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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #128 - "Folk and Fairy Tales"
- Thread starter hey_monkey
- Start date
- Status
hey_monkey
Banned
I do not know if I will make it. Ima try.
SquiddyCracker
Banned
I dreamed that I was an Afghani government critic.
... not sure I can turn that into a story (that fits this objective).
I know what to write though, just haven't had time yet, but will tomorrow.
... not sure I can turn that into a story (that fits this objective).
I know what to write though, just haven't had time yet, but will tomorrow.
SquiddyCracker
Banned
Went to PM him, and noticed he's currently banned.
Awwww
On the other hand, less competition!
toddhunter
Member
Fairy Cat Adventure
Once upon a time there were five cats. Asia the fairy once asked Katie, Flower, Sparkle, Rainbow and Star to go to the human world and save the fairies. So the Fairy Cats said “Let’s do it together.”
Then Asia also asked the Fairy Cats to try and get some wings. But at night time the fairies got woken up by the fairy cats because they were too noisy. But at day they were good at doing their job so they also got wings.
With the fairies saved, it was time to go back to their home Cat Sparkle.
The End
Went to PM him, and noticed he's currently banned.
Do you not have the power to unban?
what's the point of a being a red wizard if you can't unban the-always-correct one?
When does his ban finish?
hey_monkey
Banned
Yeah, I fixed the dates. Sorry!
I wrote a poem as a sort of skeleton for mine. Doing that drained me as I've only written one sentence of the actual prose story.
Also, based on some previous short things I've done 1600 words seem more than enough for the scope of what I plan on writing. :lol like 3x more
That reminds me, I think the OPs for the writing/creative challenges should have cross posting for the other challenges going on. I know theres a little of overlap in poetry/creative writing, but I'm not sure how much it is for the photography/art ones.
I had a few people asking me about the poetry challenge when I was talking with them about this cw challenge.
I had a few people asking me about the poetry challenge when I was talking with them about this cw challenge.
The Artful Dodger
Member
I'm gonna have to back out of this, I'm working on another story that's taking a bit longer than I'd like it to. Best of luck to everyone!
bengraven
Member
Oh I know. This is going to be a long damn night.
I'm fighting still fighting exhaustion of the mind, but also finding myself replicating Robert E. Howard a bit TOO much. I'm at 700 words and my guy literally just walked 10 feet and the story hasn't even really begun yet.
I will finish. I'll just have to cut.
Well, I passed out last night with only a sentence down. I have work until 5, a lot of homework to do as well, but I plan on getting this written.
I just outlined the main points and brainstormed some other stuff to try and get the gears going once I get home. I may not meet the deadline, but will definitely share with GAF for feedback/critique.
Good luck urrwon
I just outlined the main points and brainstormed some other stuff to try and get the gears going once I get home. I may not meet the deadline, but will definitely share with GAF for feedback/critique.
Good luck urrwon
Chainsawkitten
Member
Grå tavlor, Swedish and English version (1616 and 1438 words respectively)
I haven't dared read the translation through. I suspect I butchered the pacing. Some things were untranslatable.
Fixed some things in the Swedish version as well as I hadn't proofread it (translation served as a proofreading).
I haven't dared read the translation through. I suspect I butchered the pacing. Some things were untranslatable.
Fixed some things in the Swedish version as well as I hadn't proofread it (translation served as a proofreading).
bengraven
Member
You guys are rockin' and rollin' with this! I think I need a new job. It saps all life out of me and the thought of writing anything -- or doing anything -- is sheer madness!
I took German in high school. It has become completely non-handy since every German I know seems to have flawless English, as evidenced by your writing. Also, wow, thank you so much for the compliment and even remembering my stories. One children's story that comes to mind that you wrote was one about a spider.
Ditto. I've found myself digging up all these fairy tales from different cultures and they're so fun to read and I'm basically procrastinating by tricking myself into thinking that I'm "researching for inspiration."
You could TOOOOOTALLY turn an Afghani government critic into a character of a fairy tale. Easy peezy.
I dreamt that I was climbing the face of a slippery vertical mountain to get to some grimy cabin with an old man in it that I didn't particularly like, but I had to go there anyway. And I wondered, "What would happen if I just let go?" because I couldn't make it up that mountain. I also dreamt that chicken nuggets reformed themselves into a live, whole chicken. Okay okay. TMI.
Ok, I have to start reading this book! Right now, I'm in the middle of a book I'd like to end but I have this disease where I have to read a book I've already started.
You should hear me speak though. Broadest accent under the sun...
I think it is more about the fact that when you write stories that could be considered to be children's stories you almost every time nail it. Off the top of my head I'm thinking of Dustbunnies and Seeds as only two examples
I took German in high school. It has become completely non-handy since every German I know seems to have flawless English, as evidenced by your writing. Also, wow, thank you so much for the compliment and even remembering my stories. One children's story that comes to mind that you wrote was one about a spider.
Ditto. I've found myself digging up all these fairy tales from different cultures and they're so fun to read and I'm basically procrastinating by tricking myself into thinking that I'm "researching for inspiration."
Ditto. Yet for me, it's already 5 hrs until the ball drops.
You could TOOOOOTALLY turn an Afghani government critic into a character of a fairy tale. Easy peezy.
I dreamt that I was climbing the face of a slippery vertical mountain to get to some grimy cabin with an old man in it that I didn't particularly like, but I had to go there anyway. And I wondered, "What would happen if I just let go?" because I couldn't make it up that mountain. I also dreamt that chicken nuggets reformed themselves into a live, whole chicken. Okay okay. TMI.
Ok, I have to start reading this book! Right now, I'm in the middle of a book I'd like to end but I have this disease where I have to read a book I've already started.
SquiddyCracker
Banned
Up to 1400 words, using a couple of lazy devices to wrap things up
Because I would like to draw a couple of things and throw that in
Because I would like to draw a couple of things and throw that in
British Monsoon
Member
There was nothing overtly sinister about the cottage on the outskirts of the village, it's well tended gardens and sturdy oaken frame set against a backdrop of forest and sky made for a picturesque scene. Yet, for many, the cottage was a sign of ill omen, one met with fearful glances and hurried steps. People kept with the old traditions round these parts, but they would always fear what they didn't understand and they feared the old man that lived inside the cottage. Lately, however, he'd been seen less and less and a foul, sickly smell had begun to waft over the now slowly wilting blooms.
"Well, someone's going to have to go inside." said Harlan, the blacksmith, his face grimly lit by the torch light.
"Aye, but you know what they say about them that delve in the unnatural." replied young Karl, Harlan's apprentice, his voice tinged with fear.
"Boy's right." Carlson said, knowing that, as Mayor, he'd be expected to enter the cottage and confront what lay within, but instead wanting nothing more than to crawl up in bed and sleep the night away, free from the dangers of their ancient, fearful traditions, but feeling every bit the scared little child of some twenty years past.
--------------------------------------------------
Carlson remembered it vividly, the look on his sisters face as she writhed in pain, her spine twisted and broken, after she'd been thrown by her horse. They got her back to the farm and waiting for them was the old man. He looked her over and told Carlson's father his little girl would never walk again unless he intervened. The old man had asked what that was worth and Carlson's father had gotten so angry that this sorcerer would bargain for his daughter's health. But he'd calmed down and the old man explained that everything had a price. Anything was his father's answer. The old man set to work, placing his hands upon Carlson's sister. There was no visible sign of the magic wrought, just a faint tang of iron in the air and the sickening sound of bone cracking on bone. His sister gasped into conciousness and sat bolt upright. The old man rose unsteadily to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps, before making for the door.
Carlson followed him out and watched as he staggered through the orchards, favouring his arm. Running to catch up, he grabbed an arm to steady the old man and flinched at the twisted mess of flesh and bone he felt beneath the robe. The old man, convulsing with pain, quickly pressed his ruined arm to the trunk of the nearest tree. Again, the taste of iron in the back of Carlson's mouth, and with one long, loud and painful creak, the trunk twisted upon itself. The old man, gasping for breath, raised his suddenly restored appendage. "Everything has a price." Carlson had been awed by the old man's power for a while, but as the year's past and the trees around the one touched by the old man failed and died, he grew rightly fearful. Not his sister, though. Stupid girl, too curious for her own good.
--------------------------------------------------
"Well, if you're not going in there, someone best send for Hilda." a voice said from the now-growing crowd. The mayor looked about him, awakened from his remembering.
"No!" he said, louder than he'd intended.
"She would know what's best, Carlson. And, besides, she's his student." the blacksmith replied.
And he knew Harlan was right. So they sent young Karl up the mountain pass to fetch Hilda from her hermitage. Carlson wondered how he'd feel upon seeing her once more, but pushed the thought from his mind as he set about dispersing the crowd from the old man's cottage. Then, with all the pomp and ceremony the new church could muster in these dreary, northern climbs, the Friar and his Brothers arrived.
"I have heard the maleficent sorcerer has met his demise." the Friar stated, stinking of his sweet, foreign perfumes. "We are here to cleanse and sanctify the body, before giving it the proper burial."
"With all due respect", Carlson began, "We've sent for Hilda and she'll take care of things. Properly, as tradition demands."
"Ah, yes. The hedgewitch. Another maleficent that would have been rooted out of your community by now, had you any sense." Carlson bristled at that, thinking of hitting the man, but instead spat at his feet and shouldered through the crowd, not wanting a quarrel with this new, powerful church.
"What does your god know of our ways? What does he know of the restless dead?" someone in the crowd said.
"The restless dead? Tales told to frighten little children!" the Friar laughed. "I suppose you'll be wanting me to pierce his feet with iron, or carve off the genitals and place them in his mouth? Pagan savages." he spat. "When the girl gets here, she can see to any of your quaint observances. After the old man's buried." the Friar declaimed to no one in particular, before striding into the cottage, the Brothers following in his wake.
For many minutes there was chanting in the strange, fancy language the heretic religion favoured. But then there was silence and the onlookers drew closer to the dark, open door. With a terrible, throat-rending scream, one of the Brothers flew from the darkness, tripping over the doorstep and onto the floor before their feet. His hands clawed madly at his face, at the holes where his eyes used to be. Somewhere in the crowd people screamed, while others bared their weapons. The Brother was softly whimpering to himself when his fellow Brother landed on top of him, or at least his torso did, guts hanging loose where his legs should have been.
From inside the cottage, silence, interrupted by a deep, guttural, laugh. No human made that sound. Those with blades pushed their way to the front, standing ready for what might emerge. It was quicker than they expected, bearing down on one man in a blur of contorted flesh that, sickeningly, appeared to be the Friar. Within a second the man's throat was torn apart and they hacked at the monstrosity until it moved no more, black blood oozing from a hundred wounds. From inside the cottage, that strange, in-human laugh resumed.
"Get some wood. We're boarding up the door." Carlson ordered, his eyes wide with panic. "And someone, start building a pyre."
--------------------------------------------------
They were nearing the village just as the sun began to rise above the treetops. The blacksmith's boy had wanted to hurry, but no use galloping through the forest trail at night, she'd said. That's an easy way to break your neck. She'd hoped to find the village in relative peace, but as the familiar horizon hoved into view, she smelled the scent of burning flesh on the air. With a prod of her boot she woke the blacksmith's boy just as they made it through the gates. There was a good crowd gathered around the old man's house, stout men with weary sword arms and spent torches, and a pyre burning its last in the square.
"Please, tell me you didn't burn his corpse." she said to the mayor as she dismounted.
"No, we burned the Friar." Carlson replied, before explaining all of the night's doings.
"Well, you handled yourselves well, all things considered." she told him, "Tell your men to rip down those boards, I'll be going in now and don't you dare send anyone in after me, no matter what. You hear me Erick Carlson?"
"Yes ma'am." he smartly replied, knowing better than to argue with her.
"It is good to see you Erick." she smiled.
--------------------------------------------------
The feeling didn't hit her right away. It wasn't until she'd shut the door of the cottage behind her that she felt assailed by a vast, malevolent evil. Pushing her body on against every primal urge, she came to the living room and saw the corpse laid out on the floor, prepared and wrapped in its shroud. Other than the savage grin below ethereal black eyes, there was nothing to mark the corpse as abnormal. And then it spoke.
"Hello Hilda." the corpse said. "You're the little girl I fixed. Did it tingle, Hilda, when I touched you?" it laughed.
"You aren't him, so you can drop your games." she said, remembering the lessons the old man had taught her in preparation for this unpleasant eventuality. She drew a circle of chalk and began the chant. The creature writhed, but the shroud was wrapped tight and, as the chant finished, all that remained was to sew shut the shroud and send the demon to the grave.
"I do wonder, though" Hilda said, as she finished the last stitches, "how you gained entry to this realm?"
"Oh, it was the fat Friar." he laughed. "The arrogance of the man. He was excited. Excited! Hah."
"Made a mistake did he?" she said, bringing the needle to her lips so as to bite through the thread. "Something simple, no doubt." The demon's eyes were gleaming. She brought the needle away from her mouth and produced a knife, using that to cut through the thread instead. The demon screamed as she tied off the knot, the shroud now complete. She smudged the circle away with her feet and, by the time she was finished, the demon inhabiting the old man's corpse was gone. Taking the needle, she carefully snapped it into several pieces, before piercing them into corpse's feet, because old traditions die hard as long as they're needed, as long as there's someone to remember them.
--------------------------------------------------
Spoilers;
.
"Well, someone's going to have to go inside." said Harlan, the blacksmith, his face grimly lit by the torch light.
"Aye, but you know what they say about them that delve in the unnatural." replied young Karl, Harlan's apprentice, his voice tinged with fear.
"Boy's right." Carlson said, knowing that, as Mayor, he'd be expected to enter the cottage and confront what lay within, but instead wanting nothing more than to crawl up in bed and sleep the night away, free from the dangers of their ancient, fearful traditions, but feeling every bit the scared little child of some twenty years past.
--------------------------------------------------
Carlson remembered it vividly, the look on his sisters face as she writhed in pain, her spine twisted and broken, after she'd been thrown by her horse. They got her back to the farm and waiting for them was the old man. He looked her over and told Carlson's father his little girl would never walk again unless he intervened. The old man had asked what that was worth and Carlson's father had gotten so angry that this sorcerer would bargain for his daughter's health. But he'd calmed down and the old man explained that everything had a price. Anything was his father's answer. The old man set to work, placing his hands upon Carlson's sister. There was no visible sign of the magic wrought, just a faint tang of iron in the air and the sickening sound of bone cracking on bone. His sister gasped into conciousness and sat bolt upright. The old man rose unsteadily to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps, before making for the door.
Carlson followed him out and watched as he staggered through the orchards, favouring his arm. Running to catch up, he grabbed an arm to steady the old man and flinched at the twisted mess of flesh and bone he felt beneath the robe. The old man, convulsing with pain, quickly pressed his ruined arm to the trunk of the nearest tree. Again, the taste of iron in the back of Carlson's mouth, and with one long, loud and painful creak, the trunk twisted upon itself. The old man, gasping for breath, raised his suddenly restored appendage. "Everything has a price." Carlson had been awed by the old man's power for a while, but as the year's past and the trees around the one touched by the old man failed and died, he grew rightly fearful. Not his sister, though. Stupid girl, too curious for her own good.
--------------------------------------------------
"Well, if you're not going in there, someone best send for Hilda." a voice said from the now-growing crowd. The mayor looked about him, awakened from his remembering.
"No!" he said, louder than he'd intended.
"She would know what's best, Carlson. And, besides, she's his student." the blacksmith replied.
And he knew Harlan was right. So they sent young Karl up the mountain pass to fetch Hilda from her hermitage. Carlson wondered how he'd feel upon seeing her once more, but pushed the thought from his mind as he set about dispersing the crowd from the old man's cottage. Then, with all the pomp and ceremony the new church could muster in these dreary, northern climbs, the Friar and his Brothers arrived.
"I have heard the maleficent sorcerer has met his demise." the Friar stated, stinking of his sweet, foreign perfumes. "We are here to cleanse and sanctify the body, before giving it the proper burial."
"With all due respect", Carlson began, "We've sent for Hilda and she'll take care of things. Properly, as tradition demands."
"Ah, yes. The hedgewitch. Another maleficent that would have been rooted out of your community by now, had you any sense." Carlson bristled at that, thinking of hitting the man, but instead spat at his feet and shouldered through the crowd, not wanting a quarrel with this new, powerful church.
"What does your god know of our ways? What does he know of the restless dead?" someone in the crowd said.
"The restless dead? Tales told to frighten little children!" the Friar laughed. "I suppose you'll be wanting me to pierce his feet with iron, or carve off the genitals and place them in his mouth? Pagan savages." he spat. "When the girl gets here, she can see to any of your quaint observances. After the old man's buried." the Friar declaimed to no one in particular, before striding into the cottage, the Brothers following in his wake.
For many minutes there was chanting in the strange, fancy language the heretic religion favoured. But then there was silence and the onlookers drew closer to the dark, open door. With a terrible, throat-rending scream, one of the Brothers flew from the darkness, tripping over the doorstep and onto the floor before their feet. His hands clawed madly at his face, at the holes where his eyes used to be. Somewhere in the crowd people screamed, while others bared their weapons. The Brother was softly whimpering to himself when his fellow Brother landed on top of him, or at least his torso did, guts hanging loose where his legs should have been.
From inside the cottage, silence, interrupted by a deep, guttural, laugh. No human made that sound. Those with blades pushed their way to the front, standing ready for what might emerge. It was quicker than they expected, bearing down on one man in a blur of contorted flesh that, sickeningly, appeared to be the Friar. Within a second the man's throat was torn apart and they hacked at the monstrosity until it moved no more, black blood oozing from a hundred wounds. From inside the cottage, that strange, in-human laugh resumed.
"Get some wood. We're boarding up the door." Carlson ordered, his eyes wide with panic. "And someone, start building a pyre."
--------------------------------------------------
They were nearing the village just as the sun began to rise above the treetops. The blacksmith's boy had wanted to hurry, but no use galloping through the forest trail at night, she'd said. That's an easy way to break your neck. She'd hoped to find the village in relative peace, but as the familiar horizon hoved into view, she smelled the scent of burning flesh on the air. With a prod of her boot she woke the blacksmith's boy just as they made it through the gates. There was a good crowd gathered around the old man's house, stout men with weary sword arms and spent torches, and a pyre burning its last in the square.
"Please, tell me you didn't burn his corpse." she said to the mayor as she dismounted.
"No, we burned the Friar." Carlson replied, before explaining all of the night's doings.
"Well, you handled yourselves well, all things considered." she told him, "Tell your men to rip down those boards, I'll be going in now and don't you dare send anyone in after me, no matter what. You hear me Erick Carlson?"
"Yes ma'am." he smartly replied, knowing better than to argue with her.
"It is good to see you Erick." she smiled.
--------------------------------------------------
The feeling didn't hit her right away. It wasn't until she'd shut the door of the cottage behind her that she felt assailed by a vast, malevolent evil. Pushing her body on against every primal urge, she came to the living room and saw the corpse laid out on the floor, prepared and wrapped in its shroud. Other than the savage grin below ethereal black eyes, there was nothing to mark the corpse as abnormal. And then it spoke.
"Hello Hilda." the corpse said. "You're the little girl I fixed. Did it tingle, Hilda, when I touched you?" it laughed.
"You aren't him, so you can drop your games." she said, remembering the lessons the old man had taught her in preparation for this unpleasant eventuality. She drew a circle of chalk and began the chant. The creature writhed, but the shroud was wrapped tight and, as the chant finished, all that remained was to sew shut the shroud and send the demon to the grave.
"I do wonder, though" Hilda said, as she finished the last stitches, "how you gained entry to this realm?"
"Oh, it was the fat Friar." he laughed. "The arrogance of the man. He was excited. Excited! Hah."
"Made a mistake did he?" she said, bringing the needle to her lips so as to bite through the thread. "Something simple, no doubt." The demon's eyes were gleaming. She brought the needle away from her mouth and produced a knife, using that to cut through the thread instead. The demon screamed as she tied off the knot, the shroud now complete. She smudged the circle away with her feet and, by the time she was finished, the demon inhabiting the old man's corpse was gone. Taking the needle, she carefully snapped it into several pieces, before piercing them into corpse's feet, because old traditions die hard as long as they're needed, as long as there's someone to remember them.
--------------------------------------------------
Spoilers;
Hey, guess what? I ran out of space, so this is probably rather undercooked. The premise of the story was simple enough - I got the idea from a book of Scandinavian folk tales and there are many concerning the preparation of the dead. The idea of sticking nails or needles into the soles of the feet came from the belief that it would impede the 'restless dead' from walking if they ever decided to get their feet. The bit about the shroud was important, as it was believed that in the time between a person dying and their burial shroud being sewn, an evil spirit could inhabit the body. It was also thought that if anyone put the iron needle used to sew the shroud in their mouth before the body was buried, they would become a thrall of the evil spirit, which is why it was necessary for Hilda to cut the thread rather than biting it free. The basic story was just going to be about Hilda confronting the spirit and avoiding its tricks and traps, but then I kept adding to it, didn't have enough space to flesh out my original idea and instead ended up with this mess. The stuff about the Friar was going to be the arrogance of a new religion vs old traditions that people feared, but knew were necessary. The stuff with her brother was meant to be a further way of stating that fear towards the old magic, but I handled it in a pretty ham-fisted manner, I think.
Got a pretty decent idea for a story a couple of days ago and wrote a stream-of-consciousness outline. Started fleshing it out today and got 800 words in before I was like, "Hey dude, better check that word count". I've barely started my story and I've already used like half the allowable words...I think I can make it work, though.
BTW that cat story made me laugh. Thanks for the pictures.
BTW that cat story made me laugh. Thanks for the pictures.
SquiddyCracker
Banned
SquiddyCracker
Banned
I'm 95% within the set word limit. If it's good enough for science, it's good enough for the creative arts.
But, I have trimmed it down
"A Fairy in Search of a Tale" (with illustrations) (1554 words)
or
"A Fairy in Search of a Tale" (with just one illustration) (1554 words)
I have 2 versions because I think I went complete bonkers in my delirium with illustrations. I think they might be super distracting -- and annoying. So feel free to use the version with just one illustration, the only one that I'll actually like by tomorrow morning. I just can't let go of the illustration-impacted edition since I spent the last 3 hours trying to find illustrations.
or
"A Fairy in Search of a Tale" (with just one illustration) (1554 words)
I have 2 versions because I think I went complete bonkers in my delirium with illustrations. I think they might be super distracting -- and annoying. So feel free to use the version with just one illustration, the only one that I'll actually like by tomorrow morning. I just can't let go of the illustration-impacted edition since I spent the last 3 hours trying to find illustrations.
Shit, I came home thinking the deadline was tomorrow and actually managed to pump this out under three hours. If anything, I'm proud that I've actually finished a piece of fiction for the first time in years. I don't have time to figure out how to do fancy dropbox stuff.
Edit: Thanks to the lovely Ashes, now dropbox compatible!
Title: Chia and the Moon
Word count: 1599
quote to see password
Edit: Thanks to the lovely Ashes, now dropbox compatible!
Title: Chia and the Moon
Word count: 1599
quote to see password
Everything Under the Sun (~1600 words)
"Hully gee, Harry," said Patrick. "It's hotter 'an hell."
"I am under the same sun, Patty," said Harry. He plopped his crumbling valise next to the dirt-crusted tree. The shade helped little when a hot wind baked them. Harry squirmed out of his suit jacket. He tried to fold it, but it ended up a curled-up varmint. He dropped it atop his case. His legs bowed, and his frame deflated into a heap onto sickly grass. "And all because of you," he said, fanning himself with his fedora.
"No need for sass," said Patrick. "I'm trying to come up with a bit about the railroads for our act."
"Everyone's doing that," said Harry.
"Not like I do it."
"Where's your man?"
Patrick surveyed the pair of dirt roads leading to the intersection marked by the tree. He checked the pocketwatch nestled in his vest. The hands remained stuck at six after six. He wasn't sure if they meant dawn or dusk. "It's a bit early," he said, snapping it shut. "Someone'll be here."
"This is the place, right?" Harry sighed. "Here amongst the amber waves of, well, grass."
"Here's the tree and where the roads meet." Sweat soaked his forehead under the brim of his bowler. He reached into his suit jacket. "Aw, hell," he said. "Think I dropped my handkerchief on the train." There was enough of nothing around him that he could see the train station looking like a chimney huffing black smoke.
"We're gonna get paid though, right?" asked Harry.
"Of course," said Patrick.
Harry was disappointed. He expected a wild story or at least bluster.
"See here!" said Patrick. He held his arms in welcome. "Here he is."
A grizzled man shambled down the road. He looked at Patrick, spat into the dirt, and kept going.
"Well, that's rude," said a voice from behind.
Harry jumped in his seat. He looked over his shoulder and did a double take, something so accustomed onstage that he did it off. He clutched his hat over his heart.
The man towered. He filled out his overalls and seemed to burst out the top like a mushroom cap. He carried a bushel of apples on a shoulder. His skin was bronze like morning sun breaking. He flashed a smile. "Ol' Nick here didn't mean to startle you none," he said. Nick set his apples down.
"I always like to piss when I never intend a drop," said Patrick.
Nick laughed. "My, it's fierce out, ain't it?" He exhaled like bellows exciting flames.
"Same sun above us all," replied Patrick.
Harry gave him a look. Patrick shot back with a toothy grin.
"Maybe. But it sure ain't the same sky," said Nick. His shoulders sagged. "I mean, some people have thou art Father over their heads while others have to claw the dirt to earn another day." His hands seemed to clutch palpable dirt. "Sorry, I'm just venting."
"I pay no mind," said Harry. "Patty there makes a living with complaints."
"Like Harry's dear own mother-in-law," said Patrick. "A survey of well-esteemed doctors reckons a man might bust like a balloon if he bottles things up."
"I dunno if I agree," said Harry. "But can't say I disagree neither."
"It's science," said Patrick.
"Well, if that ain't an invitation," said Nick. "See, I'd be at the station if I could instead of this crossroads here, but they run a racket there. They conspire against the lil' folk. They may be God-fearing, but where's the fairness?"
"Everyone deserves a fair shot," said Patrick.
"Damn skippy. I've seen my family toil under servitude," said Nick. "So hand to heavens, all I wanted was to carve a place for myself. That's not so bad, is it? So I plant seeds and let 'em bloom. If I could do that all over this God's country, wouldn't that be somethin'?" His hand engulfed an apple. He flipped it into the air and caught it. "Tempt you with an apple?"
The apple was burgundy with a lacquer shine and with yellow streaks like candlelight taken to drapes.
"No thanks," said Patrick. "But what I wouldn't give for--"
"Water?" Nick held out a leather canteen. It was round like a drum and had snakeskin lining the edges. He sloshed it, making it sound like the ocean.
"Nah, ice cream." Patrick produced a hip flask from his jacket. "I only drink the firewater." He took a swig.
"If only I could turn water into wine... Look!" Nick pointed down the road at a man on a horse-drawn wagon carrying lumber. "Look at him. Works hard, doesn't he? Cuts the trees. Shapes the wood. Sweats like God knows under this sun. Doesn't he deserve an apple all his own?"
"Patty doesn't believe in success."
"I believe in a full stomach and a warm bed," said Patrick. "Anything else has a catch."
"Oh, the bridges he burns," said Harry.
Nick grabbed a couple of apples in one hand. "Wouldn't you want to headline Carnegie Hall?" he asked. "Or have a little theater as your own?" He hurried and flagged the wagon.
Down the other road came a lanky drink of water who strolled so casual as if his feet never touched the ground. It was quite the miracle as he had one sole hanging by a thread. Bobby was a young black man with trousers fit for an older brother. His right hand slung a denim jacket over his shoulder, and his left lugged a guitar case.
"Mind if I spend a spell 'neath the shade?" asked Bobby.
"Ain't our tree," said Patrick.
"Which means do what you wish," said Harry.
Bobby laid down his jacket and set his guitar case on top. He wiped his forehead with a hand. "Much obliged, either way," he said, sitting down.
"Say," said Patrick. "A good tune can ease your troubles."
"Hang it, Patty. You can't expect him to perform without something in return," said Harry. "Patty'll pay a quarter."
"That's a fine proposition," said Bobby.
"I give generosity like charity," said Patrick.
The case clicked open. The mahogany frame of the guitar was polished like a penny. It had hips like a woman and a wood grain like flaxen hair. The strings were tight enough they might dance themselves into a song.
"That's a beaut," said Patrick, marveling as if looking into a treasure chest. "Harry, who was that guy played a mean guitar? Wore that cowboy get-up."
"Cowboy Dan?" said Harry.
"Right."
"I ain't no cowboy," said Bobby. He gave the strings a gentle strum with the back of his fingertips. "That's all I know."
Patrick laughed as he flipped a quarter toward the guitarist. "I've heard worse," he said.
"I sure as sure can't do better," said Harry.
"Well, I aim to learn," said Bobby. "See, I was passing by the watering hole back home, when I heard the most astounding sounds. I couldn't help but stomp and clap along. I looked through that window, and he was plucking the strings enough to make angels go cross-eyed. He gave me this guitar."
"Something for nothing?" asked Patrick. "What's the catch?"
Bobby shrugged. "I told him I couldn't tell what I took a shine to more: how he played or how a black fellow was able to put such a spell over a roomful of white folk," he said. "So he gave me his. Said he saved for a new one. What I wouldn't give to play it."
"Well." It was Nick. He had returned to the shade. "I can teach you. I can make you the finest guitarist not only this side of the Mississippi but also the next."
"That sounds mighty swell," said Bobby.
"What's the catch?" asked Patrick.
"Ain't no catch," said Nick. He held his arms up in surrender. "We can negotiate a deal. Make a barter of it, so it's all fair."
"Like love and war," said Patrick.
"I don't know much about love," said Bobby. "Nor war. But I seen the power of a man sitting and strumming the guitar."
"We're performers, we have some experience," said Harry. "You should know what you're getting into."
"They're two-bit comedians who'll rate two bits for the rest of their worthless careers. If you want to freeze your toes off while touring the boondocks of North Dakota, then listen to them," said Nick. He produced a quarter between his fingers. He flicked it into the open guitar case. And then another. And another. He piled them in. "Me? I've got bits to spare."
"I don't know about this," said Harry.
"Hush," snarled Nick.
Harry went white as a sheet.
Patrick straightened his vest. "I ain't got much say in what ain't mine, but I know with exclusive contracts, you ain't your own," said Patrick. "If you're gonna play that guitar, then best play it better than a ten-dollar steak. Make sure he teaches you everything. You hear me? Everythin' about playin' that music."
Bobby nodded. "Mister, you teach me everything?" he asked. "If you're able--"
"Why, of course!" Nick held out his hand. "Deal?"
Many years later, it wasn't the heat that Patrick remembered most of that day. To the day he died, when Patrick would see someone with a hat out and scratching something new on a guitar, he'd give from his pocket. He'd imagine that Bobby still played. That when Nick came a-calling, Bobby played something new for Ol' Scratch and showed that he hadn't learned everything yet.
Maybe he's one note ahead of the devil. Maybe that's worth a dollar at the very least.
"Hully gee, Harry," said Patrick. "It's hotter 'an hell."
"I am under the same sun, Patty," said Harry. He plopped his crumbling valise next to the dirt-crusted tree. The shade helped little when a hot wind baked them. Harry squirmed out of his suit jacket. He tried to fold it, but it ended up a curled-up varmint. He dropped it atop his case. His legs bowed, and his frame deflated into a heap onto sickly grass. "And all because of you," he said, fanning himself with his fedora.
"No need for sass," said Patrick. "I'm trying to come up with a bit about the railroads for our act."
"Everyone's doing that," said Harry.
"Not like I do it."
"Where's your man?"
Patrick surveyed the pair of dirt roads leading to the intersection marked by the tree. He checked the pocketwatch nestled in his vest. The hands remained stuck at six after six. He wasn't sure if they meant dawn or dusk. "It's a bit early," he said, snapping it shut. "Someone'll be here."
"This is the place, right?" Harry sighed. "Here amongst the amber waves of, well, grass."
"Here's the tree and where the roads meet." Sweat soaked his forehead under the brim of his bowler. He reached into his suit jacket. "Aw, hell," he said. "Think I dropped my handkerchief on the train." There was enough of nothing around him that he could see the train station looking like a chimney huffing black smoke.
"We're gonna get paid though, right?" asked Harry.
"Of course," said Patrick.
Harry was disappointed. He expected a wild story or at least bluster.
"See here!" said Patrick. He held his arms in welcome. "Here he is."
A grizzled man shambled down the road. He looked at Patrick, spat into the dirt, and kept going.
"Well, that's rude," said a voice from behind.
Harry jumped in his seat. He looked over his shoulder and did a double take, something so accustomed onstage that he did it off. He clutched his hat over his heart.
The man towered. He filled out his overalls and seemed to burst out the top like a mushroom cap. He carried a bushel of apples on a shoulder. His skin was bronze like morning sun breaking. He flashed a smile. "Ol' Nick here didn't mean to startle you none," he said. Nick set his apples down.
"I always like to piss when I never intend a drop," said Patrick.
Nick laughed. "My, it's fierce out, ain't it?" He exhaled like bellows exciting flames.
"Same sun above us all," replied Patrick.
Harry gave him a look. Patrick shot back with a toothy grin.
"Maybe. But it sure ain't the same sky," said Nick. His shoulders sagged. "I mean, some people have thou art Father over their heads while others have to claw the dirt to earn another day." His hands seemed to clutch palpable dirt. "Sorry, I'm just venting."
"I pay no mind," said Harry. "Patty there makes a living with complaints."
"Like Harry's dear own mother-in-law," said Patrick. "A survey of well-esteemed doctors reckons a man might bust like a balloon if he bottles things up."
"I dunno if I agree," said Harry. "But can't say I disagree neither."
"It's science," said Patrick.
"Well, if that ain't an invitation," said Nick. "See, I'd be at the station if I could instead of this crossroads here, but they run a racket there. They conspire against the lil' folk. They may be God-fearing, but where's the fairness?"
"Everyone deserves a fair shot," said Patrick.
"Damn skippy. I've seen my family toil under servitude," said Nick. "So hand to heavens, all I wanted was to carve a place for myself. That's not so bad, is it? So I plant seeds and let 'em bloom. If I could do that all over this God's country, wouldn't that be somethin'?" His hand engulfed an apple. He flipped it into the air and caught it. "Tempt you with an apple?"
The apple was burgundy with a lacquer shine and with yellow streaks like candlelight taken to drapes.
"No thanks," said Patrick. "But what I wouldn't give for--"
"Water?" Nick held out a leather canteen. It was round like a drum and had snakeskin lining the edges. He sloshed it, making it sound like the ocean.
"Nah, ice cream." Patrick produced a hip flask from his jacket. "I only drink the firewater." He took a swig.
"If only I could turn water into wine... Look!" Nick pointed down the road at a man on a horse-drawn wagon carrying lumber. "Look at him. Works hard, doesn't he? Cuts the trees. Shapes the wood. Sweats like God knows under this sun. Doesn't he deserve an apple all his own?"
"Patty doesn't believe in success."
"I believe in a full stomach and a warm bed," said Patrick. "Anything else has a catch."
"Oh, the bridges he burns," said Harry.
Nick grabbed a couple of apples in one hand. "Wouldn't you want to headline Carnegie Hall?" he asked. "Or have a little theater as your own?" He hurried and flagged the wagon.
Down the other road came a lanky drink of water who strolled so casual as if his feet never touched the ground. It was quite the miracle as he had one sole hanging by a thread. Bobby was a young black man with trousers fit for an older brother. His right hand slung a denim jacket over his shoulder, and his left lugged a guitar case.
"Mind if I spend a spell 'neath the shade?" asked Bobby.
"Ain't our tree," said Patrick.
"Which means do what you wish," said Harry.
Bobby laid down his jacket and set his guitar case on top. He wiped his forehead with a hand. "Much obliged, either way," he said, sitting down.
"Say," said Patrick. "A good tune can ease your troubles."
"Hang it, Patty. You can't expect him to perform without something in return," said Harry. "Patty'll pay a quarter."
"That's a fine proposition," said Bobby.
"I give generosity like charity," said Patrick.
The case clicked open. The mahogany frame of the guitar was polished like a penny. It had hips like a woman and a wood grain like flaxen hair. The strings were tight enough they might dance themselves into a song.
"That's a beaut," said Patrick, marveling as if looking into a treasure chest. "Harry, who was that guy played a mean guitar? Wore that cowboy get-up."
"Cowboy Dan?" said Harry.
"Right."
"I ain't no cowboy," said Bobby. He gave the strings a gentle strum with the back of his fingertips. "That's all I know."
Patrick laughed as he flipped a quarter toward the guitarist. "I've heard worse," he said.
"I sure as sure can't do better," said Harry.
"Well, I aim to learn," said Bobby. "See, I was passing by the watering hole back home, when I heard the most astounding sounds. I couldn't help but stomp and clap along. I looked through that window, and he was plucking the strings enough to make angels go cross-eyed. He gave me this guitar."
"Something for nothing?" asked Patrick. "What's the catch?"
Bobby shrugged. "I told him I couldn't tell what I took a shine to more: how he played or how a black fellow was able to put such a spell over a roomful of white folk," he said. "So he gave me his. Said he saved for a new one. What I wouldn't give to play it."
"Well." It was Nick. He had returned to the shade. "I can teach you. I can make you the finest guitarist not only this side of the Mississippi but also the next."
"That sounds mighty swell," said Bobby.
"What's the catch?" asked Patrick.
"Ain't no catch," said Nick. He held his arms up in surrender. "We can negotiate a deal. Make a barter of it, so it's all fair."
"Like love and war," said Patrick.
"I don't know much about love," said Bobby. "Nor war. But I seen the power of a man sitting and strumming the guitar."
"We're performers, we have some experience," said Harry. "You should know what you're getting into."
"They're two-bit comedians who'll rate two bits for the rest of their worthless careers. If you want to freeze your toes off while touring the boondocks of North Dakota, then listen to them," said Nick. He produced a quarter between his fingers. He flicked it into the open guitar case. And then another. And another. He piled them in. "Me? I've got bits to spare."
"I don't know about this," said Harry.
"Hush," snarled Nick.
Harry went white as a sheet.
Patrick straightened his vest. "I ain't got much say in what ain't mine, but I know with exclusive contracts, you ain't your own," said Patrick. "If you're gonna play that guitar, then best play it better than a ten-dollar steak. Make sure he teaches you everything. You hear me? Everythin' about playin' that music."
Bobby nodded. "Mister, you teach me everything?" he asked. "If you're able--"
"Why, of course!" Nick held out his hand. "Deal?"
Many years later, it wasn't the heat that Patrick remembered most of that day. To the day he died, when Patrick would see someone with a hat out and scratching something new on a guitar, he'd give from his pocket. He'd imagine that Bobby still played. That when Nick came a-calling, Bobby played something new for Ol' Scratch and showed that he hadn't learned everything yet.
Maybe he's one note ahead of the devil. Maybe that's worth a dollar at the very least.
Hurrah! Welcome aboard.Shit, I came home thinking the deadline was tomorrow and actually managed to pump this out under three hours. If anything, I'm proud that I've actually finished a piece of fiction for the first time in years. I don't have time to figure out how to do fancy dropbox stuff.
:O
Ok! I don't think anyone is still writing. Should I be mistaken I'll still add entries coming in over the next few hours.
The entries:
Aaron - "A Rose by another Name"
toddhunter - "The Fairy Cat Adventure"
chainsawkitten - "Grå tavlor"
bengraven - "The Legend of the Sole-less Joe"
Boootay - "An iron Burial"
SquiddyCracker - "Once upon a Time"
multivac - "Briar Rabbit"
Cyan - "The Dragon and the Merchant's Daughter"
Tangent - "A Fairy in Search of a Tale"
Pau - "Chia and the Moon"
DumbNameD - "Everything under the Sun"
Nezumi - "Tradition"
Ashes1396 - "beyond a happy ending" or "he's not dead"
Esiquio - "Where Wishes Grow"
Happy reading and voting folks!
The entries:
Aaron - "A Rose by another Name"
toddhunter - "The Fairy Cat Adventure"
chainsawkitten - "Grå tavlor"
bengraven - "The Legend of the Sole-less Joe"
Boootay - "An iron Burial"
SquiddyCracker - "Once upon a Time"
multivac - "Briar Rabbit"
Cyan - "The Dragon and the Merchant's Daughter"
Tangent - "A Fairy in Search of a Tale"
Pau - "Chia and the Moon"
DumbNameD - "Everything under the Sun"
Nezumi - "Tradition"
Ashes1396 - "beyond a happy ending" or "he's not dead"
Esiquio - "Where Wishes Grow"
Happy reading and voting folks!
hey_monkey
Banned
I went to take a nap last night and ended up sleeping through til morning! Looking forward to reading you guys, though.
Looking forward to reading you guys, though.I went to take a nap last night and ended up sleeping through til morning!
Wow, I did the exact same thing. I was like 1400 words in last night but couldn't stay awake, so I set an alarm to wake me up a couple of hours before the deadline, but ended up sleeping through my alarm :/
Made some changes for the better this morning, though, glad I finished it even though I missed the deadline. Would still appreciate some feedback on it, even if it isn't eligible for a vote!
Where Wishes Grow
Word Count: 1599 (The limit was killer but better for the story in the end, I think)
Password:
there isn't one
hey_monkey
Banned
I've been sick and crazy busy and just couldn't get to it before and then zzzzzzz. Oh well!
- Status