Submission Deadline: Wednesday, September 21st by 11:59 PM PST.
Voting begins Thursday, September 22nd, and goes until Sunday, September 25th at 11:59 PM PST.
Optional Secondary Objective: Foreshadowing
As defined by the infallible Wikipedia: Foreshadowing is a literary device in which an author suggests certain plot developments that might come later in the story.
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.
He's the reason I picked the theme. Read C&P last winter, and it's one of the best damn things I've ever read. No way could he keep to the word limit, though.
He's the reason I picked the theme. Read C&P last winter, and it's one of the best damn things I've ever read. No way could he keep to the word limit, though.
Do you like C&P more than The Brothers Karamazov if you've read the latter? Just curious. I recently read the latter and there were points where it was really slow followed by periods where it was really fast. I remember myself not being into it in the beginning for a while, but once he hooks you into his characters, you don't want the book to end.
You are so right about how he'd NEVER, EVER EVER be able to keep to the word limit. In fact, I wonder if he wrote today, if any publisher would actually stick it out with him.
I've only read Crime and Punishment and some of his short stories. I have already bought The Idiot and The Brothers Karamazov and I'm planning on reading them this winter during the holidays. At the moment I have a giant list of literature I got to read for school before I can read anything that heavy just for pleasure.
I took a break from these, but I'll try to make a go at this one.
On another note, a local newspaper has a writing contest involving this sentence: "She pointed to the clouds and said, It looks like you." Should be interesting.
I am definitely in. Not a native english speaker, but thanks to reading only Wheel of Time and Salvatore books in english in the last 2-3 years and writing almost 5k posts on neogaf, I am getting more and more comfortable with this language.
Not to mention that I am trying to write a fantasy novel, and I was not able to write 3 lines down in my own language, then when I switched to english, I managed to write 3000 words within two hours. Not sure if that is good or bad (especially when I will need to rewrite all of it to sound better and more grammatically correct, but still : ), but I am hoping to learn a lot by reading all the submitted stuff and writing my own entries. Good luck, everyone!
Thomas had traveled a long way to come to Ushuaia, to come and to dream at the city that was named after its bay. Ushuaia had been banking on its claim as the city at the end of the world, indeed the southernmost settlement on the planet is set against the lagoon, the watery mouth that devoured the death of the sun at the end of every day. Above all, he had been wanting to swallow his pain whole, but his dreams would not let him forget her. Every night.
He saw her standing against the curving sea, alone and naked, she was facing away. He knew she was laughing, though he could not see her face nor hear her voice. She had never laughed when she was alive. This her was unfamiliar to him. A stranger.
The rest of the dreams were dark and shapeless. Things he could not recall upon awakening.
Sun-drenched days and beautiful white sands surrounded him now. Thomas had come to this city two and twenty-days ago. He had finally found the place where her haunting shadow had beckoned him to. He had found a cheap house for rent and dragged her into its dark basement. She had come to smell terribly by then. Despite the ice and the formaldehyde. She had transformed into an ugly thing by then. Despite the bleach and the preservatives.
Thomas shifted and turned in his restless sleep. Not yet deep enough, the shallow waters of sleep inundated him only with memories and thoughts. Noisy things. He longed for the dark depth of his dreams where he would see her, always with her feet half-planted in the waters, facing away and laughing.
The face and voice of his mother came swimming into vision. She seemed disgusted.
Bury her, Thomas. Shes no longer one of us.
He was combing her hair. Cristinas long, wavy, brown locks were still silky and beautiful. Thomas had loved burying his nose in her hair very much. Thomas had loved every bit of her. Very much. His mother watched in unmasked repulsion. She did not understand. She never did. Never mind, Cristina. Never mind, wife. He placed a kiss on her dead face. His mother left the room, slamming the door behind her. Good.
Good riddance.
But his peace had not last long. Soon it was his father who attempted to reason with him, to get him to dispose of her remains. A large man with a large hollow, his father did not speak, he shouted. It was probably the only thing that could fill him up.
Good God! Are you insane?! Sleeping with your wifes corpse every night, as if she was still here!
Thomas did not budge an inch as he cradled her. He itched to flick an errant blue-fly that had landed on her open eye. Her beautiful eyes that once shone with a green so rich they looked like tiny windows to a forbidden garden. The fly rubbed its tiny front legs together. Thomas wanted to squash it. But his father was shouting still.
She is dead, Tom!
No one understood.
His father was not the last to try. Sisters and cousins. Friends and neighbours. They would not stop. Thomas realised they would never stop until they got what they wanted. They threatened to call the authorities to investigate her so-called natural death. They cornered him. So, he took her away with him and left their home. That was when it started. The dream.
In unknown cities and nameless places, he dreamt of the bay.
The voiceless dreams deepened within him slowly. Down to Tartaros, one slow step at a time, Orpheus sought for his dead wife. The spiral staircase descended endlessly. One step at a time, colder and colder. Smaller and smaller. He dreamt as if he was watching from above, a bird with sleek black feathers. He watched faithfully as his own figure diminished in size as he made his way down to the inconsolable darkness.
Thomas.
He turned around. He was making breakfast. It was supposed to be a good day. She was standing in her large pyjama top with her naked legs. Bare all the way to the floor. He put the flat-iron skillet down and killed the fire. She scratched the inside of her left foot with her right, fidgeting. She fidgeted when she was frightened. A frown struck his forehead before he realised. White knuckles grasped the edge of the kitchenette.
It. Was. Supposed to be. A. GOOD. Day.
Thomas.
What.
I cant. I cant do this. I dont love you anymore.
Thomas was not a hard man to please. He was a simple man. All he asked for was fidelity. He felt his face burning up, his eyes raw and hot. She was leaving him. He heard her footsteps as she retreated back into their bedroom. She was leaving him for someone else. His tears dropped on to the hot pan and vaporized in sizzling hisses. Not unlike her love for him.
He grabbed the skillet and went after his wife. She had changed into a pale dress, yellow and orange, with a delicate ribbon around the waist. He had bought her that dress. Its colours brought out the radiance in her skin. She was packing her suitcase. His grip on the handle whitened.
She turned around, not expecting the blow. Thomas caught her at the back of her skull with the hot flat-iron. The contact singed everywhere it touched her. Her hair, her scalp. She screamed in pain. No wife of his was going to leave him. He struck her again. Always at the back of her head. He did not want to damage her beautiful face. Thomas smashed Cristinas cranium over and over again, until it was as flat as the skillet at his hand.
At the bottom of the stairs, he found the beach.
The bay was quiet. He saw her standing, facing away. Naked and alone. Her legs were long and slender. Beautiful Cristina. He had been inching closer and closer to her every night. He was sick with longing. He would touch her again tonight. He would reach her now. Thomas stretched a hand out, grasping her shoulder gingerly.
She stopped laughing and turned around.
Thomas froze.
There was nothing on her face save for a flattened piece of flesh.
Last day eh. My days and nights are one and the same in my ON week, so I'm finding it difficult to spare a moment for this. Really should have completed this before I started work this week. :/
I had a really hard time coming up with an idea from this, started writing something, and realized I'd have to read all of MacBeth to finish it. That was an hour ago, so yeah not going to make this one.
I had a really hard time coming up with an idea from this, started writing something, and realized I'd have to read all of MacBeth to finish it. That was an hour ago, so yeah not going to make this one.
I had a really hard time coming up with an idea from this, started writing something, and realized I'd have to read all of MacBeth to finish it. That was an hour ago, so yeah not going to make this one.
Peace & Quiet / The Old Bridges of London
(2,142 words)
Sleep. Sweet, tender, soft, serene joy. The pillows soft, the duvet clean white, the spacious double bed, the air conditioning on, and the glass of water ready at a moment's notice. Sleep. It was a gift to Renée. Her aching bones were resting in a sea of warmth that buffeted the cold night outside, when suddenly, a sea liner crashed onto her shores: the smoke alarms shrilled at an ungodly level!
Renée groaned at the harshness of sound. Still, being alive was better than sleeping forever, so she put on her sleeping robes, wore her trusty yellow raincoat, grabbed her keys, and made her way down the apartment block's fire exit.
Standing beneath rain clouds, she observed her reflection in the glass windows of a Tesco Metro. Grey eyes with greyer hair, wrinkles here and there, eye bags visible in the dim light, and the upturned mouth completing her.
Her neighbours stood beside her in the rainfall. A young girl offered a spot under an umbrella. Renée accepted the kindness with a pursed smile. The darling then apologised for her boyfriend's 'late night' chip pan fire. Renée looked at the blaze on the sixth floor. She could hear the Fire Engine's sirens make their 'early morning' call to Wapping.
#
Renée, had last year, agreed to be a volunteer mentor to final year college students from her borough -Tower Hamlet's- poorest areas. She had seen a Chris Mwangi every Thursday at nine 0 clock. He was always late. Today, she was late. And worse because it was to be their last meeting.
Renée wasn't thinking about the previous night's incidents, but the interrupted sleep always meant for a ruinous day. She had long realised the day, for her, started not when she awoke, but some time during sleep. Morose and suffering a headache, she decided to walk the twenty minute journey to the designated café near Brick Lane.
London is loud. The rushing traffic formed the first part of an orchestra. Especially with giant lorries and large double-decker buses - the irritating horns from irritated drivers were an added insult. Then there were the low level overground trains racing over their metallic tracks. Roadworks, where men beat the ground to death, were the worst offenders of noise pollution. And finally, the emergency sirens of police cars, ambulances and fire engines, finished off the cacophony produced by a distraught metropolitan.
It wasn't much better indoor. When Renée settled into a window side café seat, she found closing her eyes with great force merely gave her wrinkles and did not shut out the songs, disc jockeys and adverts on 95.8 Capital FM: the radio station that bellowed over the small room.
The doorbell rang just then to announce the latest customer. Sorry, I'm late Ms Johnstone, Chris Mwangi said. He ordered a cup of tea whilst placing an envelope on the table between himself and Renée.
Renée took out the contents of the envelope. It was Mwangi's exam results; the results unfortunately were lamentable.
Sorry, Ms Johnstone. I've let you down, haven't I?
Renée lifted her gaze and concentrated them on Mwangi. Had she wanted to be truthful, she could have said that she was sure Mwangi would be fine. He had at least achieved better than his expected results: he had got a C, and 2 D's instead of 2 E's and a U.
He wasn't going to be an academic, but he had finally learnt to appreciate the value of an education. The apathy she had seen in him regarding his college work at their first meeting was now gone. He had failed, yes, but failure now brought with it the ammunition for success: Drive, and the willingness to work for it. It was a start.
Renée sighed. I have been on this planet for sixty years.
She paused as she looked outside. A dealer and his buyer were locked in a kiss. Money exchanged with the right hand; chemicals via the left.
Renée continued with her thought: And even I don't have any advice you wouldn't have already heard.
Mwangi avoided her eyes and drank his tea. The weight of failure was unbearable. Positive spin and blaming everyone else were hollow excuses now. He could not muster the fiction to form that dream. Any rhetoric he did form about changing his ways was like him promising to go to the gym. Sure, he would be 'all in' to begin with, but that energy would dissipate, and he would finish essays on deadline days, just as he had always done. And for once - he felt like- he was acknowledging the truth: habits, they didn't change as readily as London's weather.
If you go to University, you will find it easier than you have found it at college, Renée added. She could see the boy was drowning in a self-wallowing pit. You will be fine Chris, she said finally.
Mwangi told her about the foundation course he was going to accept at Metropolitan University, as it was the only option left to him. He spoke about wanting to access higher education any way he could get it.
Mwangi had changed, Renée concluded. The boy had failed, but in him now was a man saying all the right words. And there was an honesty and maturity there Renée admired. It was shallow for now, but it wouldn't be for long. She was sure of it.
Thereafter, they withdrew the line between mentor and student to talk in a franker tone. Mwangi saw a grandmother figure in Renée. On his phone, she was saved under the name: Grand Mama Renée.
You look tired Ms Johnstone. We can end the session there if you like.
Renée nodded. That would be nice Chris. Thank you.
They then produced the typical words of a parting friendship, after which Mwangi left. Only to run back from the bus stop, searching for his phone. He found his phone but noticed Ms Johnstone still sat at the table. She was in deep thought and he did not wish to disturb her... however, he felt he had to.
What is it Ms Johnstone?
Renée stared at him and picked her words carefully. I have a headache. London sounds too loud to me.
Too loud?
Don't you hear it? That coffee machine there. The fridge over there. The couple behind me chatting at the top of their voices. The lady behind the counter. The radio, Renée said expecting ridicule. I am too old for it perhaps.
Couldn't you move to the countryside?
Renée talked down the move. It's not that big a bother. And it's not like I can just move out stress free...
Your daughter is a property developer, yes? Have you asked her?
I haven't seen my daughter in ages.
The more they talked the more it seemed like a perfect solution. And yet, Renée chose not to consider it. One cannot move on whim Joseph. I just have a headache; that is all. Besides, I don't want to move anywhere without my collection of books! All that hassle. No, I think, best not.
I could buy you a Kindle.
And where would you get a hundred pounds?
I could buy you a Kindle with your money.
Renée laughed.
When they parted for a second time, they set off together.
The trip home for Renée was more stressful. An air ambulance helicopter hovered past; low flying planes from City Airport substituted its absence. And a new pimple emerged: at every corner was a tall building, whose height she never cared to look up to usually. Now she felt boxed in.
Mwangi found Renée's daughter's office on Google maps effortlessly; it was situated in the heart of the square mile. Fortunately, she, Mrs Jennifer Silverman agreed to meet him, which made his life a whole lot easier, he thought, going up in a glass elevator to meet her.
Jennifer Silverman welcomed him with a smile. We finally meet. Results day eh. Well, how did you do?
Mwangi shrugged. I fucked up completely. Sorry to disappoint you.
Oh, Jennifer said, alarmed by the frankness of his swearing. You 'fucked' up, huh? Stay positive still, and all that. Einstein failed at college; did you know that?
Yes. I did. But I'm not Einstein, Mwangi said settling into a comfy chair. When Jennifer sat in her own seat, he continued: I'm here to talk about Grand Mama Renée. How is it that I have seen her more often than you have over the last year?
Huh? Jennifer said. I'm always on the phone with her; once every couple of days at least.
Well, then you win the phone calls award. How about actually seeing her? You know. The old fashioned 'actually seeing her' in person.
Jennifer could have told Mwangi to mind his own business, but she didn't. She listened carefully to what Mwangi had to say, and interrupted him occasionally with suggestions; such as the possibility of a care home for Renée. Renée did not want to move, Mwangi informed.
When Mwangi left, Jennifer called her husband, Tom Silverman, and asked him for his opinion. Silverman thought it a peculiar situation but he too did not like the idea of moving the old lady to a care home; not that they could anyway. She was a tough old lady, he thought. Seeing her in such weak light was a most peculiar idea indeed. And he being perfectly honest, said he wasn't entirely sure what the problem was. He suggested the semi-detached house Jennifer owned, could be let out to her mother for free. The house was a mere five minute walk from their own house. And crucially, it was away from town - in the English countryside.
Jennifer called round her mother's house the following Sunday. She talked about how her second home failed to generate an income, and how much money she was losing on it. If only she had a house - like her mother's residence- right in the middle of the city, she pleaded, she could have raised such a valuable income. Alas, it isn't to be, she said loudly to her husband. Nobody wants the peace and quiet only the countryside can provide. Everybody wants to be in the bee's nest that is London.
Renée looked upstairs, wondering how the heavens had plotted this. How had things fallen into place so readily?
Would you rent it out to me? Renée said. I would consider it depending on the price.
Let it out to you? Mum, you can have it for free! You can let this place out, and make more money for your retirement.
But you just said-
Yes, I mean, we'll split the profits from the rent here of course, Jennifer added quickly. She exchanged a glance with her husband who nodded to show that her wit had probably saved her.
#
Sleep. Sweet, tender, soft, serene joy. The pillows soft, the duvet clean white, the spacious double bed, the air conditioning on, and the glass of water ready at a moment's notice. Sleep. Renée woke up the following Saturday a few moments before dawn. She'd had a good night's sleep... and yet something was amiss.
Renée had breakfast as daylight flittered through half open blinds. She would be leaving today. Seeing light outside, she felt an urge to go for a weekend walk - one last time.
Sweet birds sang their morning song. No cars, no buses -- it was too early. No planes, no trains -- it was the weekend service. Most of the town's folk were asleep when she walked through St Katharine Docks. Ducks quacked gently as they floated along. Renée crossed Tower Bridge lonesomely.
A young woman, still in her glad rags, her heels in her hands, her mascara crawling down her face, and her eyes sleepily accepting the river's morning glint, passed Renée without the exchange of a spoken word.
Renée then walked along the Queen's Walk, a path beside the River Thames, between Tower Bridge and London Bridge. A canoeist rowed like a swan through the calm morning river.
Renée took pause and held her breath on London Bridge. Her pulse slowed as she saw the dome of St Paul. She reached into her pocket and felt for a gold ring. I'm trying Joseph. I am trying.
And in that morning light she saw London's open space for once; she saw the naked beauty of London's age old architecture mesh with a more ancient and completely natural river; the combination of which ran through the heart of the city. She had an epiphany then: London was at this very moment, all peaceful, all quiet.
had nothing until today when i sat down and tried to hammer something out on my free period (didn't want to miss 3 of the challenges i made in a row). it's pretty short and i can't vouch for quality, but i'll try to polish it up and post in tonight. been kinda pushing the word limit lately, so i guess it's good to write something snappy for a change.
Aaron said:
I had a really hard time coming up with an idea from this, started writing something, and realized I'd have to read all of MacBeth to finish it. That was an hour ago, so yeah not going to make this one.
Mortimer was a man of so many principles he himself was unaware of them all until an opportunity to champion them presented itself. Unfortunately one sunny afternoon was precisely such an occasion.
He was on his way to the bank at the other end of Empedocles Square when he spotted a small ice cream kiosk on wheels with several happy families relishing the frosty desserts by the sun-shaded tables folded out in front. A tuft of hair plastered to his forehead with perspiration, Mortimer decided there was a moment to spare for a sweet treat before taking care of business. Being not much of a glutton he seldom indulged himself with such delicacies, but in that infernal heat of a cloudless midsummer day a cool scoop of sorbet was simply too much to resist.
Hi! beamed the girl in the kiosk. What can I get you?
Oh my, so many choices, Mortimer said, smacking his lips as he browsed the poster on the plexiglass window of the kiosk with its colourful images of all the flavours. What would you recommend, dear?
Well, I like mango-melon, the girl chirped.
Ah, yes, said Mortimer. I think a scoop of mango-melon sure would really hit the spot.
Thatll be two dollars and fifty cents.
Oh dear, thats steep, Mortimer muttered as he dug out his wallet, and discovered he only had a dollar in liquid assets. Ill have to pay with a credit card.
Im sorry, we only take cash, the girl said, pointing at a handwritten piece of paper next to the poster, which read just that, accompanied by a colon and a bracket.
Cash only? read the flabbergasted Mortimer. Is this not the 21st century?
Im sorry, sir. I only work here.
Well then, what can I get for a dollar, miss?
Well, a glass of water is a dollar.
A dollar for water! And is it some kind of mineral water, hm? demanded Mortimer, wiping his soaked brow with his sleeve. From Switzerland? Perhaps bottled in a waterfall by angels, hm?
Its, its just water, Mister.
Noticing the girl was becoming visibly uncomfortable, not to mention the families at the tables, Mortimer reined in his wild horses with a few deep breaths and by counting to ten.
Ill have a glass of your precious water, then.
After the transaction was done, Mortimer began the long, arduous trek across the square in the scorching sun for the bank, all the while sipping the spoils of his crusade from a plastic cup. With mixed emotions he savoured the liquid; the titillating flavour of debate was somewhat offset by the acrid aftertaste of the price tag.
Upon reaching the glass doors of the bank he crumbled the cup, the plastic grating in his fist, and then tossed it aside before entering the building. He pressed a button for a number and was about to find a seat while waiting, but then his eyes caught a water cooler right next to the door. Mortimer stared as the person who entered after him went up to it, filled a white plastic cup with water and headed for the plush, comfortable couches of the lobby.
A few bubbles floated up to the surface of the five gallon bottle mounted on the cooler.
Mortimers left eyelid began to twitch convulsively.
*
At the kiosk the girl was just handing a cone of vanilla ice cream to a little lass holding hands with her father. Suddenly all their eyes were drawn to some commotion in the direction of the bank.
Whats happening there? wondered the father of the little girl.
It looks like someone is screaming and pointing at the bank, said the girl in the kiosk.
Oh my, I hope everythings alright.
As the vocal and gesticulating figure in the distance steadily approached the kiosk, on the way accosting anyone who crossed his path, the words started to become discernible:
FREE WATER! THEY GOT FREE FUCKING WATER IN THE BANK!
It was indeed none other than Mortimer himself, and he was now quickening the pace of his steps as the kiosk drew closer.
Free water! Mortimer declared as he slammed his palms so hard on the counter of the kiosk the girl inside jumped back in fright. They have free water in the bank!
Mister, I dont understand why youre screaming like this...
You sold me water for a dollar, but theres all the free water I can drink right there in that bank! I demand a refund and an apology!
Im sorry youre unhappy with our water, sir, but I cant give you your money back. We do not offer refunds, she said, pointing at another handwritten note, which again echoed her words, followed by a familiar hieroglyph.
Well thats simply not good enough, dear. If you do not give me a dollar this very instant, I will... I will..., Mortimer fumed as he racked his brain for a suitable threat.
Sir, if you do not leave right now, Im going to have to call the police.
Mortimer backed away slowly, and as he withdrew he shook his index finger at the girl, his lips in a twisted smile and his eyes admonishing her from beneath his furrowed brow. As his back hit one of the tables, he suddenly pushed a small boy out of an adjacent wooden folding chair to his knees on the ground, grabbed the chair and charged towards the kiosk with a booming battle cry. The girl inside scarcely had time to scream and duck on the floor as the chair came crashing through the window, shards of plexiglass raining in all around her.
*
In the police station interrogation room sat a man with a self-satisfied smile on his face. Cradled in both hands he held a paper cup from which at intervals he took slow, small sips. He tossed the aqua around with his tongue, moistening every corner of his mouth before allowing it to trickle down his throat; the water of the station water dispenser was tepid, musty, and stale. And it was free.
Now, Dave, you can do it. Turn the key. Slowly.
The tired and still a bit drunk middle-aged business man - not really thinking himself as a Dave, more like a David, from an age where everything seemed so much more innocent - stood in front of his apartment, with the Sun being a silent companion to oversee his work, as it gave him the first rays of light in this cold, chilly morning. Slowly. I will die if Jessica wakes up.
Jessica was Dave's girlfriend. They were living together for quite some time now. Everything was amazing between them, all things considered. They still did not plan on getting merried or having children - Dave visibly frowned at just remembering the idea of bringing yet another little man into this mess called "living" -, but they were having no arguments, no breakups, no broken pieces of antiquites, no enraged calls from each other's parents in the middle of the night. Yet, that was not enough for Dave. This morning marked the tenth consecutive time when he arrived at home in the morning, instead of the night. Three times out of those ten, he actually never even got to sleep. The other seven, well... I do not have time for this, not now. He resumed his slow and methodical movements regarding this usual puzzle that was laid out in front of his eyes: the door. If he opened it too forcefully, Jessica might wake up. And he was not prepared for the fight, or discussion, as Jess called it, not this soon. The last time, it was not like she wanted to break up with him, but he felt that it was something really, really close. Gotcha. The door slowly opened, and Dave gave a slight sigh of relief when he knew that this door will not give away him: it was still considered new, no rusts, no errors in the mechanism - at least the builders got something right in this place.
The motions came naturally, even with the slight delerium in his mind: first the shoes, then the socks - oh, how Jess loved to shout at him when he left those at the entrance. He should not do it now, right. Tucking them under the rug with one hand, he slowly placed his expensive suit on the table near the mirror. He took a glance at the mirror, and immediately stopped doing whatever he was doing at the moment. The man who was looking back at him was not real. It was a joke. A frightening joke. He was a tired, tired and lonely, shivering shadow of himself. Messy, dirty, stinking with cheap ale - the kind that really had a hit on you once you drank enough of it. All he wanted to do was to go to his love, hug her while she is still asleep, and forget that this was again a night that they had to spend without each other. Starting today, or tomorrow, things will be different. I mean it. Yeah, tomorrow might be good for some change. He had a lot of work to do this Friday, cant afford to deal with personal stuff at a deadline like this one.
Slowly, he walked to his room. That was not a huge adventure normally, but he had to go through their living room, walk up on some weirdly shaped, oddly colored mini-stairs, and walk before Jess's room. Or not really her room - it was supposed to be their room -, but he could not help but think of it as hers for now, because he could not just wake her up before work for weird and selfish reasons. Could not I, now? He managed to not slip on the stairs, and then he very slowly proceeded to get through this last corridor before his goal - the guestroom's cold, uncomfortable bed that will hold him to sleep for the next few hours. He actually stopped before the door that he was supposed to slip through, and took a moment to realize how he has been avoiding Jessica in the last few days. He was not with another women - or at least he never planned to do so -, but sometimes things got...intense... in the nights, and Dave's colleagues were dumb when drunk, and sometimes encouraged him to do things that he would never even considered when sober. That was the spark in all the fun, some said - and in mornings like this, he certainly did not agree with them. Success. Dave felt a slight sense of victory, followed closely by a huge amount of shame and self-despise, as he managed to crawl under the smelly blanket that he used in the past few days. He could almost tell the different smells apart. One for when you threw up in the cab. One for when you slept in the park, and only pretended to do so at home. One for when you got hit by that angry homeless man. One for when you managed to split spicy thai food onto yourself. All these stories, funny for some, but in reality, despisable and sad for him. He could not help himself, really, not with this much stress and work going on lately. He will have to talk to Jess about all this sooner or later. And about the woman. Now that was something he was not looking forward to do so.
Sleep did not last long for Dave. The sun still was not at his peak when he opened his eyes - he could already feel the hangover kicking in at full force. Dry-mouthed, he looked around for some sort of water, but unlucky for him, there was only a used coke bottle near the bed. Not that it could have helped him now - but it would have been better than nothing. His head spun, his whole body hurt like hell - and it took several minutes before he managed to get up. Then it clicked. It was Jessica's alarm that woke him up. He could hear that damned song all too well now. It is amazing how much a ringing ear could cover before one could actually realize the things around. So she will wake with me this time.Like we were sleeping together. He realized that it would still be awkward to greet her today, but that annoyance was really nothing compared to the pain Dave felt for quite some time now. It was time to move out. He opened his door, expecting Jessica to be already moving around in the corridor, going through the daily motions while preparing to go to work. Oddly, the corridor was empty. Only the song could be still heard, condsiderably louder. Time to wake her up then. Must be important if she set up the alarm.
He walked to her room, to open it. Then it hit him that it had a note on it. "I am staying at my aunt's place. Cant stand this anymore. Who are you? J" There was even a date on this paper. Tuesday. Two days ago. Then, he just stood there. For a moment, he could feel his dried eyes protesting against what was about to come - tears. Jess was not even here in the last few days. What a sad, sad joke he was living in. And it was his life now. Dave did not fight the flow. He fell to his knees in front of the unopened door, and he listened to that sad, vocalless song that was always driving him insane in the past few months since Jess set it up. It felt relieving, sobbing, listening to something that was not even tolerable for his tastes. But it felt great. And it hurt. I had all this coming for a long, long time now. He had. And now he was really alone. No one but himself to blame.
About an hour later, David stood up, and went down into the kitchen. He was already tired, he still needed some water to clear his head - and he needed to get in shape, to get to Jess. Or to work. Or both. Or whatever. Then he started looking for a different kind of drink. There has to be a bottle of whiskey left in this damned place somewhere. Problems will have to wait just a bit more.
Argh, too out of it to actually think of a REAL story that's of any interest. A cure for insomnia awaits you!
Shipment (736 words)
Jared downed the last bit of his glossy black coffee, grabbed his lunch, and smashed down three boxes he received from Conure over the past few weeks that contained, in order of box size: his new knife set, the next book in his favorite in the Dragonia series, and a new fan for his computer.
As he shoved them into the recycling bin, he muttered, Sheesh, why cant they make these recycling containers bigger? He continued to press the Conure boxes, and then while still holding onto the last box, he let the lid drop down and quickly withdrew his hands, as if retreating from an alligators mouth. All in. He bolted through the front door, hailed a taxi, and glanced at his watch ash the vehicle pulled up.
Jared grew impatient of the traffic. Busy day, eh?
Sure is, Sir, said the driver nonchalantly, apparently unconcerned about the traffic. Then he added, Would you like to listen to anything?
Sure, thanks, Buddy, replied Jared. How about just to public radio? Lets find out what news there is about our economy today! he suggested with feigned excitement.
The driver in the caddy cap pressed some buttons while still keeping his eyes on the road. He turned up the volume a bit. The radio was a bit muffled, but still clear over the A/C. From the Merchanthouse desk, Stanley Chun reports. Executives for bankrupt car battery manufacturer, Sustain, will be testifying before Congress next week. In the mean time, banks will be also scrutinizing Banter and Nods business model. As B & N has been planning to lay off 30,000 more employees, investors continue to pull out. And as investors shy away, Senior Vice President Randy Bliot, gave himself a $8 million bonus for keeping the company alive during the companys potentially last few precious days. What do consumers think about tha?
Ill tell you what they think. Thats bull shit! bellowed Jared. His face had flushed red fairly quickly and the driver flinched in his seat.
Do you want a different station, Sir?
Nah. Just shut the damn thing off thanks.
Jared crossed his arms, slouched into the back seat, and looked out the window. He practiced deep breathing exercises and visualization techniques that he heard are supposed to keep one even-keel even when receiving bad news. He needed to do these exercises routinely. It just seemed like the country was falling apart and business and positions of political office were run by greedy, bipolar chimps. He heard about how B & N employees were all losing their jobs, but what frustrated Jared the most was how those fat cats up at the top gave themselves huge raises for for bullshitting. If they could just increase their sales for the Beanbag, their new e-book reader, they wouldnt lose all their customers.
How is your day going? asked Jared to the driver. He needed to break his thought cycle more than the silence.
Its going well, Sir. Thank you for asking, said the driver. He continued, My daughter is learning how to read and she loves it. Jared caught the drivers proud smile under his caddy cap in the rear view mirror.
Oh yeah? Jared asked with mild interest.
Yeah its great. She loves books. She loves reading them: backwards and forwards, she colors in them, and she smells the pages even. The driver chuckled quietly. Kids.
Jared remembered when he had his large collection of books. But he gave them to the local library for their book sale since Jared moved to New York, and didnt have space for a library. He pretty much took his Beanbag everywhere. In fact, he just realized: he needed to send his rebate to Conure for the new Beanbag he ordered, by that afternoon.
Here you are, Sir, said the driver as he pulled up to the curb.
Thanks man, Jared replied as he reached forward to give the driver the fare. The driver turned around with deep bags under his eyes. Jared wondered if he worked the night shift as well.
Man, all us regular folks are getting the brunt of the load for those greedy fat cats up at the top, thought Jared as he stepped out of the car, reflecting on the drivers tired eyes, and shaking his head. Jared walked into the lobby of his startup. But before he forgot, he sat in the makeshift lobby of 3 folding chairs and filled out that Conure rebate.
I remember the smell of coffee. The texture of it as it hit my lips. The hot, bitter taste of it. Its a faint memory, but I hold on to it dearly. I know the idea of coffee will die out from me soon, or maybe it has already. I know that, and yet I pretend that it is significant. I know I will have no new memories from here on. I wish I cherished the ones I before.
The concept of time went out the window only a few days after they slammed me into this room. There is no light at all except for when they shove in the food tray twice at the preordained times. Sometimes I wonder what colours used to look like. Its been so damn long.
I woke up early today. Except that I dont know what early and today are. Just anachronistic expressions. I woke up early on the day they brought me here as well. But what was it for? I miss the feel of water. Sometimes I rub food on me just to remind myself of the feeling of wetness. I remember having lunch that day. It was in one of those places where they served you. I remember feeling dizzy. I remember the taste of hot maple syrup. I remember the hot vapours running off a cup of hot coffee.
They say that a man breaks down if he spends too much time alone with his own self. I honestly cannot say if that is true for me. Its been a long time since they fed me. I have not seen any light as of late. I remember traffic lights. Red and green and that other colour. People walking on the pavement, cars zooming past as soon as the light turns green. I walked into the place for lunch. The hunger driving me to the place.
I feel like I still have my vision intact. I can still see shapes as I remember them. My head has become a floating consortium of my experiences from before, with some memories trying hard to uncloak themselves and other fading into limbo. I am now beginning to feel weak. The pain is starting to take over. The sound of my stomach is the first thing Ive heard in some time. I remember the pain from that day. A hard object struck me in the stomach. I remember coughing up blood. The taste of blood against the aftertaste of coffee. I remember falling down.
Today feels like the end. I close my eyes, pretending as if they made a difference. A sudden rush tries to push me to remember my family, but fails. Maybe I had no family. I remember the place where I had lunch. Two people in hats sitting on either side of me. Their faces dont exist. They ask me for the money I owe them. They tell me to put in the cup marked Joe before I exit the place. I remember the smell of coffee.
I pray and I pray every day before I sleep. Because I have to, because I know I am being punished. I cannot repent or apologize, because I do do not know why must suffer so, nor what terrible sin I committed.
I scream.
I scream and I scream and I can't stop screaming every single night. I am afraid of falling asleep--no, not of falling asleep, but of what I see when I close my eyes. I am afraid of death--not because of the act of dying, but because I already know what awaits me when I close my eyes for the final time. Suicide cannot free me, despite what the voice says.
I hear the voice, I cannot unhear it. Yet every time I try to listen it fades away. I cannot remember what it said yet I cannot forget it. It follows me, it mocks me, it slowly gets louder and louder and louder until it becomes a cacophony of wailing and insanity. It echoes behind my eyes and it seeps into my veins until I can feel it pulsating with life inside, refusing to leave despite my begging for it to go, just go, leave me to die in peace
And it is my own voice.
I'm alone with myself, and I pray to God every night to free me, because I have no other escape from this prison.
I slid the Glock 18C into a shoulder holster, snug up against the hidden pocket holding my electronic lockpicks and suppressor. The Ruger SA100, small-framed and holding three armor-piercing rounds, went in a disguised leg holster. The unmodified Glock 39, of course, I would carry openly as a decoy.
I ran a hand along the barrel of my favorite modded AK--flash suppressor, quick reload, fully automatic--but regretfully left it where it lay. Where I was going, the locals would take it as an invitation to shoot.
I closed up the armory and grabbed a standard screamer from the box (another decoy--Id had a miniaturized screamer implanted in the tip of my left pinky five months ago). I fished through the accessory locker, found a mil-grade GPS locator, and stuck it in a side pocket. Finally, I strapped a set of fully charged half-mag armor to my chest and back, put my coat on over the lot, and did a quick test draw of each gun. I was ready.
The names Andrew Mattock. I'm an insurance agent.
*
The Free Zone scares the hell out of me every time I go Inside. A fenced-off chunk of intentionally lawless land; a place where anything goes, from drugs to theft to banned goods, from building your own thorium reactor all the way up to murder. A place for the wicked, the unwise, and the desperate.
And me.
I began to sweat as I crossed the open meadow--only partly because of where I was. The early afternoon sun blazed down, and the few trees here were stunted, choked out by tall grass. I looked down at the GPS locator. The man I was looking for was somewhere nearby. Tall, dark-haired, twenty-six years old, Brody had headed into the Free Zone yesterday afternoon as he did once every two weeks, to pick up a course of Zocallis, an untested and illegal breast cancer drug. For his ailing mother, his younger sister had told me slyly when she came to see me that morning; it could also be used recreationally, but I didnt much care why he wanted the drug or what he was doing Inside.
What I cared about was that he was covered. The works, the full package. Top of the line Term Life-Defend / Death-Avenge Insurance. And whether he was alive or dead, it was my responsibility to see that contract carried out.
Gunfire cracked across the meadow.
I dove for the ground, right hand pulling the Glock 18C and left hand poised to activate the screamer, before my conscious mind caught up to the sound. The rather distant sound.
It was nothing to do with me.
I shook slightly--from adrenaline, not fear--as I rose to a crouch, holstered the Glock, and brushed grass off my coat. I needed to find this idiot kid and get out of here.
I picked up the thankfully-undamaged locator. Brody was nearby. Or at least, his screamer was. I frowned. Something odd there. If Brody had been attacked, hed have set off his screamer, itd broadcast a datastream back to us, and the agent on duty wouldve scrambled. If he hadnt, it should be dormant. In either case, it should definitely not be broadcasting empty data. And yet there was the stream coming through the locator, a blazing meaningless beacon, a hollow lighthouse beam punching through the ether.
The locator beeped and I looked up. A small patch of grassless dirt, a wizened birch tree. And under the tree lay the screamer, a precise bullet-hole through the pad. I picked it up and fiddled, but it resisted all my attempts to get anything out of it. The circuits were screwed beyond repair; all it could do was, well, scream.
A few paces from the dirt patch, nestled in the tall grass, I found Brodys body.
*
Sure, I remember Brody. Good kid. Came in every two weeks. The health store owner was short, broad shouldered but running to fat, with a surprisingly full head of iron gray hair. No doubt he made good use of his own products.
And he bought Zocallis?
The man gave me a beady-eyed stare. Dont have to answer your questions.
My hand made an involuntary movement toward my gun, and I stilled it. True. But you sell Zocallis?
He hadnt missed the movement. His face tightened. Sell a lot of things. Things you cant get Outside.
A hard stare. "I'm a businessman. You sell snake oil, your customers don't come back." He paused. You got competitors, in your insurance line?
Sure. I hadnt until recently. Five months back my best agent, Nellah Thomas, split off to form her own company. She took the business model, two other agents, and my secretary with her. It still stung.
Then you already know this. You dont live up to your promises, everyone goes to the competition.
Words to live by. I was getting off course. Listen, did Brody look nervous or worried yesterday?
The man snorted. This is the Free Zone. He always looked nervous.
Did he do anything that made you think he might--
Hey, like I said, Im a businessman. Brody was a good customer, but I dont know you and I dont like you. Free Zone dont mean free lunch.
I got the picture. One greased palm later, I had a further destination.
Mels Bar and Brothel.
*
Funny thing about bartenders. Their glasses can all be gleaming like diamonds, sparkling and glorious, and theyll still feel the need to get out a rag and polish the damn things. If there were a bartender at the Last Supper, hed have polished the damn Holy Grail.
Yeah, Brody. I remember that kid. Polish, polish. Showed up here every two weeks. Couple of Four Lokos, a flexible redhead, and he was good for a few hours.
I blinked. Ah. That was a little more information than Id really wanted. You see him yesterday?
You gonna order something?
Right. Free Zone didnt mean free lunch. I handed over some cash.
The bartender paused to take it, then kept right on polishing. Yeah, saw him yesterday. Had his usual drinks, but didnt want a woman. He--hang on.
The saloon-style doors swung shut behind a man carrying a Micro Uzi and a pistol. He wore a duster and cowboy hat, and had an idiot smirk on his face. This is a stick-up! he shouted unnecessarily.
The bartender pulled a Walther PPQ from behind the counter and unloaded five rounds into the man before hed finished being theatrical. He hit a button under the bar, and a large, sad-looking man came out and dragged the body away.
Amateurs, he sighed. Where was I? Oh, right. He picked up a glass and started polishing it. Brody. He got in an argument, dont know how it started, and they were starting to shove each other around.
Who was the other guy?
Dont know, never saw him before. Anyway, they broke a table so I chucked em.
And then?
Couple gunshots. I had Loudmouth Owen haul off the body.
Brodys?
He laughed. "The other guy."
*
I caught up with the sad-looking man, still dragging the corpse, a few hundred yards down the road, just into the trees. Hey, I huffed. You Loudmouth Owen?
He nodded, barely looking at me.
I pointed at the corpse. You taking him to the same place you took that guy yesterday?
He nodded again, looking glum.
Mind if I come with you?
He shrugged.
Loudmouth. Ha. I got it. I was just opening my mouth to ask another yes-or-no question, when a bullet flew past my ear.
Dive, roll, find cover, pull the Glock 18C. By now its all instinctive. I hit the screamer, too. Itd take whoever was on duty a good fifteen or twenty minutes to catch up to me, by which time itd probably be too late. But if it wasnt too late--well, the backup would be nice.
I glanced over to see where Loudmouth Owen had got to. Incredibly, he was still ambling along, dragging the corpse. He didnt appear to have even noticed the gunfire.
A divot of dirt exploded near my head and I ducked back into the bushes. I didnt need this right now. Whoever was shooting had me right where they wanted me--they knew exactly where I was, and I couldnt get a bead on them. The half-mag armor wouldnt do me any good if I was shot in the head.
Discretion is the better part of valor. I leapt from the bushes for the trees, and hoofed it into the forest.
*
It was more or less blind luck. Twenty minutes later, I had lost my mysterious attacker, lost myself, and was just getting out the GPS locator to figure out where the hell I was when I all but bumped into Loudmouth Owen.
He no longer had the body with him.
I raised an inquiring eyebrow, and he pointed at a dirt path behind him, wrinkling his nose.
Is it far?
He shook his head, and raised two fingers.
Two minutes? Two miles? I shrugged and followed the path.
Two minutes turned out to be the right guess. I could smell it after only a few dozen yards. The clearing was full of dead bodies, in various stages of decay, from the newly dead bandit to a gray, gnawed-upon, bloated corpse, all the way to a bleached white skeleton at the far end. My eyes watered and my stomach threatened to empty itself.
I pulled my coat up to cover my nose, and breathed through the fabric. What a mess.
It was safe to assume that the one I was after wasnt one of the rotters. I took the one next to the bandit by the ankle, and dragged him a little ways from the clearing.
I could breath again. I gave the man a cursory look--a bullet wound to the stomach seemed to be the cause of death. His wallet had a drivers license in it. He was an Outsider, then, a visitor to the Free Zone.
But what--wait. In an inner pocket of his coat, the dead man had a screamer.
Not one of ours.
Shit. Shit shit. Breathing hard, I flipped through the wallet again. Sure enough, there was a card. Low-level, short-term Death-Avenge. The man was insured.
By Nellah Thomas.
*
It was cooler without the half-mag and the coat, but I was still steaming. One of your agents shot at me. Why?
Nellah gave me a lazy smile, leaning back in her desk-chair. Come on, Andy. Surely you can see it.
I could. I could visualize the whole thing. The agent, responding to the screamer, finding that the man from the bar had been killed, tracking down Brody to kill him per the Death-Avenge contract. Seeing him pull the screamer, shooting it out of his hand before he could activate it. And finally, killing him.
Then what? He left, came back the next day once it was clear I was on the job. Tried to take me out before I could take him.
Youre worried about a vicious circle, I said slowly.
She nodded. One of yours kills one of ours. One of our agents kills him. One of your agents kills our agent. And so on. It went without saying that every agent at both companies was insured.
So where do we go from here?
We start writing into our contracts that killing another insured voids it. Like a samurai honor code.
"Huh. You willing to work that closely?"
"Andy, I didn't leave because I didnt like you. I left because there was only room for one at the top. I wanted to make my own top."
I shrugged. And Brodys contract?
Cant let you kill my agent, Andy. She smirked.
Maybe she had been the agent. And I cant let you kill my reputation.
Fair enough. Heres what you do: tell the dependents Brody took a bullet to the stomach from the gunfight at the bar, hobbled off and died hours later. Mutual killing. They got each other, no one left to discharge Death-Avenge on. No one can contradict the story except you or me.
Aha! So it had been her. All right. Youve got a deal. Ill send someone over to coordinate the contract changes.
We shook hands, smiled hard, dagger-sharp smiles at one another. I left the office.
The next time I saw her on the Inside, I'd kill her.
We have arrived in the northern territories and found a land little changed since the Emperor's hand swept over this isolated wilderness. The locals remain as stubborn as ever and dissension and hatred dwell in every native set of eyes. Beaten these people may be, but they have yet to be subjugated and I fear that rebellion will forever wag upon disgruntled tongues unless they can be brought to heel. I attribute this in part to the inept ministrations of Archon Palus, a whale of a man who hasn't hesitated to reap all he can from the people under his rule, but instead of breeding fear he has only bred resentment. Even now the paltry rabble of men of Archon Palus' army are barely capable of maintaining the peace, and even more troubling is the lax attitude the Archon and his men show to the natives. They have become comfortable here, secure in their positions of power and wealth and are too blind to see the trouble brewing under their very noses.
I will be glad once we are under open skies once again. I mislike the smell of this wretched city, a disgorged jumble of crude wooden houses that spread haphazardly from the grand oaken halls at the cities centre in which the Archon has taken up rule. Upon seeing those imposing, ancient structures I wondered why the natives had not attempted to recreate their new housing in similar style, when clearly they possess the skill and means to do so. And then it dawned on me; the buildings are temporary and to the halls of their fore-fathers these people mean to return. Palus is too blind to see it of course, and I fear that blood will run through these streets before the year turns. I only pray to see my mission complete before then.
I write this missive under the boughs of the grandest oak I have ever seen. It's trunk is thicker than any city wall and it's top-most branches can be seen for miles. Truly, it is emblematic of this land, ancient and enduring. Around the base are the remnants of camp-fires of varying age. It seems to me that this is a site of ritual and tradition for the natives. They draw strength from it, as they do from so much of the land that surrounds them. The Archon would have been wise to put the tree to the axe, although it seems a shame to cut down such an ancient thing.
We passed through a village last night, bedding down in a farmer's barn. I awoke to the sound of screams and steel upon steel. Rushing from the barn I discovered a bloody scene that matched the red dawn sky. One of the soldiers I had brought with me from the capital lay gurgling in a puddle of his entrails, while two more were poking holes in to the convulsing form of the farmer, their blood stained swords glinting in the morning light. I put my fallen man out of his misery and began to piece events together.
The farmer's daughter had been defiled in the night, undoubtedly by one of my men, and in a fit of rage the farmer had advanced on the unlucky soldier as he stepped outside to empty his bladder. Weilding a razor sharp sickle the farmer had cleaved the soldier's abdomen in two, spilling his guts across the floor. Hearing the commotion two more of the men rushed outside to find the farmer screaming obscenities over the dying man and had wasted no time in running him through.
By now a crowd was gathering, the whole village staring at us with those same defiant eyes I had witnessed in the city. I reminded them of the penalty for drawing a weapon on a soldier of the Empire, but wanted to prove to them that we are a just people. I asked the girl, still weeping in torn and bloody rags, to identify which of my men was responsible and, to my dismay, she pointed not to the dead man, but to another. I slit his throat without hesitation.
And so I find myself two men short, but it may serve us well to earn a bit of good-will in this part of the world and remind them that we are fair and honourable in matters of law. However, after seeing the second soldier die the girls eyes dried and she regained her composure, becoming as impassive as her neighbours, staring with those same hateful glares. It occurs to me now that the girl may have been lying and that I executed an innocent man.
The weather turned on us not long after we left the village. Storm winds rattled through the valleys and shook the trees and before long we found ourselves besieged by a torrential downpour. We lost track of one of the men amid the storm, man and horse simply disappearing under the blanket of the rain, so fierce the water fell. We called his name, but to no avail. He was gone, whether taken by a local or some fell beast, or whether he'd simply turned tail and ran we shall never know.
Soon the land began to rise, becoming more treacherous in weather that showed no sign of improving. Just when it seemed shelter would be denied to us, we discovered the remains of a deserted hamlet, nestled between huge boulders at the base of the ridge we had been following. We settled in for the evening and soon had a fire going, but realised that much of our provisions were in the saddle bags of the man who had disappeared. On the morrow we would have to hunt.
Morning brought little relief as the rains still poured. I sent some the men out to forage, but the pickings were meagre. A few handful's of bitter tasting berries and a brace of rabbits flushed out of the undergrowth. Scrawny things they were, barely enough meat to go round. We boiled the bones and mixed in the meat with the berries and some fragrant herbs that grow all around to make a weak broth that left us wanting.
The next day we awoke to find the weather improved, but the cold had taken it's toll as two of the men had fallen ill with fever. Regrettably, I decided we would forestall the mission and hope that events didn't overtake us while we waited for the men's conditions to improve. We continued to hunt and forage, but this was a barren land, isolated and devoid of life. Soon the men would be grumbling as loud as their bellies. Something has to be done. I will send out a scout to see if he can't find another settlement nearby.
We have been here for almost a week, languishing in this rain soaked hell with little in the way of food. One of the men succumbed to his fever, but the other hangs on and has seemed to improve this past day. With any luck we shall be on our way within a day or two. The scout I sent out has yet to return and now I wonder if he too has abandoned us, or been spirited away by gods knows what. This is a strange place and I feel ill at ease here. It only just dawned on me how well maintained these buildings are and I have a sinking feeling that, while abandoned the hamlet may be, it may only be temporarily so.
The scout returned today, bound and gagged atop his horse and at the head of a column of two dozen riders. Some of the men drew their weapons upon seeing the approaching figures, but I knew there was no way we could fight off such numbers. We were rounded up, stripped of our weapons and bound and gagged like the scout atop our mounts. I couldn't discern who was in charge, but would soon discover as these native horsemen took us deeper into the foot-hills and on towards the imposing mountain range in the distance. At a certain point we were hooded with rough grain sacks and I saw little of my surroundings, perceiving only the strain of the horse beneath me as we moved ever upwards.
The journey took us most of the day, and when the hoods were removed and we'd finally come to a halt we found ourselves in a well-ordered military outpost nestled high atop a ridge with a glorious view over the valleys below. I could hear the roaring sound of water, and sure enough at the opposite end of the camp was a waterfall that streamed and sparkled in the fading orange glow of dusk. Our bonds were cut and to my surprise we were left to our own devices, seemingly free to explore the camp at will. I poked around and noticed that the camp extended into the mountainside, cutting through the rock and behind the waterfall.
Stepping through the threshold and behind the waterfall I followed my nose down the maze of passages, passing guarded armouries, a forge, what appeared to be a temple of some kind and finally a large mess hall that was full natives conversing loudly in their own tongue. Again, they paid me no mind as I procured a bowl of stew and gobbled it up ravenously. I had not realised just how hungry I was after our unplanned stay in that little village bellow.
At length I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke the mess hall was empty and night had fallen. I went back outside to find my men, but found instead the natives gathered around a great fire, listening to a story told by a man who exuded leadership in his bearing. My breath caught in my throat as I looked upon his face, animated and lively as the fire's light played across his brow. It was Marrus, the man I had been sent here to kill.
Marrus has read my letters and official documents bearing the Emperor's seal, he knows all about my mission yet it is not clear what he intends to do with us. He has provided me with fresh ink and parchment and encouraged me to continue to write these entries. It seems to amuse him. From what I can gather, the man has simply gone native. As mad as that sounds, Marrus truly seems at home among the locals, and they too have more than accepted him as their leader. I must discover why. Marrus questioned me for news of the Empire and the goings on in the capital. I saw no reason to deny him this information, so isolated as this land is.
We began what would become the first of many long conversations around the camp-fire. Marrus is a startlingly intelligent man, with a quick wit and exquisite tactical mind. It's easy to see why he rose so high in the Empire's ranks, and why the Empire would want to ensure such a man didn't oppose them. It's now clear to me that this is Marrus' intent; to oppose the might of the Empire. And as crazed as that sounds, out here in the remote, far flung extremities of the Empire, his words have merit. The more I talk to the man, the more I find myself sympathetic to his cause.
I know now why Marrus was marked for death, and unbeknownst to me the order occurred long before he had ever left the capital. Marrus, it seems, was a forward thinker and preached to all within the ranks of the Empire's Guard that the Empire was expanding too fast, that only through retreat could we hope to survive, believing that inevitable the subjugated people would rise up against us. I can see his words coming to life before my eyes and I see the truth there, thinking back to the looks of hate and dissent on the eyes of every native in the Archon's fetid city.
But the Empire does not retreat, and Marrus tells me that for simply questioning the Empire he was ordered to fall on his own sword. Refusing, Marrus left and has been hounded for months, finding only respite in this remotest of regions until I and my men stepped foot in the Archon's city. It seems to me gravely unjust that an intelligent and learned man such as he would be executed for simply speaking his mind, especially as I see such truth in his words.
This will be me final letter to the Empire. I have been brought over to Marrus' cause and we now march on the Archon's city. My men refused any part of this and they remain captive in the mountains, while I ride at Marrus' side at the head of near enough a thousand warriors, all well armed and on horseback. It is a surety that by the time this correspondence reaches the Emperor's ears that the Archon will be dead and this land once again under the rule of it's own people. The Empire is a snake devouring itself, and the more it consumes, the more it is fit to burst. Marrus and I will see to it that this comes to pass. And should the Empire chose to return to this land, I can assure you that we will be waiting, weapons in hand ready to defend our justice and freedom, for I see now there is little of that to be had under the Empire's rule.
UGH, sorry, I've gone a good 200+ words over the limit. No worries if the piece isn't eligible. I just fucking suck at short stories. And editing. I can never condense what I want to say into such a small number of words, as anyone who reads this will be able to tell by the hastily rushed and cramped ending. Also, I realise I've kind of written a fantasy rip-off of Apocalypse Now (albeit with a different ending), which wasn't at all what I intended when I started.
