limit, linear storytelling with some brief flashbacks. I know the beginning and the end for sure. I know the concept of the middle.. I'll just need a bit of reservation, patience and planning to smooth out the creeping dread motif. Shouldn't take too long (after work that is..) I'll just need to give myself some time to edit afterwards.
Four page limit, linear storytelling with some brief flashbacks. I know the beginning and the end for sure. I know the concept of the middle.. I'll just need a bit of reservation, patience and planning to smooth out the creeping dread motif. Shouldn't take too long (after work that is..) I'll just need to give myself some time to edit afterwards.
How do you guys come up with story ideas?
A lot of times I will think of just some visual in my head that is appealing (like a horses skin getting charbroiled by a flamethrower, or a homeless guy high jumping, or sweet looking crystals or something), and write a story around it, and it will lead to really weird places. If I try to think of an idea in a traditional way it ends up being so cliche.
A lot of times I will think of just some visual in my head that is appealing (like a horses skin getting charbroiled by a flamethrower, or a homeless guy high jumping, or sweet looking crystals or something), and write a story around it, and it will lead to really weird places. If I try to think of an idea in a traditional way it ends up being so cliche.
ZephyrFate
Banned
Inspiration from books, things I see in my goings-on every-day life, things people tell me, quotes, etc.
I always try to come up with an idea that is simply the theme in a different, much longer format. I think that's why most of my stuff is sorta pedestrian. I'm basically just stretching the theme out from a few words into several paragraphs. I really don't get inspiration from anywhere else than that.
dragonlife
Member
Here's mine (258 words):
Reaper of the Soil
Andrew Millers concentration was shattering under the scrutiny of the sun. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and focused once more on the blight before him: weeds.
A single one had suddenly appeared. Its sight upon his perfect garden repulsed him; angered him.
It needs to be removed, he thought. It was sapping his train of thought with its endless staring. But no matter how hard the weed tried, it would never truly understand what it meant to be a devoted gardener.
As if engaging in war, Andrew screamed and mustered his entire being, throwing himself atop the lone weed. He looked like an overgrown child, unsympathetic to the cries of nature.
He stood back up and gripped and wound its long stem around his hand and pulled. The therapeutic crunch produced from the departure of root and earth invigorated him. He continued to rip and rip like a madman until sweat and dirt stained him wholly.
His anger subsided and his focus returned. He reveled in a job well done; however, he was mistaken.
His folly came en masse: weeds suddenly erupted all around him. They were much taller than him and they dominated his attention as they inched closer and closer.
They wont get me. They wont get me.
The officers flashlights focusing on his face revealed Andrews eyes to shine with a macabre delight. They had no time to mourn their dead comrade; Andrew hastily brandished a bloody dagger and slit his throat.
The little girls were never heard from again.
Reaper of the Soil
Andrew Millers concentration was shattering under the scrutiny of the sun. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and focused once more on the blight before him: weeds.
A single one had suddenly appeared. Its sight upon his perfect garden repulsed him; angered him.
It needs to be removed, he thought. It was sapping his train of thought with its endless staring. But no matter how hard the weed tried, it would never truly understand what it meant to be a devoted gardener.
As if engaging in war, Andrew screamed and mustered his entire being, throwing himself atop the lone weed. He looked like an overgrown child, unsympathetic to the cries of nature.
He stood back up and gripped and wound its long stem around his hand and pulled. The therapeutic crunch produced from the departure of root and earth invigorated him. He continued to rip and rip like a madman until sweat and dirt stained him wholly.
His anger subsided and his focus returned. He reveled in a job well done; however, he was mistaken.
His folly came en masse: weeds suddenly erupted all around him. They were much taller than him and they dominated his attention as they inched closer and closer.
They wont get me. They wont get me.
The officers flashlights focusing on his face revealed Andrews eyes to shine with a macabre delight. They had no time to mourn their dead comrade; Andrew hastily brandished a bloody dagger and slit his throat.
The little girls were never heard from again.
Whoa. I started on a new story and this shit is just flowing out. I think I'll submit this new story and make the other one a submission that's not up for voting. I still kind of would like some critiques from those who have enough time to read it, even though I think I realize some of what's wrong with it. Getting critiques on my more straight forward stuff, the stuff that I know everyone is 'getting', that always gives me some interesting perspective on my writing and on myself.
Ooooooh, dragonlife entered a story, yay! If I ever win another challenge, you could be the only one who likes my theme!
Ooooooh, dragonlife entered a story, yay! If I ever win another challenge, you could be the only one who likes my theme!
ZephyrFate
Banned
I prefer when your stuff is just completely out of left field. That's the "Timedog" part of your work.
Timedog said:
I try to think of a character I'd like to sit down and talk to. Then I kind of ask them about their life and they tell me their story. Sometimes it's cool, sometimes it's cliche, sometimes it's just something that really has no rhyme or reason.
crowphoenix
Banned
I usually come up with the story, setting, or a character first and then try to figure out how to work that into the theme.Timedog said:
Wow, I think I should try this. My biggest problem always seems to be finding interesting characters. My characters tend to be painfully bland... I've come up with good ones from time to time, but it's definitely not the norm. Maybe I'll try your way on the next challenge.Alfarif said:
Easiest way to find the story is to think about goals and conflicts. What characters have what goals, and how can those goals be put into conflict? Once you have that, you can decide what happens to help or stop the MC in reaching his/her goal, and whether it's ultimately reached or not.Irish said:
It's not the only way, but it often helps me clarify things if I'm having trouble.
Ashes1396 said:
Cyan said:
I know that one of my weaknesses in doing this (which I guess is a good thing I've identified it) is that to express the full scope of the character, I have to write long stories (i.e. novels). Shorter tales are my kryptonite, and I've gotten into this habit that not only do I want to have the character tell me their story, but that their story should also have an "Ah-ha!" moment at the end of it (especially the shorter ones; longer tales aren't as important, since the "Ah-ha!" happens along the way).
Cyan, if you want to try it, you should try doing what I sometimes do and "interview" the character. Now, call me crazy for this, but I used to literally walk around my house, apartment, whatever and "talk" to myself... except, my responses would be the characters... with their voice patterns and accents. (I now record them to make it easier to remember all of the little details along the way.) I feel like you guys are going to laugh at me for that... but I feel that the characters I did this with are a hell of a lot stronger than any character I didn't do this with (and I don't think any of my stories but one was done this way for these challenges). I'd get to know the character, so when I sat down to write, I wasn't writing as much as I was transcribing what they'd told me.
Fuck, I sound crazy. :lol
Irish said:
You should try the whole "How can I fuck up your life?" approach. You have this character and these settings, now how can you make that character's life a living hell?
You can't see the trees, because the trees, they, well, uh, they're trees:I was born to create very profound titles. (700 words)
---
Its possible, after all, to live too long. Theres a point where your mind starts breaking down. Memories of times gone by slowly going away, falling down, crumbling apart. The details of people you knew go hazy before disappearing forever. Recent events blur with the old, resulting only in confusion.
I guess its wrong to say that Im dying. Ill become a tree, if that helps. Theyll plant me in the ground, turn my skin to bark and my blood to sap, and my face will crack a final grin before it freezes into the trunk of the tree. There Ill stare at the one view afforded to me, a view of the garden, where other such trees are planted in irregular rows. Men and women, living trees, their minds slowly fading away, eyes brown as the bark around it and gummed up with green sap, like old tears. Its not as nightmarish as it seems. Ive looked it up. Sometimes it seems like the ideal ending. You dont feel as a tree. Theres no pain. You dont die, necessarily. Your body becomes the soil and from your blood springs a new life. You lose your mind, and in that oblivion, you fade away before you cease to exist. Thats how they explained it to me. A slow, introspective process. The peaceful way to finally die. Falling asleep as the seasons drift on by.
I have my options, of course. I could always get myself frozen, although there seems to be very little difference between the two, between being frozen and becoming a tree. In both Ill be inanimate, not quite a living thing, and the main difference is that the end for one is nearly instant, whereas for the other, to become a tree, the process is gradual and allows time for introspection. Thats what scares me, a little. The time where Ill be rooted to the ground, gravity pressing down on my boughs, and Ill wonder if I did the right thing. I went to the garden once, and wondered if all those human trees were screaming inside.
Another option is to just--die. The natural way. The organic way. I laughed, when someone suggested that to me--was it one of my great-great-grandchildren? Thats a paupers death, I said. Does anyone do that anymore? Poor people?
Id much rather go on as a tree, than some anonymous pile of bones in a graveyard.
Ive lived for three centuries. I dont remember much of it. My childhood is utterly lost to me. My teenage years exist only as brief gasps of the imagination, where my fantasies blur with reality. I dream that I was on Mars. Saving the princess, fending off barbarians, riding the rocket ship back to Earth. She is blond and her lips are sweet. We have children. They hate us. She dies, and as times passes by, the grief fades and I forget about her. I struggle to remember her name, and fail to do so. She is gone, the Martian princess, and Im not sure if she ever existed. Only the questions remain. There were wars, of course. There were nations and there were many exciting things, things I no longer have any passion for. I sometimes dream about the Martian princess. Im sure she didnt exist, but then, why do I remember the feel of her lips on my own? They were cool, then they were warm, and most of all, theyre the only things that feel real to me.
I have two days left as a human being. My limbs dont quite work anymore. Im bound to my bed, and in my bed, I stare at the wall where they converted it into a view of the river. It looks like the real thing. The water churns and flows, and the sound is real, the sound of the water rushing through. I imagine myself being swept away, and am reassured by that vision. Just two more days to go. One morning and one night, then another morning, another night, before they root me to the ground and Im sealed in. No more pain. I guess Im tired, after all, of being human. It creeps up on you. Seals you in. The fatigue, the exhaustion, and one day, I'll fall asleep--such a gentle way to go.
---
Its possible, after all, to live too long. Theres a point where your mind starts breaking down. Memories of times gone by slowly going away, falling down, crumbling apart. The details of people you knew go hazy before disappearing forever. Recent events blur with the old, resulting only in confusion.
I guess its wrong to say that Im dying. Ill become a tree, if that helps. Theyll plant me in the ground, turn my skin to bark and my blood to sap, and my face will crack a final grin before it freezes into the trunk of the tree. There Ill stare at the one view afforded to me, a view of the garden, where other such trees are planted in irregular rows. Men and women, living trees, their minds slowly fading away, eyes brown as the bark around it and gummed up with green sap, like old tears. Its not as nightmarish as it seems. Ive looked it up. Sometimes it seems like the ideal ending. You dont feel as a tree. Theres no pain. You dont die, necessarily. Your body becomes the soil and from your blood springs a new life. You lose your mind, and in that oblivion, you fade away before you cease to exist. Thats how they explained it to me. A slow, introspective process. The peaceful way to finally die. Falling asleep as the seasons drift on by.
I have my options, of course. I could always get myself frozen, although there seems to be very little difference between the two, between being frozen and becoming a tree. In both Ill be inanimate, not quite a living thing, and the main difference is that the end for one is nearly instant, whereas for the other, to become a tree, the process is gradual and allows time for introspection. Thats what scares me, a little. The time where Ill be rooted to the ground, gravity pressing down on my boughs, and Ill wonder if I did the right thing. I went to the garden once, and wondered if all those human trees were screaming inside.
Another option is to just--die. The natural way. The organic way. I laughed, when someone suggested that to me--was it one of my great-great-grandchildren? Thats a paupers death, I said. Does anyone do that anymore? Poor people?
Id much rather go on as a tree, than some anonymous pile of bones in a graveyard.
Ive lived for three centuries. I dont remember much of it. My childhood is utterly lost to me. My teenage years exist only as brief gasps of the imagination, where my fantasies blur with reality. I dream that I was on Mars. Saving the princess, fending off barbarians, riding the rocket ship back to Earth. She is blond and her lips are sweet. We have children. They hate us. She dies, and as times passes by, the grief fades and I forget about her. I struggle to remember her name, and fail to do so. She is gone, the Martian princess, and Im not sure if she ever existed. Only the questions remain. There were wars, of course. There were nations and there were many exciting things, things I no longer have any passion for. I sometimes dream about the Martian princess. Im sure she didnt exist, but then, why do I remember the feel of her lips on my own? They were cool, then they were warm, and most of all, theyre the only things that feel real to me.
I have two days left as a human being. My limbs dont quite work anymore. Im bound to my bed, and in my bed, I stare at the wall where they converted it into a view of the river. It looks like the real thing. The water churns and flows, and the sound is real, the sound of the water rushing through. I imagine myself being swept away, and am reassured by that vision. Just two more days to go. One morning and one night, then another morning, another night, before they root me to the ground and Im sealed in. No more pain. I guess Im tired, after all, of being human. It creeps up on you. Seals you in. The fatigue, the exhaustion, and one day, I'll fall asleep--such a gentle way to go.
crowphoenix
Banned
Deleted due to TOS changes.
Ashes1396 said:
Better then to have arrived at home from work. It's nearly seven in the morning over here. God I'mnakedknackered.*
*Knackered is the right word, Ashes. :lol
Well then. We know what you do as soon as you enter the house!
I'm right there with ya, brother.
Running Silent (1740)
Kerry rubbed his eyes and lifted the headset to massage his ears. One more hour until his Sensors watch cycle was done, and he could grab some damned shuteye. He could feel his berth calling out to him, promising the sleep that had eluded him on his last sleep cycle. He just hoped it could fulfill that promise.
He sipped at a mug of coffee--small sips; he didn't want to ruin another sleep cycle--and looked back down at his sonar readouts.
The 40 Hz receiver-amplifier hadn't changed; the Russkie sub was still on the same course. They'd been lucky to catch her--well, England had been lucky. Or maybe America; it was their bloody Cold War, after all. Personally, Kerry would just as soon they hadn't seen her; if they'd missed her, he might be on home leave by now. But, worse luck, the HMS Dreadnought had been running silent at just the right time and in just the right place to spot the Russkie going by, a few kilometers off. They'd followed, of course; there weren't supposed to be Russkies in these waters. Not this far out in the South Pacific; not this far between land masses.
Kerry shook his head. She was on the same course she'd been on for the last week: headed for the middle of nowhere, and slowly but surely going deeper. They were well off his mental map. He wondered vaguely how far and how deep Soviet maps went.
"Sensors." A hand fell on Kerry' right shoulder, and he started.
Kerry gritted his teeth. He didn't know why everyone called him Sensors and called the other Sensors men by their ranks, but he had a few guesses. He forced a neutral expression onto his face. He might be new to the Dreadnought, but he was no puke; he'd earned his dolphins like everyone else, and made Leading Hand besides. He was just as good as the other Sensors men, and he'd prove it by not rising to the bait. "Sir?" He looked up, and came to attention as best he could in the station chair.
He needn't have bothered. Lieutenant Clarke stared down at Kerry's receiver-amplifier readouts--or perhaps past them. Clarke had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was sallow. His normally tidy uniform was rumpled. The man looked as tired as Kerry felt. "Listen, Sensors," he said, still not looking at him. "We need you to keep a weather eye on that Russkie."
Kerry simmered, but kept it firmly under a lid. "Sir." He tightened his jaw. "Sir, I'm keeping an eye on them. It's all I've been doing the last week."
"You misunderstand me, Sensors." Clarke finally looked at him, and Kerry flinched. Clarke's gaze was stark and penetrating; Kerry had to look away. Clarke leaned in close, tightened his grip on Kerry' shoulder. "We need to know every heading change, every course correction, the moment it happens."
"But I'm already--"
"Listen, Sensors." Clarke leaned in even closer, and spoke barely loud enough for Kerry to hear. "We're off the charts here. We need to follow the Russkie exactly."
Kerry swallowed. "You mean we don't know where we--"
"We know where we are. We've got our dead reckoning. But we don't know anything about this where. We don't know what rocks or reefs or shipwrecks might be out there. And we don't--" he was hissing now, "want to hit anything." He leaned back, returned to a normal tone of voice. "Understood?"
Kerry blinked twice before he remembered he was supposed to respond. "Er. Aye, sir." No charts. No notion what obstacles might be waiting for them in the deeps. No idea what obstructions might be lurking, waiting to breach the hull and squeeze them to a sardine tin. Nothing to be done but creep along silently in the Russkies' wake, hoping they didn't do any fancy maneuvering. And the one thing that might actually help in this chartless muddle--active sonar--was the one thing they couldn't use without alerting the Russkies. Ye gods.
He saluted, and bent back over his readouts.
*
Kerry barely noticed it at first; an almost imperceptible vibration crept through his boots. He shrugged his shoulders; at first the vibration felt rather like a lorry going by his old flat. But it shaded quickly from mild vibration to a rumble strong enough to shake his empty coffee mug, and high-frequency enough that it showed up on sensors. He lost a moment to startlement, then went into action, turning handwheels and toggling switches, scrambling to capture the whole thing. And then without warning, less than a minute after it had started, it stopped. The lorry had passed.
Kerry stared at the readout. There was something odd here. The profile was familiar, and yet not. The frequency, and the volume--
"Sensors."
Kerry looked up. Lieutenant Clarke stood over him, looking still more the worse for wear than the last time Kerry had seen him. "Sir?" He came to attention.
"Bloody hell was that shaking? Not a torpedo, surely?"
"Well, no sir. " Kerry hesitated. Did Clarke want speculation, or hard info?
"Spit it out."
"Well, look here, sir." He indicated the readouts. "The audio profile of the vibration looks like a whale, see? The amplitude and frequency changes?"
"That was a whale?" Clarke raised an eyebrow.
"Well, no." Kerry hesitated again, but went on hurriedly before Clarke could get too restive. "It looks like a whale, sir, but it's too low-frequency and high volume. If that's a whale, then it's ten times the size of the biggest one I've ever heard of."
"Leviathan, eh?" Clarke snorted. "More likely something the Russkies cooked up."
"No sir, it was too far away. Same bearing, but farther than the Russkies. They'd have had to--"
PING
Kerry jerked back in his station chair. "Damn it!"
"What is it?" Clarke looked mildly surprised at the outburst.
PING
"We're nicked, sir." Kerry's gaze swept the readouts for a quick confirmation, then he looked up. "The Russkies went to active sonar. They'll have us dead to rights in a minute."
PING
Clarke swore under his breath, then took off at a run, shouting to the other men. Stations to be taken, torpedo tubes to be flooded, commander to be woken immediately. Just another day in Her Majesty's Navy.
PING
Kerry massaged his temples, but the readouts didn't get any clearer. They were going wild now, as echoes came in from all sides. He ought to switch on the Dreadnought's active sonar as well--no use trying to hide anymore, and they wouldn't have to worry about rocks or reefs with active on. But he paused with his hand over the switch. Clarke hadn't given the order.
PING
Kerry's boots began to vibrate.
The mystery lorry, back again? He turned his handwheels and toggled the filters as his coffee mug began to rattle. He stared down at the readouts. The profile seemed slightly different this time, though he couldn't put his finger on it. It was either coming closer or getting louder.
PING
The vibrations reached a crescendo, and the Dreadnought heaved, pitched, and rolled--rolled!--before the rumbling died again. Kerry's stomach lurched, and he gripped his station chair with white knuckles. Submarines were not meant to roll.
*
Kerry rubbed his eyes. Five minutes since that last ping, and still nothing. No engine noise from the Russkie, no pings, no whale-or-whatever sounds. Just silence.
"What d'you think, Sensors?" Lieutenant Clarke put a hand on the back of Kerry's station chair. "They running silent?"
"I--I don't know, sir. We should be getting something. Waves against their hull. Hell, drumfish or croakers or whatever bloody fish they have down here."
Clarke frowned. "You're getting nothing at all?"
"Aye, sir."
"Damn. We may have lost a hydrophone in that--that whatever it was." Clarke tapped a finger on the desk meditatively. "We'd better go active. Only way to be sure."
"Sir, I--" Kerry paused. Clarke was going to think him mad. "Permission to speak freely?"
"Spit it out, Sensors."
"I think the Russkies--" He searched for the right word. "Aren't there any more."
"Think they got away, do you?"
"No, sir. I think that whale noise was what it sounded like; some creature, something really large. And I--well, imagine you're an enormous undersea creature." At Clarke's raised eyebrow, he changed direction. "Or, imagine you're you. You're you, and a gnat starts buzzing around you. You barely notice it, but then it starts whining, making an awful din. You crush it just to shut it up, right?"
Clarke nodded, slowly.
"All right. Well, to a creature this size, the Russkies are--were--a gnat. And their active sonar was damned high-pitched compared to the noises the creature makes. Well." He took a deep breath. "I think it got riled up and smashed them."
Clarke stared at him, then shook his head. "I know this is a strain, Sensors, but try not to lose your grip. You'll be relieved shortly."
"But sir--"
Clarke held up a hand. "No more mermaid tales. The logical explanation is that the Russkies spotted us and went silent." He tapped a finger on the desk again. "They know where we are and they know the territory. The only way to negate that advantage is to go active ourselves. Give me a ping. And a report to Navigation."
"Sir, if we--"
"No buts, Sensors. One ping. That's an order."
Kerry stared up at Clarke. Clarke didn't understand. That audio profile had to have been a creature. It had to have been! It explained why nothing else was making any noise; all the small fish had been frightened off or frightened into silence.
He felt awfully like a small fish.
"Sensors?" Clarke raised both eyebrows.
Kerry looked down. "Aye sir." His mouth was dry; he swallowed air. "One ping." He reached out a hand.
PING
"Good man." Clarke squeezed Kerry's shoulder briefly, then strode purposefully off.
Kerry breathed out, a small sigh. Suddenly he felt a fool. Of course the Russkies were running silent. He had allowed pressure and lack of sleep to get the best of him--it was time and past time that he saw his berth. He shook his head, and reached for the radio. Navigation would be expecting a full report.
Kerry's boots began to vibrate.
Kerry rubbed his eyes and lifted the headset to massage his ears. One more hour until his Sensors watch cycle was done, and he could grab some damned shuteye. He could feel his berth calling out to him, promising the sleep that had eluded him on his last sleep cycle. He just hoped it could fulfill that promise.
He sipped at a mug of coffee--small sips; he didn't want to ruin another sleep cycle--and looked back down at his sonar readouts.
The 40 Hz receiver-amplifier hadn't changed; the Russkie sub was still on the same course. They'd been lucky to catch her--well, England had been lucky. Or maybe America; it was their bloody Cold War, after all. Personally, Kerry would just as soon they hadn't seen her; if they'd missed her, he might be on home leave by now. But, worse luck, the HMS Dreadnought had been running silent at just the right time and in just the right place to spot the Russkie going by, a few kilometers off. They'd followed, of course; there weren't supposed to be Russkies in these waters. Not this far out in the South Pacific; not this far between land masses.
Kerry shook his head. She was on the same course she'd been on for the last week: headed for the middle of nowhere, and slowly but surely going deeper. They were well off his mental map. He wondered vaguely how far and how deep Soviet maps went.
"Sensors." A hand fell on Kerry' right shoulder, and he started.
Kerry gritted his teeth. He didn't know why everyone called him Sensors and called the other Sensors men by their ranks, but he had a few guesses. He forced a neutral expression onto his face. He might be new to the Dreadnought, but he was no puke; he'd earned his dolphins like everyone else, and made Leading Hand besides. He was just as good as the other Sensors men, and he'd prove it by not rising to the bait. "Sir?" He looked up, and came to attention as best he could in the station chair.
He needn't have bothered. Lieutenant Clarke stared down at Kerry's receiver-amplifier readouts--or perhaps past them. Clarke had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was sallow. His normally tidy uniform was rumpled. The man looked as tired as Kerry felt. "Listen, Sensors," he said, still not looking at him. "We need you to keep a weather eye on that Russkie."
Kerry simmered, but kept it firmly under a lid. "Sir." He tightened his jaw. "Sir, I'm keeping an eye on them. It's all I've been doing the last week."
"You misunderstand me, Sensors." Clarke finally looked at him, and Kerry flinched. Clarke's gaze was stark and penetrating; Kerry had to look away. Clarke leaned in close, tightened his grip on Kerry' shoulder. "We need to know every heading change, every course correction, the moment it happens."
"But I'm already--"
"Listen, Sensors." Clarke leaned in even closer, and spoke barely loud enough for Kerry to hear. "We're off the charts here. We need to follow the Russkie exactly."
Kerry swallowed. "You mean we don't know where we--"
"We know where we are. We've got our dead reckoning. But we don't know anything about this where. We don't know what rocks or reefs or shipwrecks might be out there. And we don't--" he was hissing now, "want to hit anything." He leaned back, returned to a normal tone of voice. "Understood?"
Kerry blinked twice before he remembered he was supposed to respond. "Er. Aye, sir." No charts. No notion what obstacles might be waiting for them in the deeps. No idea what obstructions might be lurking, waiting to breach the hull and squeeze them to a sardine tin. Nothing to be done but creep along silently in the Russkies' wake, hoping they didn't do any fancy maneuvering. And the one thing that might actually help in this chartless muddle--active sonar--was the one thing they couldn't use without alerting the Russkies. Ye gods.
He saluted, and bent back over his readouts.
*
Kerry barely noticed it at first; an almost imperceptible vibration crept through his boots. He shrugged his shoulders; at first the vibration felt rather like a lorry going by his old flat. But it shaded quickly from mild vibration to a rumble strong enough to shake his empty coffee mug, and high-frequency enough that it showed up on sensors. He lost a moment to startlement, then went into action, turning handwheels and toggling switches, scrambling to capture the whole thing. And then without warning, less than a minute after it had started, it stopped. The lorry had passed.
Kerry stared at the readout. There was something odd here. The profile was familiar, and yet not. The frequency, and the volume--
"Sensors."
Kerry looked up. Lieutenant Clarke stood over him, looking still more the worse for wear than the last time Kerry had seen him. "Sir?" He came to attention.
"Bloody hell was that shaking? Not a torpedo, surely?"
"Well, no sir. " Kerry hesitated. Did Clarke want speculation, or hard info?
"Spit it out."
"Well, look here, sir." He indicated the readouts. "The audio profile of the vibration looks like a whale, see? The amplitude and frequency changes?"
"That was a whale?" Clarke raised an eyebrow.
"Well, no." Kerry hesitated again, but went on hurriedly before Clarke could get too restive. "It looks like a whale, sir, but it's too low-frequency and high volume. If that's a whale, then it's ten times the size of the biggest one I've ever heard of."
"Leviathan, eh?" Clarke snorted. "More likely something the Russkies cooked up."
"No sir, it was too far away. Same bearing, but farther than the Russkies. They'd have had to--"
PING
Kerry jerked back in his station chair. "Damn it!"
"What is it?" Clarke looked mildly surprised at the outburst.
PING
"We're nicked, sir." Kerry's gaze swept the readouts for a quick confirmation, then he looked up. "The Russkies went to active sonar. They'll have us dead to rights in a minute."
PING
Clarke swore under his breath, then took off at a run, shouting to the other men. Stations to be taken, torpedo tubes to be flooded, commander to be woken immediately. Just another day in Her Majesty's Navy.
PING
Kerry massaged his temples, but the readouts didn't get any clearer. They were going wild now, as echoes came in from all sides. He ought to switch on the Dreadnought's active sonar as well--no use trying to hide anymore, and they wouldn't have to worry about rocks or reefs with active on. But he paused with his hand over the switch. Clarke hadn't given the order.
PING
Kerry's boots began to vibrate.
The mystery lorry, back again? He turned his handwheels and toggled the filters as his coffee mug began to rattle. He stared down at the readouts. The profile seemed slightly different this time, though he couldn't put his finger on it. It was either coming closer or getting louder.
PING
The vibrations reached a crescendo, and the Dreadnought heaved, pitched, and rolled--rolled!--before the rumbling died again. Kerry's stomach lurched, and he gripped his station chair with white knuckles. Submarines were not meant to roll.
*
Kerry rubbed his eyes. Five minutes since that last ping, and still nothing. No engine noise from the Russkie, no pings, no whale-or-whatever sounds. Just silence.
"What d'you think, Sensors?" Lieutenant Clarke put a hand on the back of Kerry's station chair. "They running silent?"
"I--I don't know, sir. We should be getting something. Waves against their hull. Hell, drumfish or croakers or whatever bloody fish they have down here."
Clarke frowned. "You're getting nothing at all?"
"Aye, sir."
"Damn. We may have lost a hydrophone in that--that whatever it was." Clarke tapped a finger on the desk meditatively. "We'd better go active. Only way to be sure."
"Sir, I--" Kerry paused. Clarke was going to think him mad. "Permission to speak freely?"
"Spit it out, Sensors."
"I think the Russkies--" He searched for the right word. "Aren't there any more."
"Think they got away, do you?"
"No, sir. I think that whale noise was what it sounded like; some creature, something really large. And I--well, imagine you're an enormous undersea creature." At Clarke's raised eyebrow, he changed direction. "Or, imagine you're you. You're you, and a gnat starts buzzing around you. You barely notice it, but then it starts whining, making an awful din. You crush it just to shut it up, right?"
Clarke nodded, slowly.
"All right. Well, to a creature this size, the Russkies are--were--a gnat. And their active sonar was damned high-pitched compared to the noises the creature makes. Well." He took a deep breath. "I think it got riled up and smashed them."
Clarke stared at him, then shook his head. "I know this is a strain, Sensors, but try not to lose your grip. You'll be relieved shortly."
"But sir--"
Clarke held up a hand. "No more mermaid tales. The logical explanation is that the Russkies spotted us and went silent." He tapped a finger on the desk again. "They know where we are and they know the territory. The only way to negate that advantage is to go active ourselves. Give me a ping. And a report to Navigation."
"Sir, if we--"
"No buts, Sensors. One ping. That's an order."
Kerry stared up at Clarke. Clarke didn't understand. That audio profile had to have been a creature. It had to have been! It explained why nothing else was making any noise; all the small fish had been frightened off or frightened into silence.
He felt awfully like a small fish.
"Sensors?" Clarke raised both eyebrows.
Kerry looked down. "Aye sir." His mouth was dry; he swallowed air. "One ping." He reached out a hand.
PING
"Good man." Clarke squeezed Kerry's shoulder briefly, then strode purposefully off.
Kerry breathed out, a small sigh. Suddenly he felt a fool. Of course the Russkies were running silent. He had allowed pressure and lack of sleep to get the best of him--it was time and past time that he saw his berth. He shook his head, and reached for the radio. Navigation would be expecting a full report.
Kerry's boots began to vibrate.
:lol Funny thing is I had just gotten out of the shower and managed to put my self into a t-shirt and shorts as I was writing that down. I thought the slip was more out of being tired; didn't even realize it to be a freudian slip. :lolAlfarif said:
on topic: I'm not going to go with the girl gaf story I was going to write. Instead, I'm going to finish, for this time any way the story I started earlier this week. By finish, I mean pass it through a final edit. I'm not going to start writing with thirty minutes left on the clock. :lol
or Last Words
1985 words
David awoke to a sharp creaking sound. The unwieldy mattress and the palpable danger of daily prison life had made him a light sleeper. Although death row inmates treaded softly in principle, having a mutual and rational fear of each other, there were still a few legitimate psychopaths in the bunch.
Moonlight stabbed into the slim, Spartan cell from a two inch wide window perched five feet above the rotting sink. Youd have to cut yourself into a hundred tiny pieces to wedge yourself out to freedom, thought David for the hundredth time. His eyes adjusted quickly in the dim, azure glow. He heard a muffled sound and moved to the door. He pressed his face to the thick pane of glass and was startled to find the door give. He thought a second and then ever so slowly swung the door wide. It was warm to the touch, and moist. He rubbed his hand across his uniform and took a whiff. It was the unmistakable scent of blood.
The hall was barren and faintly blue. He made a cautious pass with squinted eyes before stepping out fully from his cell. His eyes landed on an indiscernible heap lying just outside the wide open door of the neighboring cell. He stared through the visible distance of the cell block before making another move. No movement. No sound. He inched towards the heap. Reaching it, he immediately recognized it as a bundle of severed body parts: all the pieces of a single, once intact human being. It still had on its prison uniform.
Who had done this? thought David. And why was his door open? In fact, why was every door open in this cell block. These were the worst offenders in the state, locked up until all appeals were spent, all awaiting to be blot out of existence for ever. It couldnt have been a riot. No alarms were sounding. Where were the guards? The most perplexing problem, though, was this heap. There were a handful of guys on death row who had cut up their victims, but this pile was oddly familiar to David.
In a moment it all rushed in. The day he was brought in for questioning, that fat detective threw down a docket of a dozen disgusting photographs. They spilled out onto the desk like the contents of his breakfast. A man down the street from him, Arshad Mahmoud, was hacked into portions and stuffed into a compost bin in his backyard. David had been brought in because he was the only neighbor with a violent offence on his record and the media needed a suspect; the police a convenient scapegoat.
Convenience. A convenience store is where all his problems began. Armed burglary: It was the only thing he was ever caught doing. And it had been years prior, when he was eighteen and stupid. A state psychiatrist helped David understand that he had wanted things, nice things, the easy way. He didnt want to put forward effort that would never go fully rewarded, get nickels on the dollar for his sweat and blood. David eventually learned to appreciate hard work and the self-fulfilling virtues of perseverance and earning what you take. He labored to get himself back on track, buy a house, a boat, a life.
David had managed to nick the dead Persians motorcycle. He had always wanted a Harley.
Something settled on his head. David quickly spun around and threw the man to the ground. The body slid across the waxed tile floor and came to a stop with the aid of skin. David rushed over, grabbed the man by the collar and pulled a fist back. He could recognize the face, but couldnt quite place him.
Espera. Wait, repeated the stranger. He was dressed in prison uniform like Davids; like the heaps.
Who are you? Whats going on? asked David.
No se. I dont know. There are bodies all over. Theyre all dead. I think theres a killer on the loose, the stranger whispered.
At this David let the man fall back to the floor.
Theyre all killers. Whats your name? Why dont you have a number? David pointed to his own left breast pocket. It read 702304.
What? The man looked stupefied. Mira. We gotta get outta here.
The man looked entirely harmless, underweight and completely out of shape. He clearly had not spent much time in a penitentiary.
Well if you aint got a number or a name then Im going to call you Zero. Did you see anybody, I mean alive? asked David.
No, not a soul.
Lets go, Zero. I think I may know the way out of here.
They creeped through the dark corridor, blue shafts of light from the second floor cells creating an array of xs through which they had to pass. Zero kept playing with a couple of marbles in one hand. They reached the Death row block door. It was wide open. The hall beyond was a bit wider, and held the gym and the library on opposite sides.
Dios mio, said Zero. He continued to juggle the marbles in his one hand and signed the cross with the other. David followed Zeros eyes. Two bodies lay in lifeless in unique displays, both illuminated by slightly brighter halos of blue. In the middle of the gym a man in prison uniform was lying face down on a bench press. A forty-five pound bar was driven through his rectum and out through his mouth, making him look like a svelte pig on a spit.
David approached. He did a circuit around the bench and then froze at the stiffs face. He looked exactly like his old best friend, Nate. He had died in a bench press accident a few years back. There was no one closer to him in his life. He had been like a mentor to David, a father figure, after having been without for so long. He had taken care of David for years. And he literally had everything. He had a dream life. Nate had money, a little bit of local fame and a gorgeous wife. Well, she was kind of a bitch to David, but she was stunning in swimsuit so it didnt bother him too much.
Soon afterwards, she was found dead as well. Raped and stabbed multiple times. The police decided it was bungled burglary. David walked over to the second body. It was lying stomach down on a squat, angled reading table. The pants had been removed, the legs pushed apart from each other and the underwear missing. It was a woman. He looked closer and found her back was littered with knife wounds.
David staggered back. What the hell was going on? He thought.
Zero noticed and asked, Sabes que esta pasando? Do you know who these people are?
I think I do. Somebodys messing with me, said David.
David slowly turned. He lowered his eyes onto Zero and focused on him like a laser beam.
Who are you? What do you want from me? asked David.
Its not me. Ellos. They want me to take you to the dining area, said Zero.
Who?! demanded David. I swear I will add you this menagerie, Zero.
Savior! Espiritu santo, salva me. I dont know them. But they said youd recognize them, said Zero.
David looked around and found a security phone on the wall. He picked it up. Nothing. He threw the handset to the ground.
Where are the guards? asked David.
I havent seen a single guard, said Zero. He began walking past the bodies and ahead towards the far door. Look, Ill go in first.
No! cried David. He ran over to Zero and grabbed him firm by his brittle little arm, still clutching the marbles. We go in together.
They reached the door to the dining area. The entire hall went dark. David looked behind him and could see nothing. Perhaps the moon shrank behind a thick cloud. A red light glowed around the edges of the door; emergency lighting. He concealed his body behind the wall and swung the door open. A red haze poured into the hall. After a moment David pulled Zero into the dining area with him. There amongst the rows of benches a couple sat across from each other, a man and a woman, hand in hand. They were both in prison uniforms and both were missing heads.
There was something about them that was intimately familiar.
David took a step towards them and had to stop immediately. The air was a mist, thick with blood. His mouth tasted like a dry, rusted piece of iron. He could feel micro droplets settling on the fine hairs of his arms and pooling at his skin.
He looked back at Zero. He was mumbling a prayer in Spanish to himself, the marbles ceaselessly rolling and clicking.
He approached the headless lovers. The tattoo of a shark on the forearm of the man, the bracelet with a dangling silver teddy bear on the woman: these were his parents. He walked within a foot of the couple, frozen in time. David studied them fondly. The faintest smile crept across his face. It quickly transformed into white hot anger. His teeth bore like bleached bone in the strangely fluorescent red mist.
His face fell. Im sorry, he whispered.
Do you ask them for forgiveness? asked Zero. He was only a couple of feet away.
David spun around and launched him at the nearby table.
Where are they? Who sent you? screamed David.
Zero curled into a ball on the ground. No se! They were just here.
David looked in every direction, trying desperately to remember the day he was first brought here. A door was outlined by a pencil thin yellow line far off to the right.
Ding.
He turned to the sound. He saw a large industrial microwave oven. The chamber inside lit up. Within were two heads: one his father and the other his mother. Their eyes were closed and their lips pressed close together.
The hell? thought David. He had had enough of this side show.
David turned and ran as fast as he could to the yellow door, slammed his body into it. The door flew open and he spilled onto the floor.
Surprise! yelled an entire group of people, including all of the guards. The room was brightly lit and full of smiles. A small table was set before a large wooden chair. Two guards lifted him up and placed him in the chair. They slapped a pointy cap on his head, slipped the rubber band beneath his chin and placed a plastic kazoo in his mouth.
Happy birthday, David! Two headless bodies sat on the other end of the table. A microwave holding two beaming heads was placed near the cake. David took in the entire surprise party: the heap was stitched back into his neighbor, with a goofy birthday cap on his head to boot. His best friend, Nate, was next to him slapping him on the shoulder. The bar was still protruding from him backside and his head, forcing him to stare at the ceiling. His wife, naked below the waist, was hugging Nate around his neck. All of the guards were lined up along the wall.
The lights dimmed and Zero walked in holding an enormous cake. Five candles encircled a sixth. Only the middle one was lit. Beyond, David could see that the walls were actually transparent. He could make out a whole crowd of people. They werent as happy as the people inside the room with him. They actually looked sad.
Screw em, thought David. This is my birthday.
Zero placed the cake on the table and said, Any last words before we blow this candle out?
David shook his head, smiled and drew a deep breath.
1985 words
David awoke to a sharp creaking sound. The unwieldy mattress and the palpable danger of daily prison life had made him a light sleeper. Although death row inmates treaded softly in principle, having a mutual and rational fear of each other, there were still a few legitimate psychopaths in the bunch.
Moonlight stabbed into the slim, Spartan cell from a two inch wide window perched five feet above the rotting sink. Youd have to cut yourself into a hundred tiny pieces to wedge yourself out to freedom, thought David for the hundredth time. His eyes adjusted quickly in the dim, azure glow. He heard a muffled sound and moved to the door. He pressed his face to the thick pane of glass and was startled to find the door give. He thought a second and then ever so slowly swung the door wide. It was warm to the touch, and moist. He rubbed his hand across his uniform and took a whiff. It was the unmistakable scent of blood.
The hall was barren and faintly blue. He made a cautious pass with squinted eyes before stepping out fully from his cell. His eyes landed on an indiscernible heap lying just outside the wide open door of the neighboring cell. He stared through the visible distance of the cell block before making another move. No movement. No sound. He inched towards the heap. Reaching it, he immediately recognized it as a bundle of severed body parts: all the pieces of a single, once intact human being. It still had on its prison uniform.
Who had done this? thought David. And why was his door open? In fact, why was every door open in this cell block. These were the worst offenders in the state, locked up until all appeals were spent, all awaiting to be blot out of existence for ever. It couldnt have been a riot. No alarms were sounding. Where were the guards? The most perplexing problem, though, was this heap. There were a handful of guys on death row who had cut up their victims, but this pile was oddly familiar to David.
In a moment it all rushed in. The day he was brought in for questioning, that fat detective threw down a docket of a dozen disgusting photographs. They spilled out onto the desk like the contents of his breakfast. A man down the street from him, Arshad Mahmoud, was hacked into portions and stuffed into a compost bin in his backyard. David had been brought in because he was the only neighbor with a violent offence on his record and the media needed a suspect; the police a convenient scapegoat.
Convenience. A convenience store is where all his problems began. Armed burglary: It was the only thing he was ever caught doing. And it had been years prior, when he was eighteen and stupid. A state psychiatrist helped David understand that he had wanted things, nice things, the easy way. He didnt want to put forward effort that would never go fully rewarded, get nickels on the dollar for his sweat and blood. David eventually learned to appreciate hard work and the self-fulfilling virtues of perseverance and earning what you take. He labored to get himself back on track, buy a house, a boat, a life.
David had managed to nick the dead Persians motorcycle. He had always wanted a Harley.
Something settled on his head. David quickly spun around and threw the man to the ground. The body slid across the waxed tile floor and came to a stop with the aid of skin. David rushed over, grabbed the man by the collar and pulled a fist back. He could recognize the face, but couldnt quite place him.
Espera. Wait, repeated the stranger. He was dressed in prison uniform like Davids; like the heaps.
Who are you? Whats going on? asked David.
No se. I dont know. There are bodies all over. Theyre all dead. I think theres a killer on the loose, the stranger whispered.
At this David let the man fall back to the floor.
Theyre all killers. Whats your name? Why dont you have a number? David pointed to his own left breast pocket. It read 702304.
What? The man looked stupefied. Mira. We gotta get outta here.
The man looked entirely harmless, underweight and completely out of shape. He clearly had not spent much time in a penitentiary.
Well if you aint got a number or a name then Im going to call you Zero. Did you see anybody, I mean alive? asked David.
No, not a soul.
Lets go, Zero. I think I may know the way out of here.
They creeped through the dark corridor, blue shafts of light from the second floor cells creating an array of xs through which they had to pass. Zero kept playing with a couple of marbles in one hand. They reached the Death row block door. It was wide open. The hall beyond was a bit wider, and held the gym and the library on opposite sides.
Dios mio, said Zero. He continued to juggle the marbles in his one hand and signed the cross with the other. David followed Zeros eyes. Two bodies lay in lifeless in unique displays, both illuminated by slightly brighter halos of blue. In the middle of the gym a man in prison uniform was lying face down on a bench press. A forty-five pound bar was driven through his rectum and out through his mouth, making him look like a svelte pig on a spit.
David approached. He did a circuit around the bench and then froze at the stiffs face. He looked exactly like his old best friend, Nate. He had died in a bench press accident a few years back. There was no one closer to him in his life. He had been like a mentor to David, a father figure, after having been without for so long. He had taken care of David for years. And he literally had everything. He had a dream life. Nate had money, a little bit of local fame and a gorgeous wife. Well, she was kind of a bitch to David, but she was stunning in swimsuit so it didnt bother him too much.
Soon afterwards, she was found dead as well. Raped and stabbed multiple times. The police decided it was bungled burglary. David walked over to the second body. It was lying stomach down on a squat, angled reading table. The pants had been removed, the legs pushed apart from each other and the underwear missing. It was a woman. He looked closer and found her back was littered with knife wounds.
David staggered back. What the hell was going on? He thought.
Zero noticed and asked, Sabes que esta pasando? Do you know who these people are?
I think I do. Somebodys messing with me, said David.
David slowly turned. He lowered his eyes onto Zero and focused on him like a laser beam.
Who are you? What do you want from me? asked David.
Its not me. Ellos. They want me to take you to the dining area, said Zero.
Who?! demanded David. I swear I will add you this menagerie, Zero.
Savior! Espiritu santo, salva me. I dont know them. But they said youd recognize them, said Zero.
David looked around and found a security phone on the wall. He picked it up. Nothing. He threw the handset to the ground.
Where are the guards? asked David.
I havent seen a single guard, said Zero. He began walking past the bodies and ahead towards the far door. Look, Ill go in first.
No! cried David. He ran over to Zero and grabbed him firm by his brittle little arm, still clutching the marbles. We go in together.
They reached the door to the dining area. The entire hall went dark. David looked behind him and could see nothing. Perhaps the moon shrank behind a thick cloud. A red light glowed around the edges of the door; emergency lighting. He concealed his body behind the wall and swung the door open. A red haze poured into the hall. After a moment David pulled Zero into the dining area with him. There amongst the rows of benches a couple sat across from each other, a man and a woman, hand in hand. They were both in prison uniforms and both were missing heads.
There was something about them that was intimately familiar.
David took a step towards them and had to stop immediately. The air was a mist, thick with blood. His mouth tasted like a dry, rusted piece of iron. He could feel micro droplets settling on the fine hairs of his arms and pooling at his skin.
He looked back at Zero. He was mumbling a prayer in Spanish to himself, the marbles ceaselessly rolling and clicking.
He approached the headless lovers. The tattoo of a shark on the forearm of the man, the bracelet with a dangling silver teddy bear on the woman: these were his parents. He walked within a foot of the couple, frozen in time. David studied them fondly. The faintest smile crept across his face. It quickly transformed into white hot anger. His teeth bore like bleached bone in the strangely fluorescent red mist.
His face fell. Im sorry, he whispered.
Do you ask them for forgiveness? asked Zero. He was only a couple of feet away.
David spun around and launched him at the nearby table.
Where are they? Who sent you? screamed David.
Zero curled into a ball on the ground. No se! They were just here.
David looked in every direction, trying desperately to remember the day he was first brought here. A door was outlined by a pencil thin yellow line far off to the right.
Ding.
He turned to the sound. He saw a large industrial microwave oven. The chamber inside lit up. Within were two heads: one his father and the other his mother. Their eyes were closed and their lips pressed close together.
The hell? thought David. He had had enough of this side show.
David turned and ran as fast as he could to the yellow door, slammed his body into it. The door flew open and he spilled onto the floor.
Surprise! yelled an entire group of people, including all of the guards. The room was brightly lit and full of smiles. A small table was set before a large wooden chair. Two guards lifted him up and placed him in the chair. They slapped a pointy cap on his head, slipped the rubber band beneath his chin and placed a plastic kazoo in his mouth.
Happy birthday, David! Two headless bodies sat on the other end of the table. A microwave holding two beaming heads was placed near the cake. David took in the entire surprise party: the heap was stitched back into his neighbor, with a goofy birthday cap on his head to boot. His best friend, Nate, was next to him slapping him on the shoulder. The bar was still protruding from him backside and his head, forcing him to stare at the ceiling. His wife, naked below the waist, was hugging Nate around his neck. All of the guards were lined up along the wall.
The lights dimmed and Zero walked in holding an enormous cake. Five candles encircled a sixth. Only the middle one was lit. Beyond, David could see that the walls were actually transparent. He could make out a whole crowd of people. They werent as happy as the people inside the room with him. They actually looked sad.
Screw em, thought David. This is my birthday.
Zero placed the cake on the table and said, Any last words before we blow this candle out?
David shook his head, smiled and drew a deep breath.
Mark calmly placed the phone back into its cradle and walked into the kitchen, eyes carefully tracking his socked feet as they slid across the floor. He stopped in the center of the tiled floor for a moment before walking towards the back door and examining the dry-erase calendar hanging to the left of it. A single date entranced him, leaving him standing there dumbfounded for several minutes time.
July 8th
His fingers brushed against the date again and again, nearly etching the the curves of the eight into the calendar. Finally, minutes later, his hand dropped to his side. He lifted it once more and placed it on the shelf beneath the spiraled set of shiny date sheets. A small puff of dust drifted into the air as his fingers pummeled the wooden plank that had been placed on the metal frame. Two dry-erase markers, black and red, began hopping in place a few inches from his hand. He picked them both up, uncapping the red one while he transferred the black one to his other hand. The spongy tip glided across the sleek sheet, leaving a red smear in it's wake. In an instant, the 8th of July was ringed with a white-speckled, scarlet streak. Red's cap was replaced and Black's removed, ready to make its counterattack. A dark cross divided the square of July 5th into four triangular sections. The battle lines drawn, both markers returned to their original dust-outlined places and Mark's hands slid to his thighs once more.
After several minutes of continued stillness, Mark entered into a frenzy of movement. He began pacing back and forth through the kitchen, his socks slipping to and fro on the recently cleaned tiles. Tasks such as washing the few dishes sitting on the side of the sink, dusting the shelves in the pantry, and replacing the burnt out light bulbs in the ceiling units were taken up and then quickly abandoned. When no other possible things could be attempted in the kitchen, Mark ventured out into the rest of his apartment in search of minute tasks that he was sure to give up on within minutes.
Eventually, he wore himself out, leaving several dozen chores half-finished.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, July 6th:
Unable to sleep for long, Mark woke up around five in the morning and resumed the unending quest to occupy his mind. The unfinished tasks from the day before were taken up once again, a few of them even being completed throughout the day. Still, his body raced throughout the small living space he inhabited, his actions becoming more frantic as the day went on.
Noon quickly approaching, Mark stopped what he was doing and entered the kitchen. The calendar garnered his full attention as he made his way towards the refrigerator. Another dark X had been appeared, the battle front moving ever closer to the scarlet ring. As he reached the fridge, Mark regained his focus and turned his attention towards the contents of the fridge. After a few moments of rummaging, the man grabbed some roast beef, several slices of colby-jack cheese, a tomato, and a jar of crisp, dill pickle slices out of the icebox and made himself a sandwich using a roll he had retrieved from the breadbox atop the freezer.
Just as he was about to take his first bite, he dropped the sandwich on to his plate and then dumped it into the trash, his appetite suddenly gone. Instead of continuing on with his work, he went back to his table and propped his head into hands. Fingers rubbed against his temples before his arms began to vibrate uncontrollable as several squeaks escaped his lips. Seconds later, several droplets of water slammed against the pristine glass of the table.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Wednesday, July 7th:
"Ugh! UGH! UGH! UGH!"
Mark lay in bed, his hands fiercely gripping the sides of the trashcan placed besides his bed. Black plastic slid through his fingertips as his hands traveled up and down the length of the tub's edges.
"UGH! ARGH! ARGH!"
*cough, cough, cough*
His chest seized up as stomach acid flooded into his esophagus.
"BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"
Thin, yellow fluid burst from his mouth in spurts before slamming into the vinyl siding of the trash bags. Soon, the liquid disappeared into the blackened depths of the can, only the smell and disgusting taste keeping its memory alive. Mark leaned back into the crowd of pillows on his bed and fell back into his slumber, the small ceiling fan doing nothing to prevent the sweat from forming on his skin.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Friday, July 9th:
BEEP!
"Hi Mark, this is Kathy. John and I just wanted to call and thank you once again for helping us move yesterday. We also wanted to invite you to a little get-together we're having next Saturday. Give us a call if you'd like to come."
BEEP!
Mark stood perfectly still as he listened to the message, red and black markers in hand. The scarlet ring on July 8th's square had been bifurcated twice with thick, black lines. Moments later, he reached up and added another bright, red circle to the calendar.
July 8th
His fingers brushed against the date again and again, nearly etching the the curves of the eight into the calendar. Finally, minutes later, his hand dropped to his side. He lifted it once more and placed it on the shelf beneath the spiraled set of shiny date sheets. A small puff of dust drifted into the air as his fingers pummeled the wooden plank that had been placed on the metal frame. Two dry-erase markers, black and red, began hopping in place a few inches from his hand. He picked them both up, uncapping the red one while he transferred the black one to his other hand. The spongy tip glided across the sleek sheet, leaving a red smear in it's wake. In an instant, the 8th of July was ringed with a white-speckled, scarlet streak. Red's cap was replaced and Black's removed, ready to make its counterattack. A dark cross divided the square of July 5th into four triangular sections. The battle lines drawn, both markers returned to their original dust-outlined places and Mark's hands slid to his thighs once more.
After several minutes of continued stillness, Mark entered into a frenzy of movement. He began pacing back and forth through the kitchen, his socks slipping to and fro on the recently cleaned tiles. Tasks such as washing the few dishes sitting on the side of the sink, dusting the shelves in the pantry, and replacing the burnt out light bulbs in the ceiling units were taken up and then quickly abandoned. When no other possible things could be attempted in the kitchen, Mark ventured out into the rest of his apartment in search of minute tasks that he was sure to give up on within minutes.
Eventually, he wore himself out, leaving several dozen chores half-finished.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, July 6th:
Unable to sleep for long, Mark woke up around five in the morning and resumed the unending quest to occupy his mind. The unfinished tasks from the day before were taken up once again, a few of them even being completed throughout the day. Still, his body raced throughout the small living space he inhabited, his actions becoming more frantic as the day went on.
Noon quickly approaching, Mark stopped what he was doing and entered the kitchen. The calendar garnered his full attention as he made his way towards the refrigerator. Another dark X had been appeared, the battle front moving ever closer to the scarlet ring. As he reached the fridge, Mark regained his focus and turned his attention towards the contents of the fridge. After a few moments of rummaging, the man grabbed some roast beef, several slices of colby-jack cheese, a tomato, and a jar of crisp, dill pickle slices out of the icebox and made himself a sandwich using a roll he had retrieved from the breadbox atop the freezer.
Just as he was about to take his first bite, he dropped the sandwich on to his plate and then dumped it into the trash, his appetite suddenly gone. Instead of continuing on with his work, he went back to his table and propped his head into hands. Fingers rubbed against his temples before his arms began to vibrate uncontrollable as several squeaks escaped his lips. Seconds later, several droplets of water slammed against the pristine glass of the table.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Wednesday, July 7th:
"Ugh! UGH! UGH! UGH!"
Mark lay in bed, his hands fiercely gripping the sides of the trashcan placed besides his bed. Black plastic slid through his fingertips as his hands traveled up and down the length of the tub's edges.
"UGH! ARGH! ARGH!"
*cough, cough, cough*
His chest seized up as stomach acid flooded into his esophagus.
"BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"
Thin, yellow fluid burst from his mouth in spurts before slamming into the vinyl siding of the trash bags. Soon, the liquid disappeared into the blackened depths of the can, only the smell and disgusting taste keeping its memory alive. Mark leaned back into the crowd of pillows on his bed and fell back into his slumber, the small ceiling fan doing nothing to prevent the sweat from forming on his skin.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Friday, July 9th:
BEEP!
"Hi Mark, this is Kathy. John and I just wanted to call and thank you once again for helping us move yesterday. We also wanted to invite you to a little get-together we're having next Saturday. Give us a call if you'd like to come."
BEEP!
Mark stood perfectly still as he listened to the message, red and black markers in hand. The scarlet ring on July 8th's square had been bifurcated twice with thick, black lines. Moments later, he reached up and added another bright, red circle to the calendar.
Grass Warfare or Faery Story: Episode 0
1633
I think rainfall in the summer is the most spectacular thing ever, said Chloe. She lit up with a smile, drawn to it in fact, like a moth to a flame, in wonderment, awe and hypnotic joy.
Her wings beat softly whilst her overly large helmet drooped over her eyes. She carried a semi-automatic standard assault weapon called the FL1. The heavy object, pointing downwards hung loosely in her arms, and pulled at its straps.
Emily, (Eimile is the gaelic equivalent), Chloes friend since childhood, pricked her ears up. She put the safety lock on her semi-automatic hand gun, the Holsch .09mm. She leaned against a tall blade of grass as a feeling of worrisome dread over came her. Come on, we better get back.
Chloe nodded. The two fairies walked away from the edge of the mud built ridge which overlooked the valley they called home. Chloe took one final animated picture of the rain falling on her beloved city. All was calm there.
The two fairies walked back to camp - instead of hovering or flying to give their tired wings some rest. Border Control Central East, the garrison they returned to, was the size of a small town. There were only a few houses there that were made of stone and motar; the soldiers themselves lived in a cluster of five hundred tents close by. The pair returned their firearms at the field weapons centre, then made their way to luncheon building 4. They travelled up a flight of stairs to the pub on the third floor.
Conor (Concobhar) was sat with his brother Sean (Seán) at a windowed corner. Chloe slid in beside Sean. She ordered a glass of dew wine whilst Emily ordered a pint of the old bitter.
The garden can be crossed Conor, Sean said. The sound of his voice was just beneath the level of the pub's public chatter.
Emily carried Conor's arms and let it settle over her shoulder. Are you two planning to run away again?
Connor kissed her on the cheek and then felt her belly gracefully. Emily put her hand over his.
An Irish faery never runs from his responsibilities, Connor replied with a shake of his fore finger. But if the future looks bleak...
He ended the statement with a shrug.
Sean pulled up the Daily Land's End to page 17. The Garden Walls are being breached as we speak.
Chloe sipped wine before biting her lip. Her geography was weak but she knew enough to pass by. The Garden Wall ran perpendicular to her valley town, Glendel. It was estimated to be two whole metres in height above pond level and ran for metres and metres in length; some thought it ran for ever. The faeries next door were constantly trying to breach the Garden Wall. Climbing over the mountain of a wall made them to easy a target with vitually not cover. So they tried to come right through it.
We're in the south east corner of the Garden according to lore, Sean put to Emily. The Eastern Faeries must have a reason to come to our side. Perhaps-
The Garden Wall is suppose to be as straight as the crow flies, right? interupted Chloe. If you do abandon ship, you'd do well to follow a course close the the Garden Wall. If it really does lead up to the House, that is.
Connor and Sean zoned into on the faery's .
Wh- Sean managed to say before being interupted by a loud ringing alarm. The ringing alarm stopped for a three second count. After the pause the emergency sirens blared through the Army town.
Whilst everyone got out of their seats, Emily sat firm in hers. Bloody hell, I've just come from active duty and all, she said folding her arms. I shouldn't even be here.
You shouldn't have been drinking neither, said Chloe. Chloe looked at Connor for suggestions. She hasn't reported in yet. This would clearly be a violation before leave has been authorised. Do you want your child to be born in jail?
Connor eyed Emily's resolute figure. Emily...
Emily stayed in her seat. Everyone who is going to go now is marching to their death... I'm not going!
Why don't we all 'leave' now? Right now with all the commotion going on around us? asked Sean.
Connor looked out of the window. So this is how we leave eh?
Central West
That'll be the fuckin' day, when they fuckin' do something, Eoin (Seán, Iain) said. He looked through the scope on his modified FL1. The rain and setting sun made it difficult to settle on the petal he was on, let alone try to get a visible confirmation of the reported crack. The wind rattled the stalk. The newly made crack was there all right.
His field assistant, Lisa Hannigan, a new recruit, looked through her radar scope, as she hovered beside him. I can see movement behind the wall. Three near point six. Two behind them. They are setting up something in front of the wall
Eoin looked at her. And where did you get fancy tech like that?
Bought it. I'm hardly going to come to the frontlines with what the Government issues, now am I?
That thing probably costs more than I fuckin' do... You must be a rich man's girl
Why? Are you interested in me now?
Eoin lowered his weapon.Your pa has money enough for lawyers. You don't have to serve the three years like most faeries new to adulthood do.
Perhaps I wanted to?
Stupid fuckin' girl! grumbled Eoin.
Lisa laughed. How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?
Eoin massaged his day old hairy face. 25. If your mother was ever on the benefits, you have to serve for five years. And how old are you? You don't look like a fresh faced 18 year old.
Lisa looked through her radar scope. That's because I'm not. I'm twenty one. My pa did get me out of compulsory service...
Eoin grimaced. Your stupid. Plain stupid.
Lisa stared at Eoin. You might look like your in your thirties but you are only 4 years older then I sir.
Eoin looked right back into Lisa's navy coloured eyes. Spend a thousand days here. Then you get to be witty. Clear?
Lisa nodded.
The next hour past with very little conversation between the two. Lisa only spoke to read out a message she had received on the army issued radio device. East Central had been breached.
East Central? Central East you mean, Eoin corrected her.
Lisa nodded. Are we going to go help?
Does it tell us to go help?
No but...
Exactly. No buts.
Lisa thought better then to ask again.
If it makes you feel any better... I would go if I could. I have a brother there. And he can't afford lawyers.
Lisa looked up but remained quiet.
The crickets made their noises, the clouds subsided, and the night lit up with a million stars.
Can I ask you a question of a personal nature, sir, Lisa asked.
You don't have to call me sir, I'm not officially your senior, Eoin said, his spirits down in the gutters.
Alright... Eoin... why do you have so many scars?
Eoin lowered his gun and raised his eyebrows as if to ask her if she was being serious. I had a normal Irish childhood. At least one for a council estate on the east side of Glendell.
Oh... Lisa said sheepishly.
Can I ask you a question?
Of course, Lisa answered.
Why the fuck are you wearing make up?
Lisa looked away wishing that her wings would fail her and that she would drop to the floor and then be swallowed up by it. Lisa cleared her throat. Long after the conversation was over, Lisa smiled about it.
Alright, she said ten minutes later. I won't wear it tomorrow.
You've been thinking about that for the last ten minutes?
Well... I...will you stop stumping me already please? It's my first day!
Told you not to be witty for a thousand days at least.
Lisa grabbed onto a nearby petal, and thought about this. All right, what do I have to do to get your respect? Just tell me it and I'll see to it that it's done.
You've already got that by a measure. Just being my field assistant means that you've proven somebody or the other that your capable. Your a brave lass for coming here on your own initiative anyhow.
Lisa blushed. She looked through her scope. There was a faery crouched behind the crack on the Garden Wall. She wondered for half a second whether the person was sat pushing the butt of a sniper rifle through the smallest of incisions through the Garden Wall. A bullet went through her scope; stopping only a few mm from her left eye. She froze in fear.
Eoin had his hand outreached, strangled in a high tension state. What're you doing lass? I can't hold it for long. Drop the fuckin' scope!
Lisa let go of the scope. The million seed scope fell all the way to the rough soil and smashed into a pieces. The bullet went through before the fall though and tore through a stalk until it to hit a hard surface..
How did you do that? Lisa asked, blinking in shock. What did you do?
Just a bit of ancient faery source-diggory. Mind you keep this to your self lass. Now breathe out.
Lisa exhaled slowly. Things sure do change pretty quick round here.
Eoin looked through the scope on his own weapon and fired three shots down the barrel of the rifle. Fuckin' Amateur... Huh!
To be continued....
1633
I think rainfall in the summer is the most spectacular thing ever, said Chloe. She lit up with a smile, drawn to it in fact, like a moth to a flame, in wonderment, awe and hypnotic joy.
Her wings beat softly whilst her overly large helmet drooped over her eyes. She carried a semi-automatic standard assault weapon called the FL1. The heavy object, pointing downwards hung loosely in her arms, and pulled at its straps.
Emily, (Eimile is the gaelic equivalent), Chloes friend since childhood, pricked her ears up. She put the safety lock on her semi-automatic hand gun, the Holsch .09mm. She leaned against a tall blade of grass as a feeling of worrisome dread over came her. Come on, we better get back.
Chloe nodded. The two fairies walked away from the edge of the mud built ridge which overlooked the valley they called home. Chloe took one final animated picture of the rain falling on her beloved city. All was calm there.
The two fairies walked back to camp - instead of hovering or flying to give their tired wings some rest. Border Control Central East, the garrison they returned to, was the size of a small town. There were only a few houses there that were made of stone and motar; the soldiers themselves lived in a cluster of five hundred tents close by. The pair returned their firearms at the field weapons centre, then made their way to luncheon building 4. They travelled up a flight of stairs to the pub on the third floor.
Conor (Concobhar) was sat with his brother Sean (Seán) at a windowed corner. Chloe slid in beside Sean. She ordered a glass of dew wine whilst Emily ordered a pint of the old bitter.
The garden can be crossed Conor, Sean said. The sound of his voice was just beneath the level of the pub's public chatter.
Emily carried Conor's arms and let it settle over her shoulder. Are you two planning to run away again?
Connor kissed her on the cheek and then felt her belly gracefully. Emily put her hand over his.
An Irish faery never runs from his responsibilities, Connor replied with a shake of his fore finger. But if the future looks bleak...
He ended the statement with a shrug.
Sean pulled up the Daily Land's End to page 17. The Garden Walls are being breached as we speak.
Chloe sipped wine before biting her lip. Her geography was weak but she knew enough to pass by. The Garden Wall ran perpendicular to her valley town, Glendel. It was estimated to be two whole metres in height above pond level and ran for metres and metres in length; some thought it ran for ever. The faeries next door were constantly trying to breach the Garden Wall. Climbing over the mountain of a wall made them to easy a target with vitually not cover. So they tried to come right through it.
We're in the south east corner of the Garden according to lore, Sean put to Emily. The Eastern Faeries must have a reason to come to our side. Perhaps-
The Garden Wall is suppose to be as straight as the crow flies, right? interupted Chloe. If you do abandon ship, you'd do well to follow a course close the the Garden Wall. If it really does lead up to the House, that is.
Connor and Sean zoned into on the faery's .
Wh- Sean managed to say before being interupted by a loud ringing alarm. The ringing alarm stopped for a three second count. After the pause the emergency sirens blared through the Army town.
Whilst everyone got out of their seats, Emily sat firm in hers. Bloody hell, I've just come from active duty and all, she said folding her arms. I shouldn't even be here.
You shouldn't have been drinking neither, said Chloe. Chloe looked at Connor for suggestions. She hasn't reported in yet. This would clearly be a violation before leave has been authorised. Do you want your child to be born in jail?
Connor eyed Emily's resolute figure. Emily...
Emily stayed in her seat. Everyone who is going to go now is marching to their death... I'm not going!
Why don't we all 'leave' now? Right now with all the commotion going on around us? asked Sean.
Connor looked out of the window. So this is how we leave eh?
Central West
That'll be the fuckin' day, when they fuckin' do something, Eoin (Seán, Iain) said. He looked through the scope on his modified FL1. The rain and setting sun made it difficult to settle on the petal he was on, let alone try to get a visible confirmation of the reported crack. The wind rattled the stalk. The newly made crack was there all right.
His field assistant, Lisa Hannigan, a new recruit, looked through her radar scope, as she hovered beside him. I can see movement behind the wall. Three near point six. Two behind them. They are setting up something in front of the wall
Eoin looked at her. And where did you get fancy tech like that?
Bought it. I'm hardly going to come to the frontlines with what the Government issues, now am I?
That thing probably costs more than I fuckin' do... You must be a rich man's girl
Why? Are you interested in me now?
Eoin lowered his weapon.Your pa has money enough for lawyers. You don't have to serve the three years like most faeries new to adulthood do.
Perhaps I wanted to?
Stupid fuckin' girl! grumbled Eoin.
Lisa laughed. How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?
Eoin massaged his day old hairy face. 25. If your mother was ever on the benefits, you have to serve for five years. And how old are you? You don't look like a fresh faced 18 year old.
Lisa looked through her radar scope. That's because I'm not. I'm twenty one. My pa did get me out of compulsory service...
Eoin grimaced. Your stupid. Plain stupid.
Lisa stared at Eoin. You might look like your in your thirties but you are only 4 years older then I sir.
Eoin looked right back into Lisa's navy coloured eyes. Spend a thousand days here. Then you get to be witty. Clear?
Lisa nodded.
The next hour past with very little conversation between the two. Lisa only spoke to read out a message she had received on the army issued radio device. East Central had been breached.
East Central? Central East you mean, Eoin corrected her.
Lisa nodded. Are we going to go help?
Does it tell us to go help?
No but...
Exactly. No buts.
Lisa thought better then to ask again.
If it makes you feel any better... I would go if I could. I have a brother there. And he can't afford lawyers.
Lisa looked up but remained quiet.
The crickets made their noises, the clouds subsided, and the night lit up with a million stars.
Can I ask you a question of a personal nature, sir, Lisa asked.
You don't have to call me sir, I'm not officially your senior, Eoin said, his spirits down in the gutters.
Alright... Eoin... why do you have so many scars?
Eoin lowered his gun and raised his eyebrows as if to ask her if she was being serious. I had a normal Irish childhood. At least one for a council estate on the east side of Glendell.
Oh... Lisa said sheepishly.
Can I ask you a question?
Of course, Lisa answered.
Why the fuck are you wearing make up?
Lisa looked away wishing that her wings would fail her and that she would drop to the floor and then be swallowed up by it. Lisa cleared her throat. Long after the conversation was over, Lisa smiled about it.
Alright, she said ten minutes later. I won't wear it tomorrow.
You've been thinking about that for the last ten minutes?
Well... I...will you stop stumping me already please? It's my first day!
Told you not to be witty for a thousand days at least.
Lisa grabbed onto a nearby petal, and thought about this. All right, what do I have to do to get your respect? Just tell me it and I'll see to it that it's done.
You've already got that by a measure. Just being my field assistant means that you've proven somebody or the other that your capable. Your a brave lass for coming here on your own initiative anyhow.
Lisa blushed. She looked through her scope. There was a faery crouched behind the crack on the Garden Wall. She wondered for half a second whether the person was sat pushing the butt of a sniper rifle through the smallest of incisions through the Garden Wall. A bullet went through her scope; stopping only a few mm from her left eye. She froze in fear.
Eoin had his hand outreached, strangled in a high tension state. What're you doing lass? I can't hold it for long. Drop the fuckin' scope!
Lisa let go of the scope. The million seed scope fell all the way to the rough soil and smashed into a pieces. The bullet went through before the fall though and tore through a stalk until it to hit a hard surface..
How did you do that? Lisa asked, blinking in shock. What did you do?
Just a bit of ancient faery source-diggory. Mind you keep this to your self lass. Now breathe out.
Lisa exhaled slowly. Things sure do change pretty quick round here.
Eoin looked through the scope on his own weapon and fired three shots down the barrel of the rifle. Fuckin' Amateur... Huh!
To be continued....
Yeah, just to let you know, I have no real plans for a second one. I only did a backstory and imagined the start of a story arc under this theme. I will think about it though if a future theme inspires me to return to it. Cheers...
The Entries:
mr afghan jones - "Colin"
ZephyrFate - "Overwhelm"
Timedog - "Gilgamesh and the Fall of Man" (withdrawn from eligibility, but please read and critique anyway!)
RevenantKioku - "Three Buckets of Cats and Mice"
Botolf - "Without Breath"
nitewulf - "The Darkness Within"
Aaron - "Big Bad Weekly"
Alfarif - "Cermintorva, Mnenlic, My Son"
dragonlife29 - "Reaper of the Soil "
Timedog - "They Call Me Mr. Nasty"
Dresden - "You can't see the trees..."
crowphoenix - "Breathless, It Waits"
Cyan - "Running Silent"
Iceman - "The Sixth Candle"
Irish - "Scarlet Streaks"
Ashes1396 - "Grass Warfare or Faery Story: Episode 0"
DumbNameD - "Creep and Dread"
mr afghan jones - "Colin"
ZephyrFate - "Overwhelm"
Timedog - "Gilgamesh and the Fall of Man" (withdrawn from eligibility, but please read and critique anyway!)
RevenantKioku - "Three Buckets of Cats and Mice"
Botolf - "Without Breath"
nitewulf - "The Darkness Within"
Aaron - "Big Bad Weekly"
Alfarif - "Cermintorva, Mnenlic, My Son"
dragonlife29 - "Reaper of the Soil "
Timedog - "They Call Me Mr. Nasty"
Dresden - "You can't see the trees..."
crowphoenix - "Breathless, It Waits"
Cyan - "Running Silent"
Iceman - "The Sixth Candle"
Irish - "Scarlet Streaks"
Ashes1396 - "Grass Warfare or Faery Story: Episode 0"
DumbNameD - "Creep and Dread"
Creep and Dread (~1880 Words)
Wyatt rode up the hill as a hot wind scratched his face. He squinted his round eyes. With the back of his hand, he wiped the pearls of sweat that dampened his brow. It wasnt even summer yet, and yet it seemed like someone had set the world to stew in a cast-iron pot on a campfire. The grass was yellow beneath his feet. He remembered how dreadful it was two summers past when no one could coax the rain to come. Maybe it wouldnt get so bad, but under the suns heat and after the climb up the hill, he had a warbled feeling in his gut that it would. Wyatt felt weary. Young and tired. It sounded like whining.
At least, thats what his mom would have said.
Dust kicked up in a cloud past the chain-link fence around the baseball field. Wyatt raced down the hill as if the sun were chasing him down. His heart galloped in his chest. The pedals of his bike rattled and spun round and round. He leapt off the saddle of his bike as the bike, wheels still raring, crashed into the fence.
The two figures in the dirt field looked to Wyatt.
Hey! shouted Wyatt, huffing.
None of your business, said Billy. Take a hike. One of his mitts was curled into a fist while the other held a swirl of a shirt. Some poor kid was a rag doll in Billys hands. Held back twice in school, Billy was a tree trunk in a field of twigs. He liked to shoot his bb gun at flowers and throw rocks at mailboxes. He gambled Pokémon cards while shooting marbles and sold candy behind the backs of the teachers during school. Anyone who tried to muscle in on the underground candy trade got a beating to remember.
Cmon, Billy, said Wyatt. He was even bigger than the other kid, who was probably in some lower class. Whatre you picking on someone so smaller than you?
You want some of this too? Billy raised a fist to Wyatt.
Wyatt eyed the bully. What was he supposed to do? He wasnt the cavalry coming to save the day. I think you should stop, said Wyatt.
Oh, yeah? Well, youre Billy stopped. He dropped the kid from his paws.
Wyatt turned his head and saw the baseball coach and a couple of players nearby. Wyatts frame sunk in relief. Billy wouldnt touch him if there were a chance the coach would see them.
Tomorrow, after school, youll get yours, said Billy with a sneer. Ill pound you into spaghetti. He gave a gapped smile.
Wyatt stood motionless as he watched Billy run off. The threat repeated in Wyatts head. As Billy became smaller in the distance, the threat became louder. Wyatt realized he needed to pee. At least, he felt a cool breeze down the hill.
That night, Wyatt picked at his dinner. Somehow he had finished his green beans while leaving his chicken barely touched. Nothing, he said when his mom asked if something was wrong. After dinner, he didnt try to sneak TV time but retired to his room. The nub of his pencils eraser scratched a hole in his math worksheet. He knew how to do it in class.
Night in his bedroom seemed darker. His bed seemed harder. His pillow not as plushy. His sheets scratchy. And the way he tucked his blanket under his chin and against his neck seemed less safe against vampires.
Ill pound you into spaghetti.
Whatre you gonna do, Wyatt? asked Morgan.
Word already got around school. The other kids walked around Wyatt as if he were a rock in a stream. In Billys eyes, just by being near Wyatt, they might be harboring a fugitive. And Eli, who was in Wyatts class and in Billys posse, eyed Wyatt like a vulture circling a ragged man in the desert.
What can I do? replied Wyatt to his best friend.
Run away, said Morgan.
I cant do that, said Wyatt. He considered not going to school today but thought otherwise. I think Im scared more of my mom than Billy. Wyatt sighed. Im doomed. He could see himself lying in the dirt, clutching his belly, and wincing in pain.
Then talk to Garrett.
Garrett was the smartest kid in the school. While Wyatts grades said he was kind of smart, Garrett was spelling-bee smart. Wyatt saw that in the scraggly kid wearing glasses and sitting in the shade of the school. That morning, Garrett was separating Skittles into neat piles of each color and reading a thick book. It was a mystery what book it was to Wyatt, but there were no pictures in it.
Wyatt didnt really know Garrett as they were in different classes. Awkwardly, he introduced himself.
Garrett looked up from his book. Please to meet you, Wyatt, said Garrett. I hope we can be friends. Even if it is my last week here. Garrett spoke in a way that seemed as if he were speaking to a puppy dog. Or maybe he was the puppy who could speak all along yet his owner just now noticed.
Oh, are you moving? asked Wyatt.
Yes, my father got a new job, said Garrett. He took a red Skittles and popped it into his mouth. He hummed on it before biting through the shell and chewing. I thought I could finish the year here, but He thought a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. Such is life.
A puzzled look spread on Wyatts face. He returned a shrug as if that was what he was supposed to do.
Oh! said Garrett. He smiled, pleased with himself. Wyatt! I heard about Billy and you.
So you know, said Wyatt. He explained his predicament and asked what to do. Howd you get Billy to leave you alone?
Garrett closed his book and set it down. He took a couple ieces of candy and wriggled them into his mouth. Ill tell you a secret, said Garrett in a whisper.
Wyatt leaned forward.
Garrett puffed his chest. Hes got a glass jaw, he said.
A what?
Garrett shook his head. Hes a crybaby, he said. He wagged a finger. You have to hit him first.
And then hell just cry?
If you hit him hard enough, said Garrett, nodding. But you have to be first on the draw, Wyatt.
What about Billys friends? Eli and Lee? asked Wyatt.
Garrett shrugged. Youre smart, he said. Youll figure something out.
It wasnt the answers that he was looking for, but at least, it was something. The subjects went by quickly. Wyatt stared blankly at the blackboard. He hoped the teacher wouldnt call on him. Something was growing inside him. Something ballooning from his gut and tasting bitter. He rolled his shoulders and waggled his hips from side to side, but he couldnt shake its clutch. Morning, recess, lunch. Time fed it. Wyatt wanted to scream.
This aint right, said Mary. Mary was the sweetest girl in Wyatts class. If the paper fortuneteller told him that he had to marry her, he wouldnt struggle too much.
I know, said Wyatt. But what else can I do? Im gonna get pounded into spaghetti.
She sighed. Dont you go calling on me when this is over, she said.
Thanks, Mary, he said.
She stuck her nose up at him before sticking her thin freckled arm up into the air. Eli threw a spitball at me! she said with a slight shriek.
Despite Elis exclaims of innocence, he got detention after school. After all, Mary was the sweetest girl in class. Who was the teacher to believe? But Wyatt had dirtied her. She was mad, and he wondered if he could ever win her back.
One down. Even if he could get it just to him and Billy, could he even win? Hed never thrown a punch before. Was he even strong enough? Fast enough? Was Garrett even right? First on the draw.
He could still run. It was always in the back of his mind. Run. But then tomorrow would be here, and hed be back with that feeling in his gut. Run. He had already sacrificed Mary. How could he even face her if he ran? Run. Wyatt jumped in his seat when the final bell rang.
A crowd gathered as Wyatt stood a few yards from Billy and Lee. Morgan stood behind Wyatt as Garrett watched near the back. Under a nearby tree, Mary and her friends watched. Wyatt looked around, but there wasnt a baseball coach to save him this time. His heart raced, and sweat soaked his palms.
The back of Billys hand slapped against Lees chest, and Billy pointed to Wyatt. Lets get him, said Billy, sneering.
Lee shook his head. Nope, he said. Lee took a step back and joined the crowd. Its a wonder what a few rare Pokémon cards can do.
Billy cracked his knuckles. Fine, he said. I dont need you for this twerp.
Wyatt took a deep breath. Maybe he had a chance. They stared at each other.
Billy smiled. From his pocket, he removed a bag. It bulged like grapes. It was a bag of marbles. He held one end and twirled the bag in a circle. He was Goliath with a slingshot, and one shot from that swinging mass would bring Wyatt down.
Now Wyatt wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. He inched forward and circled with his arms crooked and his fists in front of his face. Wyatt couldnt strike too soon, or he might leave himself open. Closer and closer, they came until arms reach, and world stood still.
Billy sneered. He spat. Something chocolatey and thick. His hand rose. His arm cocked back. Fists shot like bullets. Marbles flew into the air.
Wyatt fell to the ground as his arms braced him. He rolled to his sides and felt pain. He waggled his hand and clutched his knuckles.
Billys eyes welled. They filled with tears as if oil had been struck. He moaned from his gut and searched the crowd as if looking for someone to help him but only saw happy faces. He ran.
The next day, Wyatt found Garrett in the same place as yesterday.
It still hurts? asked Garrett.
Wyatt shook his head. I put ice on it at home, he said. For a couple hours it did hurt. I didnt think punching someone would hurt my hand that much.
Garrett chuckled.
Id like to say thanks, said Wyatt. But whyd you really help me?
Garrett gave a funny look. What do you mean?
Wyatt straightened his back. Well, you know, he began. Youre the boss, arent you?
Hmm, replied Garrett.
Billy was looking for you in the crowd, wasnt he? said Wyatt. Youre the one whos really selling all candy, arent you?
Youre asking me, said Garrett. But you already know the answer. As for why? Its my last week here. I dont want to leave the fox in the henhouse. He smiled. Especially if I set the fox loose in there.
Garrett reached into his pocket and then tossed an orange Starburst at Wyatt, who caught it. Guess theres a new sheriff in town.
Wyatt rode up the hill as a hot wind scratched his face. He squinted his round eyes. With the back of his hand, he wiped the pearls of sweat that dampened his brow. It wasnt even summer yet, and yet it seemed like someone had set the world to stew in a cast-iron pot on a campfire. The grass was yellow beneath his feet. He remembered how dreadful it was two summers past when no one could coax the rain to come. Maybe it wouldnt get so bad, but under the suns heat and after the climb up the hill, he had a warbled feeling in his gut that it would. Wyatt felt weary. Young and tired. It sounded like whining.
At least, thats what his mom would have said.
Dust kicked up in a cloud past the chain-link fence around the baseball field. Wyatt raced down the hill as if the sun were chasing him down. His heart galloped in his chest. The pedals of his bike rattled and spun round and round. He leapt off the saddle of his bike as the bike, wheels still raring, crashed into the fence.
The two figures in the dirt field looked to Wyatt.
Hey! shouted Wyatt, huffing.
None of your business, said Billy. Take a hike. One of his mitts was curled into a fist while the other held a swirl of a shirt. Some poor kid was a rag doll in Billys hands. Held back twice in school, Billy was a tree trunk in a field of twigs. He liked to shoot his bb gun at flowers and throw rocks at mailboxes. He gambled Pokémon cards while shooting marbles and sold candy behind the backs of the teachers during school. Anyone who tried to muscle in on the underground candy trade got a beating to remember.
Cmon, Billy, said Wyatt. He was even bigger than the other kid, who was probably in some lower class. Whatre you picking on someone so smaller than you?
You want some of this too? Billy raised a fist to Wyatt.
Wyatt eyed the bully. What was he supposed to do? He wasnt the cavalry coming to save the day. I think you should stop, said Wyatt.
Oh, yeah? Well, youre Billy stopped. He dropped the kid from his paws.
Wyatt turned his head and saw the baseball coach and a couple of players nearby. Wyatts frame sunk in relief. Billy wouldnt touch him if there were a chance the coach would see them.
Tomorrow, after school, youll get yours, said Billy with a sneer. Ill pound you into spaghetti. He gave a gapped smile.
Wyatt stood motionless as he watched Billy run off. The threat repeated in Wyatts head. As Billy became smaller in the distance, the threat became louder. Wyatt realized he needed to pee. At least, he felt a cool breeze down the hill.
That night, Wyatt picked at his dinner. Somehow he had finished his green beans while leaving his chicken barely touched. Nothing, he said when his mom asked if something was wrong. After dinner, he didnt try to sneak TV time but retired to his room. The nub of his pencils eraser scratched a hole in his math worksheet. He knew how to do it in class.
Night in his bedroom seemed darker. His bed seemed harder. His pillow not as plushy. His sheets scratchy. And the way he tucked his blanket under his chin and against his neck seemed less safe against vampires.
Ill pound you into spaghetti.
Whatre you gonna do, Wyatt? asked Morgan.
Word already got around school. The other kids walked around Wyatt as if he were a rock in a stream. In Billys eyes, just by being near Wyatt, they might be harboring a fugitive. And Eli, who was in Wyatts class and in Billys posse, eyed Wyatt like a vulture circling a ragged man in the desert.
What can I do? replied Wyatt to his best friend.
Run away, said Morgan.
I cant do that, said Wyatt. He considered not going to school today but thought otherwise. I think Im scared more of my mom than Billy. Wyatt sighed. Im doomed. He could see himself lying in the dirt, clutching his belly, and wincing in pain.
Then talk to Garrett.
Garrett was the smartest kid in the school. While Wyatts grades said he was kind of smart, Garrett was spelling-bee smart. Wyatt saw that in the scraggly kid wearing glasses and sitting in the shade of the school. That morning, Garrett was separating Skittles into neat piles of each color and reading a thick book. It was a mystery what book it was to Wyatt, but there were no pictures in it.
Wyatt didnt really know Garrett as they were in different classes. Awkwardly, he introduced himself.
Garrett looked up from his book. Please to meet you, Wyatt, said Garrett. I hope we can be friends. Even if it is my last week here. Garrett spoke in a way that seemed as if he were speaking to a puppy dog. Or maybe he was the puppy who could speak all along yet his owner just now noticed.
Oh, are you moving? asked Wyatt.
Yes, my father got a new job, said Garrett. He took a red Skittles and popped it into his mouth. He hummed on it before biting through the shell and chewing. I thought I could finish the year here, but He thought a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. Such is life.
A puzzled look spread on Wyatts face. He returned a shrug as if that was what he was supposed to do.
Oh! said Garrett. He smiled, pleased with himself. Wyatt! I heard about Billy and you.
So you know, said Wyatt. He explained his predicament and asked what to do. Howd you get Billy to leave you alone?
Garrett closed his book and set it down. He took a couple ieces of candy and wriggled them into his mouth. Ill tell you a secret, said Garrett in a whisper.
Wyatt leaned forward.
Garrett puffed his chest. Hes got a glass jaw, he said.
A what?
Garrett shook his head. Hes a crybaby, he said. He wagged a finger. You have to hit him first.
And then hell just cry?
If you hit him hard enough, said Garrett, nodding. But you have to be first on the draw, Wyatt.
What about Billys friends? Eli and Lee? asked Wyatt.
Garrett shrugged. Youre smart, he said. Youll figure something out.
It wasnt the answers that he was looking for, but at least, it was something. The subjects went by quickly. Wyatt stared blankly at the blackboard. He hoped the teacher wouldnt call on him. Something was growing inside him. Something ballooning from his gut and tasting bitter. He rolled his shoulders and waggled his hips from side to side, but he couldnt shake its clutch. Morning, recess, lunch. Time fed it. Wyatt wanted to scream.
This aint right, said Mary. Mary was the sweetest girl in Wyatts class. If the paper fortuneteller told him that he had to marry her, he wouldnt struggle too much.
I know, said Wyatt. But what else can I do? Im gonna get pounded into spaghetti.
She sighed. Dont you go calling on me when this is over, she said.
Thanks, Mary, he said.
She stuck her nose up at him before sticking her thin freckled arm up into the air. Eli threw a spitball at me! she said with a slight shriek.
Despite Elis exclaims of innocence, he got detention after school. After all, Mary was the sweetest girl in class. Who was the teacher to believe? But Wyatt had dirtied her. She was mad, and he wondered if he could ever win her back.
One down. Even if he could get it just to him and Billy, could he even win? Hed never thrown a punch before. Was he even strong enough? Fast enough? Was Garrett even right? First on the draw.
He could still run. It was always in the back of his mind. Run. But then tomorrow would be here, and hed be back with that feeling in his gut. Run. He had already sacrificed Mary. How could he even face her if he ran? Run. Wyatt jumped in his seat when the final bell rang.
A crowd gathered as Wyatt stood a few yards from Billy and Lee. Morgan stood behind Wyatt as Garrett watched near the back. Under a nearby tree, Mary and her friends watched. Wyatt looked around, but there wasnt a baseball coach to save him this time. His heart raced, and sweat soaked his palms.
The back of Billys hand slapped against Lees chest, and Billy pointed to Wyatt. Lets get him, said Billy, sneering.
Lee shook his head. Nope, he said. Lee took a step back and joined the crowd. Its a wonder what a few rare Pokémon cards can do.
Billy cracked his knuckles. Fine, he said. I dont need you for this twerp.
Wyatt took a deep breath. Maybe he had a chance. They stared at each other.
Billy smiled. From his pocket, he removed a bag. It bulged like grapes. It was a bag of marbles. He held one end and twirled the bag in a circle. He was Goliath with a slingshot, and one shot from that swinging mass would bring Wyatt down.
Now Wyatt wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. He inched forward and circled with his arms crooked and his fists in front of his face. Wyatt couldnt strike too soon, or he might leave himself open. Closer and closer, they came until arms reach, and world stood still.
Billy sneered. He spat. Something chocolatey and thick. His hand rose. His arm cocked back. Fists shot like bullets. Marbles flew into the air.
Wyatt fell to the ground as his arms braced him. He rolled to his sides and felt pain. He waggled his hand and clutched his knuckles.
Billys eyes welled. They filled with tears as if oil had been struck. He moaned from his gut and searched the crowd as if looking for someone to help him but only saw happy faces. He ran.
The next day, Wyatt found Garrett in the same place as yesterday.
It still hurts? asked Garrett.
Wyatt shook his head. I put ice on it at home, he said. For a couple hours it did hurt. I didnt think punching someone would hurt my hand that much.
Garrett chuckled.
Id like to say thanks, said Wyatt. But whyd you really help me?
Garrett gave a funny look. What do you mean?
Wyatt straightened his back. Well, you know, he began. Youre the boss, arent you?
Hmm, replied Garrett.
Billy was looking for you in the crowd, wasnt he? said Wyatt. Youre the one whos really selling all candy, arent you?
Youre asking me, said Garrett. But you already know the answer. As for why? Its my last week here. I dont want to leave the fox in the henhouse. He smiled. Especially if I set the fox loose in there.
Garrett reached into his pocket and then tossed an orange Starburst at Wyatt, who caught it. Guess theres a new sheriff in town.
Morning adrenaline's kicked in and now I can't get to sleep. huh!
Seventeen people entered this time round. I think I'm going to read quite a few today, because I'm never going to be able to read nearly 25,000 words
, on Saturday, with a view to critique and vote... I'll post as I write them, for people who are checking into the thread for a crits, before putting it all in a final post, to make it easier to find, read, and in that post I'll add my votes as well.
edit: Adrenaline's worn off... I am actually tired. I'll read it in about eight hours time... zzz...
Seventeen people entered this time round. I think I'm going to read quite a few today, because I'm never going to be able to read nearly 25,000 words
24,844 exactly
edit: Adrenaline's worn off... I am actually tired. I'll read it in about eight hours time... zzz...
1. Cyan - "Running Silent" - You put me in that tin can and had me contemplating what it would be like to encounter a massive creature of the deep with only sonar equipment and hunches to go on.
2. DumbNameD - "Creep and Dread" - real close to stealing no. 1, this is my kind of story.
3. Timedog - "They Call Me Mr. Nasty" - always entertaining.
Honorables:
Dresden - "You can't see the trees..." - a scifi twist on the contemplation of death. You could have sold the swiss cheese memory a bit better (to me) if you went with the Blade Runner method, using specifics without clear context.
Irish - "Scarlet Streaks" - extreme anxiety disorder. so over the top but I could feel his body turning, getting wrenched as the day grew nearer.
2. DumbNameD - "Creep and Dread" - real close to stealing no. 1, this is my kind of story.
3. Timedog - "They Call Me Mr. Nasty" - always entertaining.
Honorables:
Dresden - "You can't see the trees..." - a scifi twist on the contemplation of death. You could have sold the swiss cheese memory a bit better (to me) if you went with the Blade Runner method, using specifics without clear context.
Irish - "Scarlet Streaks" - extreme anxiety disorder. so over the top but I could feel his body turning, getting wrenched as the day grew nearer.
mr afghan jones - "Colin" : I think it was a little too predictable. Of course, I may just be burnt out on self-fulfilling prophecy stories. In fact, I got so angry at your character when I realized he was going to set himself up for a good firing. I definitely believe you should have taken it down a different direction. You know, something just a tad more original. Oh well, I actually thought it was pretty well written, but it wasn't as enjoyable as it should have benn.
Was the Colon thing just everybody intentionally ribbing on him?
ZephyrFate - "Overwhelm" : Lots and lots of fantastic imagery. I mean, I was actually seeing all of this go down. As with Mr. Jone's story though, I think it ended up being a little bit flat due to a lack of situational originality. Excellently written, however, I would have cut out the ending section because it mainly seems like a way to explain why you wrote what you wrote. That probably doesn't make much sense, but I'm just getting back into commenting, so I'm trying to work out how to say things at the moment.
RevenantKioku - "Three Buckets of Cats and Mice" : I don't even think I can grasp what's happening here. I literally have no idea what's going on or even why Bill's jackin' it all over the floor. Wait, scratch that, I think I get it. Feels good, Man. It's supposed be some kind of apocalyptic story set in an office for some reason. Maybe it's all metaphors for daily going-ons such as stealing somebody's lunch from the community fridge and dodging interchangeable work. Fuck, I'm confused.
Botolf - "Without Breath" : I wish you had done something more to set your crisis-world apart from the million others there are out there. The relationship also seemed more a friend-based one than what we knew it to be. Your characterizations weren't as strong as they usually are, so I was kinda disappointed by that. Sorry.
nitewulf - "The Darkness Within" : Even though its something I read on a daily basis, I still want a bit more. Not because I really want more, but because this piece didn't have a proper ending. Hm... I don't know. I think I'm just getting dickier as the night goes on.
Was the Colon thing just everybody intentionally ribbing on him?
ZephyrFate - "Overwhelm" : Lots and lots of fantastic imagery. I mean, I was actually seeing all of this go down. As with Mr. Jone's story though, I think it ended up being a little bit flat due to a lack of situational originality. Excellently written, however, I would have cut out the ending section because it mainly seems like a way to explain why you wrote what you wrote. That probably doesn't make much sense, but I'm just getting back into commenting, so I'm trying to work out how to say things at the moment.
RevenantKioku - "Three Buckets of Cats and Mice" : I don't even think I can grasp what's happening here. I literally have no idea what's going on or even why Bill's jackin' it all over the floor. Wait, scratch that, I think I get it. Feels good, Man. It's supposed be some kind of apocalyptic story set in an office for some reason. Maybe it's all metaphors for daily going-ons such as stealing somebody's lunch from the community fridge and dodging interchangeable work. Fuck, I'm confused.
Botolf - "Without Breath" : I wish you had done something more to set your crisis-world apart from the million others there are out there. The relationship also seemed more a friend-based one than what we knew it to be. Your characterizations weren't as strong as they usually are, so I was kinda disappointed by that. Sorry.
nitewulf - "The Darkness Within" : Even though its something I read on a daily basis, I still want a bit more. Not because I really want more, but because this piece didn't have a proper ending. Hm... I don't know. I think I'm just getting dickier as the night goes on.
mr afghan jones - "Colin" - Oh shit, now I'm getting worried! :O "Hey Cyan, what's a GAF?" "Oh, hey boss. Er, it's sort of a social mistake." 
Anyway, this was a great take on the theme. Really captured the guy's fear. A few stylistic oddities, though. Was there a reason Colin's dialogue was never capitalized? It was a bit distracting. Also, Dan calling him Colon confused me, at first I thought it was a typo. Finally, the ending became evident the moment he decided to fuck with his boss. Still, on the whole it was good, really evoked the creeping dread.
ZephyrFate - "Overwhelm" - First two segments here are great stuff. Beautifully captures childhood night-fears, and then suddenly makes them real. Awesome. The last bit, though... it just feels unnecessary. I think the story would work better without the explanation. It removes a lot of the creepiness. The demon goes from a horrifying monster to a sort of evil mentorship program leader. I dunno.
RevenantKioku - "Three Buckets of Cats and Mice" - She sighs heavily and is also heavy? Ooh, I dunno man. Feels weirdly Tom Swifty. Anyway, this story is a crazy surreal read. Don't quite know what the hell to think about it. Or what to say about it, except that the opening juxtaposition is really clever. I think I'd have to have some clue what was going on to give any decent criticism... so I guess that's my criticism: I don't really get it.
Botolf - "Without Breath" - This criticism is going to sound weird, but before I even started reading I was put off by the identically-sized big block paragraphs. I instantly assumed it would be a slog. Let you know in a minute if I was right.
Ok. So it wasn't a slog exactly, but that uniformity really killed the pacing. It felt like it didn't change at all the whole way through. Was there any particular reason you did it that way, not even adding paragraph breaks for dialogue? Anyway, sorry to harp on this so much without even mentioning content, but it really hurt it for me. I did like the story's firefly imagery and the air of almost quiet contemplation of a dying world.
Anyway, this was a great take on the theme. Really captured the guy's fear. A few stylistic oddities, though. Was there a reason Colin's dialogue was never capitalized? It was a bit distracting. Also, Dan calling him Colon confused me, at first I thought it was a typo. Finally, the ending became evident the moment he decided to fuck with his boss. Still, on the whole it was good, really evoked the creeping dread.ZephyrFate - "Overwhelm" - First two segments here are great stuff. Beautifully captures childhood night-fears, and then suddenly makes them real. Awesome. The last bit, though... it just feels unnecessary. I think the story would work better without the explanation. It removes a lot of the creepiness. The demon goes from a horrifying monster to a sort of evil mentorship program leader. I dunno.
RevenantKioku - "Three Buckets of Cats and Mice" - She sighs heavily and is also heavy? Ooh, I dunno man. Feels weirdly Tom Swifty. Anyway, this story is a crazy surreal read. Don't quite know what the hell to think about it. Or what to say about it, except that the opening juxtaposition is really clever. I think I'd have to have some clue what was going on to give any decent criticism... so I guess that's my criticism: I don't really get it.
Botolf - "Without Breath" - This criticism is going to sound weird, but before I even started reading I was put off by the identically-sized big block paragraphs. I instantly assumed it would be a slog. Let you know in a minute if I was right.
Ok. So it wasn't a slog exactly, but that uniformity really killed the pacing. It felt like it didn't change at all the whole way through. Was there any particular reason you did it that way, not even adding paragraph breaks for dialogue? Anyway, sorry to harp on this so much without even mentioning content, but it really hurt it for me. I did like the story's firefly imagery and the air of almost quiet contemplation of a dying world.
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