Submission Deadline: Wednesday, June 15th by 11:59 PM Pacific
Voting begins Thursday, June 16th, and goes until Sunday, June 19th at 11:59 PM Pacific.
Optional Secondary Objective: Work of Art
Write a story inspired by or based on some work of art (a painting, piece of music, another story etc.) If this objective is not restrictive enough for you, write something inspired by this painting/poem combo.
Submission Guidelines:
- One entry per poster.
- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged.
- Keep to the word count!
Voting Guidelines:
- Three votes per voter. Please denote in your voting your 1st (3 pts), 2nd (2 pts), and 3rd (1 pt) place votes.
- Please read all submissions before voting.
- YOU MUST VOTE in order to be eligible to win the challenge.
- When voting ends, the winner gets a collective pat on the back, and starts the new challenge.
"Memory" was already a theme, so I just found a fancy pants way of saying it. Plus I always thought that was a better title than "In Search of Lost Time".
Story structure for the last piece was a bit inspired by Joyce's The dead. The revelation of a sad story part I mean...
And I nearly called it the Misery as well, after Chekhov's story.
Which, including the comment itself, coincidentally, are all things that can be said to be a remembrance of things past!
Ha ha! there it is.
Nice theme mate. I just about managed to get my story in last week. Hopefully I'll have better luck this week. Still feel pretty burned out. My novel is lying dead somewhere as well. Poor thing.
Hey, I'm still right about that. 1st place votes already bring their weight with those hefty point values. No need to put even more emphasis on them with the tie breakers. That is when the majority voice should be heard (total # of votes).
I swear I'm going to come back one of these days. I just need to get over the fact that I'm never going to come up with an original idea and just try to tweak an idea that is already out there in an interesting way.
My runway is already 900 words. This is not normal for me. I don't know if I have the space to finish the story. But...what if I make the entire story runway?
My runway is already 900 words. This is not normal for me. I don't know if I have the space to finish the story. But...what if I make the entire story runway?
There was a quick flash, followed by a longer darkness. And then a low hum that slowly crescendoed from silence before finally settling on a volume. The hum had transformed seamlessly and gradually from some unknowable, disparate idea into concrete form. Metal. The hum permeated my whole; I felt it against my back and deep in every bone. It was hard to tell what color the light had been, anything bright looks dull red when viewed through the bloody flesh of ones own eyelids. Another flash rose and fell into darkness amidst all the sounds that now enveloped my conscious. The dark washed over in a quick moving wave, and I my consciousness felt like it might have shrunk again into obscurity had it not been for the everpresent droning that emanated from beneath me.
I opened my eyes slowly and found no new sights, no respite, just the continuation of the black that I had awakened to. The air felt cold against my newly unsheathed eyes, and there seemed only the hint of further space once the barrier of my eyelids was removed. In the dark I could hear that I was in an enclosed space. It was the way the hum of the metal reverberated through my body, off the walls, and back to its own source and every other direction. The echo also subtly betrayed the movement of the room I laid in. Motion.
And then there was white again. I was utterly blinded for a moment. It was hard to tell how long the light lasted. In the short time of my consciousness, the world had been either black or white. It occurred to me that neither state was suitable for proper analysis. The mind, it must reside in the grey area. The mind was not meant to deal with extremes. Time seemed to fluctuate at its own whim. It creaked and shuttered, lapped back and forth with the unseen certainty of waves on a pitch black shore. I had little reference with which to discern my surroundingseverything felt uncategorized, unfinished. I needed some shade of grey to put my trust into.
The next flash came after an indeterminable amount of time, but with it appeared the insinuation of grey. The light was blinding at first, but in the short afterglow I saw a brief snapshot of my surroundings as my eyes almost learned how to adjust before night overtook everything again. The room was briefly illuminated from the left, and it looked somewhat larger than it had sounded in the dark. And then time gradually sped up, or perhaps it was the my perception of reality that sped up. Like the hum, time turned into something stable that my mind could sink its teeth into. It became concrete. The intervals between flashes of light seemed much shorter now, and my eyes adjusted more. The room became clearer and clearer with every flash of light. Soon it was obvious that I was lying on the floor of a train car.
I had absolutely no recollection of any of the events that led to my awakening. All I knew was that I was lying on my back on the floor of an empty car on a train going...somewhere. The side door to the car was on the left and a couple times every minute or so the car was flooded from another light next to the tracks. After using several lights to fully analyze the moving room, I unwittingly turned my attention to the aesthetics of my own body.
Its a scary thing, to look at ones own body when you have no recollection of what you look like. No idea what youre supposed to look like. I guess everyone has a vague avatar in their head of what theyre supposed to look like. The Ego part of the mind makes sure of that. Its why when you look in the mirror theres always at least some sense of surprise, however subtle. The Ego and objective reality are rarely a 100% perfect match. I had no avatar, but curiously I had the sense to know that one should exist.
At the next bright interval I looked down (its not really down when youre lying on your back) at my body. Jeans, jean jacket, black shoes. As soon as I recognized the type of clothing I was wearing I could immediately feel the weight of the fabric against my skin, where before I had felt nakedblanketed only by intermittently broken darkness. It was hard to tell if the clothing had always been there or if they were immediate fabrications of the mind once I looked in that direction. Reality felt like a painting slowly taking form.
During subsequent flashes I turned my attention to my hands. They were hands that had seen appreciable days. The hands were shapely and not too plump. Veins overlapped each other in the space between my wrist and knuckles. The veins were large enough to cast shadows across my skin in the harsh light. The contrast was too strong for me to even tell the color of my skin, but I liked my hands anyway. They seemed powerful. They lacked the smooth quality of childhood or adolescence, but they felt experienced, with vigor enough to handle anything. Anything maybe short of being trapped on a moving train with no memory of how I got there. I had no idea what kind of hands were necessary to handle this sort of something.
And then the lights stopped completely, yet my vessel eased along into pure darkness. There was no more light, and my eyes lost any insight they had gained for discerning the details around me. It occurred to me that the lights may have been near a town, and were now back into the thick of the countryside. The side of what country, exactly? I searched into my memory for the answer but found nothing. We might just as well have passed a cluster of stars on a journey through deep space.
I ruminated on that thought, closed my eyes, and let my mind drift along the path of the train. I felt myself being pulled into a denser darkness that I was unsure Id wake up from. Conscious or unconscious? Alive or dead? Asleep or awake? These distinctions were of no consequence, I had little attachment to this unknown world. Sleep seemed neither preferable nor insufficient compared to my current situation, so I just let it happen. I wondered whether or not I was an evil person, if I indeed had led some sort of existence before waking up that night. I wasnt able to find an answer before that thought fluttered into nothing. I went even deeper, darker, and farther away from my consciousness until any leftover fragments of my Ego finally dispersed, becoming homogenous again with the universe.
i have pretty much nothing so far. i had one idea that i sort of liked, but i wrote about 400 words and i just don't feel i'm capable of getting it to work. i can't see anyone wanting to actually read it, since i barely even want to write it. unless i think of something else, i'll probably be out this time.
i can't see anyone wanting to actually read it, since i barely even want to write it. unless i think of something else, i'll probably be out this time.
i have pretty much nothing so far. i had one idea that i sort of liked, but i wrote about 400 words and i just don't feel i'm capable of getting it to work. i can't see anyone wanting to actually read it, since i barely even want to write it. unless i think of something else, i'll probably be out this time.
Aw MAN! I'm done but I feel like ditching it all and starting from scratch. Back in the day, I imagine there was something cathartic in ripping paper out of a typewriter and crumpling it up and throwing it out. But I suppose that's not very green.
It seems like itd be benign. I just drew a girl with a big smile. I added the classic yellow sun in the upper-right corner. No problem, right? The only thing is that I got into an artists habit very early on. The idea is simple: let your work speak to you. My art has been speaking to me since I was about four years old. Its not like Im hallucinating or anything; Im just an artist at heart, a true artist. Its a blessing to have my art come to life and speak to me, guiding my creativity. But my art pieces werent always happy with what I provided them especially early on when my hand dexterity was limited.
This drawing of the girl with the big smile was actually a specific drawing of my babysitter, Ella. She was a hard-working teenager saving up to buy herself a new used car. And she was my neighbor. And she was so much fun. And she actually paid attention to me. I loved her and I wanted to marry her. I seriously thought I could marry her when I grew up because I would catch up to her age.
Aiden, is that me? she asked, beaming.
Yep! I said with pride, and with what I thought might have sounded like a grown-up voice.
I love it! she said, holding it up. I love it was a phrase she said often, with a familiar affirming intonation, and it always sounded 100% genuine.
We have to clean up now. Can I put it on the fridge?
COULD she put it on the fridge? What a ridiculous request. Having art up on the fridge was like making it up on the Highest Score List for the Blues Clues app. Yep, I said. Ella walked over to the fridge and posted it up with a magnet from Bryce Canyon.
When she came back to the table, she sang the clean up song which automatically made me want to help. I helped clear away the crayons at a rate ten times slower than her rate and then she served me mac-n-cheese. I swung my legs under the table, sneaking glances at my drawing. As I wiggled and ate, Ella told me about the SATs and I told her about how Robbie bought a remote-control octopus for show-n-tell.
With my face covered in orange cheese powder, my parents arrived. They gave me a bath and put me to bed, and Ella went home. But this time, I didnt have to cry to see her leave. I didnt have to miss her because she was on my fridge.
******
Being a drawing on a fridge is not what you call an ideal lifestyle. Sure, I may have appeared happy with my ear-to-ear smile but underneath it all, could I have felt defeated? What if the sun was so bright, with rays literally slicing my wrist? I was baking and all I had in my crayon-drawing world was some spiky grass that triggered an allergic reaction. But the view I had outside of my drawing was so enticing: an indoor world, an air-conditioned world, and a world with a kitchen: the perfect placement for summertime treats. All I wanted was relief, and a Popsicle.
I, of course, continued to smile all evening; one might have thought I was constipated. But not only did I not have any other choice but to smile, I also had to keep up appearances for Aidens parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bray until they went to bed. I had plenty of time to plan my escape from this childish drawing while the Brays sipped wine, ate a proper adult dinner with actual flavor, watched Thursday night NBC TV, fiddled on the internet, and made out quietly in order to not stir their son upstairs.
I really should be more grateful for Aiden. He gave me life, after all. But I couldnt help feeling short-changed with fingers that were just stiff chopsticks on the end of a spongy Nerf ball. And my feet were definitely just plain old rusty wheels. But hey, as I said, I should really just be grateful for being drawn. And as I went through the five stages of grief ending in acceptance, the parents, with bags under their eyes, trudged upstairs and went to bed. Houdini time.
I climbed out of the drawing as carefully as I could, holding on to the edges of the paper. Believe it or not, the surface between the art world and the real world is very slippery, like an ice skating rink. But I made it out, only to discover that my stupid wheels-for-feet made me stumble all over the place. I bruised myself badly, and I didnt have any flesh on my stick-person body to absorb any of my repeated falls. I spent the next several hours, literally, trying to clamber up on my feet. Adding insult to injury, I couldnt really use my claw-like hands to help me up at all. Oh, and I forgot to mention: I had no pupils just big sockets. Needless to say, I was not a pretty sight.
But, at least there was air conditioning and relief from that yellow sun with the rays that were like daggers into my skin. I felt like my brain was awakening from a dangerously high-temperature stupor. But still unable to open the freezer, I wasnt able to make it to the Popsicle stash. I was just a mess on the floor, in front of the fridge.
My fatigue got the best of me and I rested on the kitchen linoleum. I woke up from the early light a few hours later. Fortunately, the morning sun couldnt bother my eyes since, remember, I had no pupils. After my rest, I was able to hoist myself up and crawl back inside the picture just in time for the morning rush of the family getting ready for their various morning destinations.
The day went by quickly and Aiden came home from preschool. I was stone cold in my picture. My earthling form had arrived as well: the babysitter! Ella came in through the front door with Aiden and provided the young boy with an afternoon snack. He wiggled around and told Ella about his day: how he got to pick the song at circle time, how his friend peed in the sandbox, and how he traded his sandwich for a Lunchable. Then, he had some quiet time to color before taking a nap. Score.
I pleaded for him to choose me instead of a blank sheet of paper. And fortunately, he heard me and answered my prayers. He pointed to the fridge, and Ella looked flattered that hed choose to continue with the picture of her that he created yesterday rather than starting fresh.
******
Little kids have good ears. But all I heard was a faint sound. It was nothing more than a whisper from the tiniest voice box ever. At first, I thought I heard the word potty. Was my drawing asking me to flush it down the toilet? Was it calling me names? Did it need to relieve itself? I wondered if I was supposed to draw a toilet. I had never drawn a toilet before so I thought that would be hard.
What? I asked for clarification very quietly so that Ella, in her human form, wouldnt hear me.
Popsicle, I heard again. The drawing didnt move. Her smile, in the drawing, was still there full force. But this time, I heard her loud and clear. Ive never drawn a popsicle before, but I dug in my shoebox for a red crayon. Like any three-year-old, I wanted to please. So I didnt just look for any old red crayon, but a Razzmatazz. This will taste really good, I thought. I drew an upright rectangle, and colored it in while pressing down on the paper with all my 4-year-old strength. I added a handle and voila! I was proud of my work. And in my own eyes, of course, I had clearly made a popsicle, even if another critic might have just thought that Ellas finger (in the drawing) was swollen from a bee sting, and perhaps covered in blood. In my drawing, Ella still smiled.
******
I did still smile. And I enjoyed the popsicle. I spoke to Aiden throughout his childhood. I enjoyed creating an artist out of my little friend. 23 years later, he created me in a way that felt just right.
Listen, I'm here to tell you that I don't love you anymore. Well, not in that way, at least. I'm afraid to say it, but I've fallen madly in love with you.
So said the sign, Bernard held onto. He was ten years old.
He stood outside the school gate, wearing his school uniform: black trousers/white shirt/black shoes. The board was white and the message was written in black ink.
The pen letter friend lived in an African country a thousand miles away.
Bernard Cohen was the first person in the known world to protest the systematic genocide of the Kuzubo race on May 09th 2011.
1.1
Sunlight filtered in through a window as the sun reached England's shores. Bernard had been tucking into his cornflakes when he read Sassima's last email. His mother was in the shower as Bernie dialled 999 for the emergency services. Sarah M. Parker answered the call. He frowned in dismay having failed to explain the situation to Ms Parker. The police didn't care for people outside the UK. He put the phone down when she asked to speak to his mother.
He tried to speak to his mother, but she was too busy putting on her make-up and rushing out to work.
Bernie looked for news on the event, but unfortunately for him, he preceded the crest of the wave.
He recalled the worldwide demonstrations that had happened earlier on in the year, and knew that they had succeeded in lifting the governments in Egypt and Tunisia. And then he recalled the armies that were sent in to help the Libyan people. Yes, he said aloud, this is what needs to happen.
1.2
The walk to school was a sombre one. He wasn't an adult, and he didn't have a job. Nobody would give a damn. What did he have to bargain with? People cared when trains stopped; when the teachers went on strike, and when the nurses wanted more pay. All he did was play football, surf the internet and go to school. School. And that is when the idea struck him. They would care if he didn't go to school. Surely his own mother would care when he protested using his education to equal out the equation.
So when he reached the school gate, he put his rucksack down. He didn't shout or tell anyone. He simply stood there and watched everybody else go in.
1.3
At 9am, the school Head-Teacher, Ms Hall, was by chance passing through the playground when she saw Bernie. Lucky for Bernie, she was a most pleasant human being.
She believed in empowering children. Thus she didn't ignore him, nor ridicule him; instead, she pointed out the possibility that he could be mistaken; and that genocide was a very serious matter.
Is that what is happening then? Genocide.
Ms Hall carried on in the way a good teacher does, professionally and eloquently explaining genocide. Indeed being the Head-teacher had its perks. Instinctively, she cared for the education of students first, and what parents, governors and the public thought second, even if that didn't always materialise everyday.
She asked for his permission to check the emails in question; even though the pen letter scheme was a school project, with a school email address, and one she could access very easily.
Bernard nodded.
At around, 9:30 am, Samantha Jones of class 6C, was instructed by the Head-Teacher, to retrieve a white board from the art class, and then she was to help Bernie write out what he wanted to say.
Ms Hall, meanwhile, called her local paper, knowing the editor there, about the rather unique situation. A photographer was sent for, and a reporter was thus assigned. The reporter, a free-lance journalist smelt the story for what it was and contacted the news editor at The Sun.
Jonathan Spektor, editor of The Times, sat in his office in Wapping. He was told that something big was breaking. When he heard the nature of the story, he audibly groaned. He called Rosie Jones, from the foreign affairs desk, to ask her about it. Jones said that there had been trouble in Sudan only the day before, but that she wasn't updated on the situation. He asked her for a full page feature on page 8. He then told her about the child supposedly protesting, and that he wanted somebody on the scene fast. The child, the Head-Teacher, the mother of the child, everybody needed to be interviewed before the other papers caught on.
1.4
Bernard held up his sign. The playground behind him was empty. The children were attending their class. A man walking by asked him whether he was part of a school project or charity.
No, Bernie said.
The next hour passed with no event occurring. Bernard sat down to give his aching feet some rest. The plan wasn't working, he frowned.
He wondered what Sassima was doing right now. He looked to his left, and then to his right. Then he got up.
Two minutes later, Samantha and her friend Casey, came out with a chair, a sandwich and a water bottle. Evidently, he was being watched.
1.5
9:59
A new thread on Mums.net, the most popular forum of its kind, was created. It was about a child who was protesting. It wasn't clear what the child was protesting, but whether it was right for a child to protest...
10 am. Twitter pics of a boy protesting outside a school put up by Joanna Edwards, Bernard's teacher. His face is masked out. Only his message declared.
Separately, Reuters put out a newswire, that states the first reports of a genocide coming out Sudan. 173 out of 4128 websites carry this headline.
10:30 Bernard's mother leaves work after a call from her son's school office.
11:30 am
Reuters carries the headline of an ongoing genocide in Sudan. 500 websites carry the headline.
Also published that minute are the latest reports from Libya, Iraq, Afghanistan, with 3,645, 2845, 2934 websites carrying the headlines respectively.
Chapter 2
Bernie's mother noticed her son actively avoid her grey eyes. It wasn't enough that people knew about it. The point was to help Sassima.
It was a pale day, and there was a slight wind. She pulled a jumper over her son. She wanted to say something several times, but her words failed her.
Mum, why do you take care of me?
Cause I love you, his mother replied. It's that simple.
And why do you love me?
His mother was about to reply, but hesitated. She knew the road of endless questions would be a long one. She changed track. I don't know to be honest. But I've loved you even before you were born, and I feel it's my duty as a parent now to bring you up as best as I can.
A hundred cameras flashed in unison behind the school gates. Mother and child were sat on a flat metallic school bench inside the school grounds. It was five minutes to twelve, they shared a sandwich and a bottle of mineral water.
2.1
At the end of the school day, Bernie got up from the bench, and walked home with his mum. The press, in an unusual mark of kindness cleared a path between themselves for mother and son.
2.2
Bernie watched himself on the six o clock news. He put his knife and fork down. He turned to face his mother, who was reading a thread on Mums.net. Why are they talking about me?
Bernie's mother looked up. She said: They will move on to the genocide next. I'm sure.
She then typed: Don't think you lot should really concern yourself with his right to protest or the mother being looked into by Social Workers. Perhaps you should actually read what it says on his board.
Ten minutes later, Malorie2kids replied: I know it's genocide, but what does it actually say?
She replied: Help my friend; her people are dying.
2.3
10 o clock news:
Everybody in England was talking about him by lunchtime. And now Twitter has brought him to the world. He is already in the top 10 twitter trends. The 'help my friend' group on Facebook already has 100,000 members.
The problem with America being the superpower it is, not just militarily, but through media... and economically as well, is that, the world becomes then, news centric around America. Genocide is an awful thing of course it is. But it isn't an American interest. Now this isn't an American fault, we're not blaming the American media. It is just the way it is.
Sarah Pullman, Journalist, The Guardian.
And this is were Twitter, Facebook, and all the forum groups out there liberate the media, and change the balance of news discourse. People want to talk about genocide, if it's happening now.
Iraq, Afghanistan: they've run their course news wise. They're like background noise.
Genocide is happening now. News monitors send the twitter/facebook/news comments, stats back to the likes of News International, who then go, wait a minute. This is what the people are talking about, this is what they want to hear. So as a reaction, they send out a crew to this obscure country in Africa.
James Sutton, editor, The Economist.
Bernie didn't go to school the following day as per his mother's request. Reluctantly, she could not protect him from the world at large for more than a day, and had to listen to her son.
2.4
Bernie walked to school with his mother beside him. He wore his school uniform albeit with a coat on top. Photographers followed, and the pair were barraged with mikes being thrust into their faces at all angles. Bernie wanted to say something but he stuck to the promise he made his mother.
Ms Hall was at the school gate, and she unlocked it for Bernard. She looked stern and serious behind the smile she threw at Bernard. Bernard didn't know what to think. He realised that he was in at the deep end; all he could do now was keep on swimming.
For the first time that morning, he noticed the empty playground.
Where is everybody?
Seeing that your mother was in trouble with the authorities, the other parents bandied together. 85% of the parents have come out in support and kept their children at home. The children that are here belong to parents who wanted to support but couldn't find child care, or that child-care proved to expensive at short notice. They are all in the library sorting letters.
Sorting letters?
I have a few my self. But mostly they are addressed to you, Ms Hall nodded in the direction of a Royal Mail lorry arriving though the school's vehicle entrance. Third one today. Didn't know so many people used Snail mail myself but there you go.
2.5
* Footage appears on Live leak, after BBC NEWS, bombarded with complaints about the graphic nature of their footage, take them off air. Panorama would get to show the footage years later.
* Video appears on Youtube. 2 million hits and counting.
* 1.4 million people back the media publicity campaign to stop the on going genocide.
* 1500 schools in England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland close through non-attending pupils on Friday.
* President of the United States declares that Genocide is being carried out in Zambia as defined by Article 2: 1948 United Nations Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (CPPCG). - No.1 news story on Google news, Reuters. Leading news on CCTV, NHK World, Press TV, France 24, Al Jazeera, RT, BBC NEWS Worldwide, and CNN, amongst others...
* UN resolution forced through by US and it's allies by 11:13pm BST Friday.
Bernard Mathews protested on Monday; U.S -plus allied troops- move into Sudan, to pro-actively stop the genocide, Saturday 14th May. This has never happened before. This has never happened before... this has never happened...
Chapter 3
This has never happened before, and should theoretically, not happen, but who knows. Global warming being what it is. Anyway, the showers are going to move to the South-East from here, temperatures will most like be in the mid teens...
Michelle woke up in hospital to the sound of a BBC weather woman summarising the forecast. It was a fairly dark afternoon. She could hear the rain outside as it struck the window pane. A small bleep came through the heart beat monitor.
Her son was asleep. He wasn't ten like in her dreams, he was still three. He was still recovering from a car accident.
Recovering her memory, she recalled the Ted talk she had been watching on her ipad, and the film that was being shown on the television. Or was it a documentary? She couldn't remember now.
She walked out of the room and down the corridor to get her self a cup of coffee from the vending machine.
Then she sat down beside her son, and reached out to his hand. He embraced a single finger in his hand. I'm so sorry Bernie. I'm so so sorry...
Chapter 4
Recurrence, the approximate return of a system towards its initial conditions, together with sensitive dependence on initial conditions, are the two main ingredients for chaotic motion. They have the practical consequence of making complex systems, such as the weather, difficult to predict past a certain time range (approximately a week in the case of weather), since it is impossible to measure the starting atmospheric conditions completely accurately.
Michelle closed her book in disgust. Chaos theory. What a shitty little theory that was! Butterflies causing hurricanes. How could the flapping of a butterfly's wing cause a hurricane?
Her thought systems were interrupted by the baby's kick. Instinctively, her hand went to her belly.
She knew also that insomnia would reign supreme now. It was her worries that kept her awake. What if she turned out to be a bad mother? What if her marriage didn't work? What if she had to raise the new child, boy or girl, she didn't know, alone? What if she didn't love the child? What if she hated it? Oh god, she cried out in fear. What if the child didn't like her? What did having a child really mean?
Chapter 5.
Bernie looked at a single yellow tulip fluttering in the wind, in a field of green grass. A butterfly caught his eye. He opened his mouth in awe. Now that is cool defined.
It was his tenth birthday party-stroke-picnic. He turned to his girlfriend, who was pointing to his mum, who was crying. She always does that. Been hearing about butterflies since before I was born probably. Don't ask me how it all links together. I just about grasp it myself.
He then went over to his mum who was putting candles on the cake. Mum stop crying. I'm right here. Hello woman, I'm right here. I'm alive, he then turned to his girlfriend. Long story. I'll tell it to you some other time. I'm a little bit busy with this mad WOMAN who won't stop crying! Mum. Stop it already! Or I will be forced to tell a terrible joke. Ha ha, I see that smile. Flawless Victory.
End
I wrote this because, earlier on in this thread, I stumbled onto one of my pieces in a poetry thread, with a very similar theme: 'history'. After being reminded of that poem, I didn't think I could write anything else really.
The picture was one I drew a while ago, (sorry about the quality; it's a quick and dirty Ipad photo) and it's basically my version of a famous photograph, but I can't find the photograph at the moment...
Here's an excerpt of the poem referred to above:
Epoch encroaching mass atrocity: The Rwandan Genocide.
Emotions lay wasted upon the cold concrete grass
Shattered and torn,
The bodies of the African orphan.
Two hundred thousand cockroaches, stabbed, burnt, raped, pillaged and murdered.
Six hundred thousand more by the end of it all.
Raw is the detail, deafening is the sound.
Birds flutter in the cloudy sky,
Covering the blue day,
Leaving the brightness of the sun behind;
I sit in the shade and grab a sock of earth,
My eyes wild with fear, as the raging crowd approaches.
If history teaches us anything. Never Forget. Never Again.
Three sat in a private room, swords at their sides, full mugs on the table in front of them.
Three sat, where four should have been.
Two were morose--dour, portly Languis, he of dark eyes and twice-broken nose, and Karas, fine-featured and high-cheeked, whose eyes would have sparkled with laughter and joy on any other day.
One was not--Philan, bearded and long-nosed, clad in white. Philan stared at the table and drew endless circles with a finger, but his eyes were bright with vigor and a simmering anger.
"Mathe dead," Philan said, an edge to his voice. "Mathe dead, and four become three."
"We don't know that," said Karas, though he sounded as though he were trying to convince himself.
"And if it's true? You know what that means as well as I."
"It's not."
"And if it is?" Philan turned to look Karas straight in the eye. "If he was taken by the Kaeser's dogs?"
Karas looked away. "We don't know that he was."
Languis snorted. "Listen to you two." He sipped at his mug. "Philan, you just want a reason to hate the Kaeser. As if we need another. And Karas--" He shook his head. "I know you're not a coward. But sometimes you talk like one."
Philan stood and began to pace, measuring the length of the room, back and forth. "I need no more reasons to hate the Kaeser. But this is more than that. If Mathe is dead--" He paused in his pacing for a moment, glared at the other two as though daring them to speak. They said nothing. "If Mathe is dead, you know what we must do. Blood demands blood."
Karas looked down at the table. "Treason."
"What?"
Karas stood. "You heard me, Philan. Treason. Whatever else he may be, the Kaeser rules the land."
"And killed our friend. Our compatriot."
"You don't--"
"Know that," Philan finished for him, then shook his head in disgust. "I begin to agree with Languis. You speak like a coward."
Karas shoved back his chair and stood, putting a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Call me coward again." The downcast look was gone, faded, replaced by the white heat of sudden anger.
Philan put a hand to the hilt of his sword. He opened his mouth to speak.
Languis slammed his mug onto the table. "Enough," he said.
Hands left hilts. Slowly, Karas sat, and Philan resumed his pacing.
"Karas is right about one thing," said Languis. His tone was calm, his voice pitched low. "What you're saying is treason. No." He held up a hand to Philan, who had opened his mouth again. "Wait a moment. It is treason. And yet it must be done. If the Kaeser would take Mathe in daylight, from his own home, the rest of us aren't safe either." He sighed.
Philan half-smiled, but it was near stifled in anger. "By your words, you agree with me. Yet you don't wish to--"
Languis waved away the words. "No, I don't. But my wishes don't matter. It is time. We must reswear our oaths. As three."
"And this time, our sworn ends must be the Kaeser's death."
Languis nodded.
"No!" said Karas. He stood once again. "No. No oaths, no treason, no blood. Not until we know for certain." He headed for the door. Philan stood to block his path, but at a look from Languis moved aside.
The door opened before Karas could reach it. He stopped in his tracks.
"Masters." A wizened old man limped in, closed the door behind him. The moment the door was closed, the limp disappeared. "Masters, it is as you said." He wrung his hands. "It is worse!"
"Mathe is dead, then." Languis closed his eyes
"And his wife, and his four children. Butchered like pigs."
Philan put his head in his hands.
Karas went white. "That can't--it can't be so."
The man bowed his head and left the room. He looked back uncertainly, then closed the door behind him.
"Damn you Karas," Philan whispered. "It was you convinced Mathe to move his family here. That it was finally safe, that the Kaeser had forgotten him."
"You believed it too!"
"And yet it was you, not I, that convinced him. You that caused their deaths."
Karas drew his sword. His fine features were suffused with red, his eyes tight.
"So. You wish to kill me too?"
Karas leapt for him, sword swinging in a wide arc.
Philan twisted, hitting the sword on the flat with a forearm, sending the swing down into the floor. He drew his own blade and took a defensive stance. His motions were quick, but his eyes were misted.
Karas made another pass, sword swinging high, fire in his cheeks and murder in his eyes.
Philan ducked underneath the swing and brough his own sword around, swinging for Karas' legs.
Karas leapt and went into a roll, away from Philan, giving him more room for action.
Now Philan went on the offensive, aiming a fierce cut at Karas' middle, but Karas took the blow with his sword, then twisted it around in an attempt to disarm Philan.
Clunk! A heavy porcelain mug smashed into Karas' head. A moment later, a sword hilt clutched in Languis' meaty fist took Philan just above the left ear.
"Fools." Languis was panting. "He wants to break the four, break us surely and for all. Mathe was our heart and soul. He doesn't even need to kill us all. Take our heart and we destroy ourselves."
Karas' face was still red, his eyes still angry, but he nodded. "We are three now." He sheathed his sword
Philan drew his hand across his eyes. "We are three, but we are still us. The Kaesar cannot break us." He sheathed his sword as well.
"We will swear the oaths?" Languis asked quietly.
Philan nodded, and a moment later, so did Karas.
The door to the private room banged open. A crowd of Kaeser's Men stood outside, weapons drawn. "I place you all under arrest," said the man in the lead. "By order of the Kaeser."
Caleb sat in Gentrys chair. Calebs legs dangled. The boy was just a sprout growing from the dining table. At the ends of his broomstick arms, his fingers spread like straw and clutched the tables edge. He pulled himself forward. The legs of the chair scraped across the wooden floor. Shadows trembled around the boy as the flames in the fireplace flickered. A murky chicken stew with two biscuits filled a sunken plate in front of the boy. Calebs right hand, pressed to the table, crawled across the dark wood. He grabbed the pewter spoon next to the plate. His mouth unhinged, and he angled his whole head to get a mouthful of chicken. The first gulp dribbled stew down Calebs chin. He didnt mind. The boy gobbled down the food, as if he hadnt eaten in ages. His eyes, sullen, floated in shallow mud like moonlit water lilies.
In the adjacent kitchen area, Gentry clutched his wife close to him. Marjoram swayed. Her knees buckled. Her throat went dry. Draped in a full-length black dress and white apron, she stood like a morbid hourglass out of time. She pressed the side of her face against Gentrys chest. Out of the corner of an eye, she could catch a glimpse of Caleb. And that was enough of a view for her.
With a crumbling biscuit, Caleb scraped the last licks of stew from the plate. He tore the biscuit apart and devoured it piece by piece. Almost as big as the boys head, the tankard on the table wobbled in the boys grasp as he pulled it to his lips. He swallowed the ale in throaty gulps to wash down the food. The tankard thumped at an angle before settling onto the table.
Gentry had latched the doors and the windows. But there was the boy sitting at the table that Gentry had made, in the chair that Gentry had cobbled together. Caleb had been dead for seven years.
Caleb eyed the pair. His hands gripped the plate. With his arms straight, the boy raised the empty plate. His eyes pleaded for more.
It had started a couple years after Calebs death. On the first anniversary, Gentry had heard crying. The man paid no mind. There were a lot of noises on the edges of the village. He thought it was just a mewling cat or a lowing calf. The year after, a pleading voice joined the crying. Stop. Please. Dont. Gentry thought madness had taken hold. But his wife heard as well. On the third anniversary of Calebs death, there the boy was, right in their humble cabin, right on time for supper. Caleb just sat and ate.
All the times Caleb came, they never had seen him enter. The boy just appeared. For Marjoram, whether he was a phantom, a changeling, or a curse, it didnt matter to her. Fear drove her. She feared what would happen if there was no food for Caleb. She feared that if she ran to anothers house to hide, that the boy might follow. This was the work of the devil. What if her neighbors found her with the boy? She would be branded as a witch. No, she would stay with her husband and hope God would protect them both.
Caleb held the plate like a begging statue. Gentry and Marjoram didnt move. But that didnt matter to Caleb. His arms remained up. They didnt tire.
Gentry nudged his wife. Marjoram shook her head. She took the pot of chicken stew off the fire and offered it to Gentry.
The floor creaked underfoot as Gentry stepped toward Caleb. Near the table, Gentry realized that his breath had quickened. Gentry stared at the boy. The boy stared at the pot of stew. Gentry slowly went around the end of the table and stopped behind the boy. Caleb didnt turn in his seat. The cast-iron pot was heavy and bigger than the boys head. If Gentry brained the boy with the pot, would that be end of these visits? The thought crossed the mans mind. He shivered.
Food filled the boys plate. Calebs lips pressed together and formed a barely-there smile.
Gentry hurried back to his wife. With relief, she buried her face into his chest. He hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. They tried to keep each other from shaking. When they looked up, the plate was empty. Caleb was gone.
I ask you again, my love, said Marjoram. She stepped back within arms length of her husband. She wanted to see the look of his face when he answered. Do you know what happened to the boy? What happened to Caleb?
You know, as does everyone, replied Gentry. Wolves.
They both knew he had just spoken a lie.
Gentry knew. He was one of five to know. Neither Gentry nor Marjoram told anyone about the boys visits. That wasnt talked about, but Gentry could see it on the faces of the other four that knew on the day after the anniversary. He could see that look of fright mixed with guilt. He knew Caleb came to them too.
Calebs body was small and fragile. His face was beaten in. Thomas Goodchurch and Randall Cooper had found them, the boys limp body and Miles Pitt covered in blood. Thomas restrained Miles, though he didnt struggle. Randall went to get Gentry and the mayor. Gentry was a constable then, and the mayor was Jacob Pitt, father of Miles.
No one asked what Miles was doing with the boy in the woods. Gentry always wondered, but the Pitts were a powerful family. They had connections to powerful patrons and never shied from using them for gain. So Miles was protected. No one said anything. After they said wild animals killed the boy, justice for Caleb was thrown to the wolves.
The days after Calebs latest visit, Gentry tended the crops, gathered firewood, fed the livestock, weeded the Marjorams flower garden, fished, dug out moles, and repaired the roof and fences. He kept busy. He wanted to forget, but he couldnt. That barely-there smile and that calm request for more food lingered in his mind. Caleb wasnt some phantom or imp; he was just a boy.
When Sunday came, Miles sat where he always sat, on the stage behind the pastor. Miles sat with his father, with all the important people. They were Gods chosen. Lifes chosen. Gentry didnt pay attention to the sermon. He watched the leering eyes of Miles. Those eyes darted and stared and lingered. God forgives, but does He ever forget?
Gentry knew where to find Miles. There was a shed with barrels of ale behind the Pitt estate. In the darkness of night, Gentry came from behind. He slammed Miles to the ground. Gentry pounded his fists into the others face. His hands curled around Miles neck. With both hands, Gentry held up Miles neck like an offering plate before wrenching Miles head back to the ground. Miles was already dead, but Gentry kept at him. He was a savage in the moonlight.
Caleb didnt return the next year. Gentry and Marjoram felt relieved. Gentry did his work. He felt free, as if loose from shackles. When Sunday came, Gentry recited and prayed. They had spent many Sundays without Miles there to leer. There was this connection to God that he had never felt before except that night when he delivered Gods vengeance. One year later, he felt it again.
When they returned home, Gentry hitched up the horses. Marjoram opened the door. She screamed. Gentry rushed over. She turned away and braced herself against the outside wall of their home.
What? asked Gentry. What is it?
Marjoram shook her head and pointed inside.
Gentry looked inside their home. There at the table sat Miles. Miles leered.
i've had terrible time writing lately. i already had trouble finishing my last two entries, and now i can't even bring myself to writing anything more than a random paragraph here and there. feels bad man.
i've had terrible time writing lately. i already had trouble finishing my last two entries, and now i can't even bring myself to writing anything more than a random paragraph here and there. feels bad man.
Shit, I feel you man. Maybe it's something in the air.
Feels like my creativity train derailed, and everything I write pains me the second it's on the page. Forced my way through the last two entries anyway, but man.
Wanted to write something for the MoD anthology--thought I had a great idea, but every time I tried to get it on paper, it looked like crap.
I guess taking part in the poetry threads are helping me in that regard. I feel completely burnt out writing wise. But the variation seems to be helping out. Having said that, people are so very creative in that thread. And just reading their stuff, helps me to bounce off of stuff.
Caleb (DND) - Oh man, great story. The first few paragraphs were off-putting at first, but it set the eeriness of the scene so well. Good use of the main theme as well. Really enjoyed it.
Three (Cyan) - Some great writing here, as always. The actions really popped -- both the character mannerisms as well as the fight sequence. The only thing I would recommend is adding the actual oath into the story so as to really drive home their bond before the cliffhanger at the end.
Spindly and Spare (crowphoenix) - Some fantastic imagery here, absolutely loved it.
Ella (Tangent) - This was such a sweet story, adored it from beginning to end. Just one minor note: in the second-to-last paragraph it says the kid is three and then four. Everything else was perfect though.
Butterflies in the Hurricane Season II (Ashes1396) - This is the best story of yours that I've read (though I've admittedly only read like three now.) I feel like the fragmented chapter system you use sometimes takes away from the actual story, but this time it's to its advantage. I thoroughly enjoyed reading the whole story, but I have conceptual issues with chapters four and five. They both felt disconnected from the first three chapter's plot. Had any of it been hinted at earlier in the story, it would have made the transition a bit smoother. Four and five feel like they exist only to tie the piece with the main them of the challenge as well as to tie it in with the title. Don't get me wrong, I liked it a lot, and it was very well written. But those concerns stood out for me as I read it.
Love without Romance (Timedog) - Trippy story. I walked away for ten minutes to think of something to say, but trippy was all I could come up with.
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This was a great week. I enjoyed each story, and they were all very unique. This is the first time I've had a lot of trouble picking my top three. They all deserve it in their own right.
1. Spindly and Spare (crowphoenix)
2. Ella (Tangent)
3. Caleb (DND)
Butterflies in the Hurricane Season II (Ashes1396) - This is the best story of yours that I've read (though I've admittedly only read like three now.) I feel like the fragmented chapter system you use sometimes takes away from the actual story, but this time it's to its advantage. I thoroughly enjoyed reading the whole story, but I have conceptual issues with chapters four and five. They both felt disconnected from the first three chapter's plot. Had any of it been hinted at earlier in the story, it would have made the transition a bit smoother. Four and five feel like they exist only to tie the piece with the main them of the challenge as well as to tie it in with the title. Don't get me wrong, I liked it a lot, and it was very well written. But those concerns stood out for me as I read it.
