The December Challenge

[James]

Read the Discussion Thread for a full summary of how the competition works and ask any questions you might have:
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=rb&action=display&thread=4084

Post your entries in this thread. Post any discussion or questions in the above thread.

Rules:

• Must be prose. Recommended to be between above 500 words and below 1,500 words.
  
• Must be based around the round's topic.
  
• Must be in before the deadline, which shall be stated at the start of each round.
  

Grading guidelines:

Spelling & Grammar - /2
Ease of Read - /3
Use of Topic - /5
Entertainment - /7
Quality - /8

Total -- /25

LEADERBOARD

[/SIZE]
1st Kaez – 108 Points
2nd Allya – 105 Points
3rd Silver – 93 Points
3rd Reffy – 93 Points
5th Drall – 67 Points
6th Tamywn – 54 Points
7th Injin – 52 Points
8th Erakko - 42 Points
9th Taed - 23 Points[/center]

ROUND WINNERS

[/SIZE]
Round One: Kaez
Round Two: Erakko
Round Three: Taed
Round Four: Allya & Kaez
Round Five: Allya & Kaez[/center]

ROUND ONE

[/SIZE]
Topic: LOST
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 8th December[/center]

[Allya]

A Letter To Grandma

I remember the first time I beat you at checkers. I was ten; you were forty-six. I watched as a flush of crimson crept up your neck and burned through your face until it touched the edges of the tight, red curls you religiously touched up each Tuesday at 3pm. I could hear my mother’s laughter from the living room as I danced in celebration and you reset the board.

After that, it was on! We played chess, hearts, spades, poker, trivial pursuit, and any other game of wits and knowledge that Hasbro or Mattel could dream up. You were a ruthless competitor that gave no quarter to the young or otherwise ill-equipped. Cousins, uncles, aunts, friends, and coworkers were all fodder for your cunning and intellect once the game was in play.

I got better every year. I was learning from the best. I learned how to think ten moves ahead, how to read my opponents, how to keep them from reading me, and how to shit talk with the best of them. You showed me that one loss is just that, one loss, and that the same goes for a win. I learned that the game is more fun when it’s hard to win and even sweeter when my opponent was trying just as hard as I was.

But most of all what I learned was how important it was THAT we played together. We are all so different, we love different things, and have lived separate and unique lives, but at our core we are a family. I’d still drive five hours to go pick up my gun-toting redneck cousin from the middle of nowhere despite what I think of his views on politics or religion because I remember his face as I chased him around your floors on my knees, pretending to be a monster. I still have the scar under my chin from when my uncle flipped me and lost his hold. I hold dear the memory of my first motorcycle ride, the first time I rolled down a huge grassy hill, and even the first time I tried asparagus. All those memories are because of you.

They sang Amazing Grace at your funeral and it made me tear up. Oh, who am I kidding? I balled. But the thing is, I don’t think you were ever lost. When we played those games it was evident you knew exactly who you were and what was important. Because of you, I do too.

Now, as I watch that same family gather around a kitchen table, carving and rearranging the remnants of your life like game pieces, I marvel at what you knew and who you were. I realize that I don’t care what prize I win from this game, I’m just glad I’m part of it.

They ask me what I want and I don’t hesitate. I don’t want your car, your house, your money, or any of the other things you owned. I walk over to the game shelf and grabbed your small wooden card box. I reach up to the higher shelf, take a red checker from that twenty-year old game, and place it in the box right on top of your lucky poker set.

What I want is for my kids to know you. Holding this box I know they will. You’ll never be lost. They’ll see you every time we play!

[Deleted]

Fading Echoes

A woman gasped, her breath misting the air in front of her as she awakens. White fell above her, swirling softly in the light breeze, one of the small flakes landing in her eye. The woman blinked, her vision hazy and her thinking muddled just as her nerves finally reach her now conscious brain. Pain flares into her head, momentarily blotting out the overcast sky as she breaths in sharply and weakly brings a hand to her head. Warmth flows through her numb fingers as she presses them against her temple, a hollow feeling starting in her chest as she slowly realized she was bleeding.

The rasping breaths became a cough as copper flooded her mouth, turning her head to the side to expel the fluid. Her chest heaved as agony coursed from somewhere below her chest, the feeling indistinct but powerful. She tried to sit up and struggled against her almost unresponsive body, her limbs heavy and unfeeling.

Her legs wouldn’t move; a flicker of wordless fright pranced through her mind and then out again, disappearing. Dizziness took hold of her as she steadied herself with one elbow, the other hand still pressed hard against the side of her head. Panic seized her as she tried to reason why she was so fearful of her legs not following her commands. It increased when she came up with nothing. A sense of sickening disgust slithered through her heart at her failure, causing the bile to rise in her throat.

She gritted her teeth against the impulse, fighting to stay up and investigate her surroundings. It was important to…to…

The woman stared sightlessly down at her legs, a dark blur against the pallid ground laid out over her legs. Michael, the thought came unbidden, surprising her. She savored the knowledge and tried to remember what it meant, no longer worried about her legs. The name echoed in her mind, slowly losing volume until it was nothing more than a whisper. Panicked determination filled her as she mentally clutched at the word, unwilling to let it float away into the haze…

There was something on her legs. She realized that as she stared, feeling with a gloved hand the object in front of her. A feeling of sadness washed through her heart that she didn’t understand. It doesn’t matter, she thought, her words loud in her head. The woman latched onto those words, turning them into a mantra as she wiggled her body and pushed with both hands to get the heavy thing off of her.

Her head ached as she worked, a thin line of warmth trickling down the side of her face. It itched, but she ignored it, her very being involved in freeing her legs. Time passed during her labor, but the landscape remained unchanged. White still fell, white was still surrounding her, but the black was on top of her. She needed to move away from it, to get out, to be free.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

She could move her legs now, feel the cold against her once numb legs, warmth surging through them as feeling returned. Her hands came up in front of her face as she looked over herself, the constant pain throbbing in her head and chest. One of the hands were bare, the ends beginning to discolor into a blue bruising.

“Get away from her!”

The woman felt herself spin around, the heavy hand holding hers squeezing and pulling off the glove. Pain lanced through the fingers as the man dropped her glove and clutched too hard, cutting off any escape. Loathing filled her as she stared up into the man’s eyes, their dark brown irises looking haunted.

The woman pressed her fingers to her palm, digging in with her nails in the uncovered one. The glove on her left creaked as the leather moved, the memory falling away into the haze. She stared at her hands and then let them drop to her sides, forcing herself up as she gathered her legs beneath her.

The effort sent another spasm of pain through her abdomen, falling to her hands and knees as her bare hand felt at the wound. More blood seeped from the hole in her stomach, so she gritted her teeth and pressed it hard with the hand.

Crack!

She fell, her breath leaving her as the world tilted strangely. She dimly heard an anguished shout before another gunshot filled the air, followed by two more in quick succession. Her body hit the ground, the cold jolting her from the darkness closing in at the edges of her vision. She looked to the side, watching another man fall backward, his face filled with incredulity. Something heavy fell on her legs and the pain finally threw her into oblivion.

The woman grunted as she got to her feet, her mantra still playing strong as the images played through her mind only to wither away. Her vision had cleared as she weaved unsteadily on her feet, the boots and jeans on her lower body warding away the chill only slightly. A wracking cough came over her as she stood there, almost sending her back to the ground, but she resolutely forced herself to steady.

When the cough finally tapered off, she glanced down at the body beneath her, melancholy clutching at her throat and making it harder to breath. She knew this man, somehow. She knew…something.

It doesn’t matter.

The chant played through her head again as she walked away, every step agony. Another shape a few meters away was beginning to blend in with the ground as the snow sought greedily to claim it. A snarl came over her features as she stomped heavily to the side of the body. Anger filled her as she looked at the face, the look of surprise still evident even in death.

“Ah just wanna be friends, Sam,” Michael’s voice rose as she glared up at him, her pistol pointed at his face. She didn’t want her husband to wake up and find the man on her doorstep. “An’ friends don’t let other friends suffer none.”

“Ah ain’t yer damn wife, Mike. Now git outta here ‘fore Ah put one ‘tween yer eyes,” she responded, worry and fury warring in her breast at the sorry drunk in front of her.

Her heart stopped cold as the sound of steps creaking came to her ears, a deep voice piercing the gloom. “Who’s there?”

“Git outta here,” the woman hissed, pushing the man away. But Michael just grabbed her hand and pulled her into the snow, catching her off guard and causing her to drop the gun.

She bit her lip as she remembered, letting the images burst into flames as she knelt down and grabbed for the object in the man’s hand. The fingers were hard to open, but she managed, gripping the familiar hilt and standing back up. She glanced over at the other dark shape, noticing a red mat extending from beneath both of the bodies.

It doesn’t matter.

She wordlessly stuck the weapon in her belt and moved off, limping as the pain fell into a steady, dullness. Her sight came and went, the edges of the forest blurring as she walked, an unknown destination before her. Everything looked the same to her, no particular direction in mind, just walking.

It doesn’t matter, she thought bitterly, feeling her legs weaken until she fell to her knees, dropping the gun to the white carpet. A gust kicked up, sending the rustling leaves through the air, the brown and reds striking against the colorless world in front of her. Her world was askew, wind rushing past her ears as she stared balefully into the emptiness.

Cold caressed her face as her vision dimmed, consciousness slowly fading into nonexistence. Names, dates, and various places flew through her mind to be reduced to nothing, a silent parade of her life flashing by. She let it go as warmth spread through the rest of her body, wondering idly why she’d ended up like this.

Hell, I guess it really don’t matter.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

He was smiling wide, closing his eyes and breathing in the thick, caustic air. The scent of gun smoke and blood was present. The man was sure the scent was now as much a part of the planet as the metal skeletons of the wrecked tanks and the bones of enemy and comrade alike. The last thought gave the smiling man pause, “Former comrades.” His voice was slow and thick, the tone rich with melancholic joy. He had seen his chance and had taken it. The commissar took a bolt round right to the chest. In truth the man was surprised he had been the only one to flee from the field.

Sergeant Brekken shrugged his right shoulder, the motion used to adjust the strap of his lasrifle, to be more comfortable. He headed off through the thick muck of what had once been a village until the heavy artillery of two different armies had turned it into nothing more than a heap of slag. His boots slogged through the remains of a house, a dirty and chipped plate buried into the earth, a child’s doll burned black, the face melted to appear almost skeletal.

His boots began to rebound with the sound of leather on wood, the foundations of a pitiful pioneer chapel. All that remained as any sign of worship to the God-Emperor. In fact, only one structure still stood within the town, a small shack on the very fringes of the desolation. Glancing upward briefly, the light of the dying suns of this world reflecting polluted orange in the green eyes of the sergeant. Tilting his eyes away from the grim sky, Brekken made his way out of the town and into the shack. He had to ram the door in with a few kicks from his boots, so encrusted it was with mold and fungus. Outside of the home the walls had become caked with filth, within only a patina of dust hinted of a home that had been long abandoned.

Tracks were made in the grey coating, Brekken’s boots leaving splatters of mud behind even as the sticky sludge was gathering up the cloying dust. He set his lasrifle and heavy pack down on a central table that bore the mouldering remains of a meal left uneaten. Brekken tugged off his dark blue shirt, which left him only in a sleeveless, stained undershirt, his dark blue pants and his heavy boots. The former sergeant ran grubby fingers through dirt-caked hair, before he began to walk around the small shanty as curiosity overcame him.

Greasy fingers lifted a pict of the former owners of the house; he frowned as he remembered his own family. Brekken had left them behind, buried in the rubble of their home. But that was five years back and too many light-years to count. He looked over the faces, the father and mother who smiled down at their daughter, front teeth newly lost. He set the picture back down and ignored the tears that sliced runnels through the grit of his face. He almost was reminded of why he had joined up.

His heavy steps carried him through the rest of the home. Distantly the sounds of the fight reverberated into the walls of the house. Each concussive force sent sheets of new dust onto the floor. The bombardment was sending waves through his body, the sound, a dull pounding on his ears. Brekken stretched his hand out, his fingers trailed along the rough wooden walls as he walked deeper into the house.

A chemical stench assaulted his nose. The scent lead him to a pile of moth eaten clothing sat next to a bookcase filled with mildewed books that crawled with silverfish. As he dug through the pile he revealed small, white balls that rolled across the floor. Brekken reached into the basket and pulled out an old shirt. He wiped himself down with the musty cloth then looked to the bookcase. He began drumming his fingers along the spines of each book, selecting one that the insects had yet to begin feasting upon. Brekken set the text on the table, fished around in his kitbag, and finding the lamp pack, he placed it next to the text.

With the last dregs of sunlight, Brekken went about blocking the windows and doorways, making sure no light would escape before turning on the lamp. The room was bathed in unnatural white light. He sat down at the head of the table and opened the book. He flipped through a few pages before he recognized the Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer. Brekken almost laughed at the irony, “The man was friggin’ Guard!”

Shaking his head, he read on, his eyes briefly glimpsing the words beneath Desertion: “…hunted down without respite and executed in any manner necessary.” Brekken sighed softly. He glanced at the pitiful barricades he had erected in order to maintain the illusion the place was deserted. He’d have to move by morning. Even if the battle wasn’t finished, he was too exposed. Brekken turned his attention back to the pages. He was hoping to find something that was uplifting.

He found something; a prayer he had seldom used. A grim smile spread across his face: Prayer for the Lost and Endangered, (To be used in times of grave peril in the Warp). “Emperor forgive me, but I believe I could suffer a grave enough peril without the Warp being involved.” Letting out a low sigh, Brekken spoke the words of the prayer softly and reverently, adding only a few changes for his situation,

“Most powerful and glorious Emperor,
Who commands the winds and eddies of the galaxy,
I, a miserable man, am adrift in peril,
I cry unto Thee for help,
Save me, or I shall perish.
I see how great and terrible Thou art,
I fear You and offer my awe,
I fear naught but Your wrath,
And beg a chance to prove myself,
So let me not die on this devastated planet.”

As he finished, he opened his eyes and glanced skyward, the grim smile had become wholesome. He felt at ease, at peace. Brekken slowly closed the book. Now withdrawing dry rations from his pack, he ate the tasteless food then washed it down with tepid water. After the wretched meal, Brekken switched off his light and moved into the kitchens. Hunkering down, the man curled up to sleep.

~~

His eyes snapped open, warknife and laspistol raised and ready. For a few tense moments Brekken eyed the shadows warily then relaxed back against the wall, eyes closed. “Just a dream,” he said through shuddering breaths. Cold sweat beading his skin, he could see the daemonic figure lurking in his mind. Opening his eyes, he found the nightmare had come to life.

In a face paler than snow were set eyes of the deepest lavender with teeth that were needle thin and just as sharp. The head, too slender for a man, accentuated slightly pointed ears. Dark armor, covered in spikes, was half-glimpsed beneath a cloak of human flesh. The Mandrake savored the expression of fear on the face of the mon-keigh. The arm of the alien lifted, ready to drive its wrist-blade through the chest of the human.

A snarled shot echoed through the walls of the room. Dark gore splattered Brekken across the face and chest. The screeching Mandrake writhed around. Miraculously it was still alive. Another snarl and the Dark Eldar’s chest was gone in an explosion of meat, blood and bone.

Brekken, now saturated in Eldar gore, looked toward his savior. Would be words of thanks died quicker than the alien.

The former sergeant immediately wished he had been left to the Mandrake. It strode into the small kitchen, a figure that filled the entire room. Nearly three meters tall and half as broad, the monstrous creature was in midnight blue armor stylized with silver lightning. The face was a snarling, daemonic skull with glowering, burning eyes. Stooping down, the Night Lord drew his short blade, in the hands of the Chaos Marine a knife, to Brekken’s eyes a monster with a sword. With clean and deft strokes, the Marine flayed the flesh and meat from the skull of the Dark Eldar. In a single motion skull and spine were removed from the body.

The skull-visage regarded the sergeant. The monster stood from its bloody work. Hissing words left the mouth grille of the marine, “Guard? Desertion?” Brekken gave a few nods, not trusting himself to speak. The next words, even through the modification of the monster’s speakers, had the tone of a smile tingeing it, “Lucky day.”

The massive right claw extended toward Brekken who hesitantly took the proffered hand. The same hand that had cleanly ripped bone from flesh now gently pulled the still frightened human to his feet, “You are Viginti.” The Night Lord stated it as a fact, which Brekken accepted with an almost mechanical nod. “You are now the servant of Lord Raestus.”

Brekken gulped, “The name?”

Raestus spoke with that same smile in his voice, “The twentieth servant to come to me.”

Viginti nodded a bit. He was wise enough not to ask what happened to the others. In the dead of night, the towering marine and the frightened man left the shack behind. Viginti, though found, was still lost. Inducted into the forces of Chaos, he was just another soul in the vast hordes of the Lost and the Damned.

[Drall]

Where are you?

Seriously, consider your whereabouts for a moment. Are you in your room, snuggled up in your sheets, waking up for another day of work? No, you're not in your room. You're in the middle of a forest.

Well? How did you get here? What is the last thing that you can remember? Waking up for a piss then heading back to your bed. So then what are you doing here? Is it a dream? You pinch yourself. Nope, not a dream. You slap yourself. Still nothing. You wince in pain. That last slap was pretty hard.

This is not a dream. This is real. It's night out, and really, really dark. You can't see a damn thing, except the faint outline of some trees. You aren't certain if this is the Fresh Meadows park, the one down the street from your house. You wonder if you somehow slept walk here. Things aren't looking so good, are they? You realize something else; you're completely naked. No need to cover yourself, nobody is here, and it's dark besides. Besides, you have more immediate matters to attend to.

So, what are you going to do? Naked and alone, in a dark forest at night...don't you think it's a little exciting? You call out for help. “Hello!?” you shout. No one else is around to hear you, though. That doesn't stop you from trying, again, and again, and again, each time louder than the last. You give up, and swear loudly.

You decide to move forward, your hands outstretched, groping the air for any objects that might be in your way. You ram your head into a low hanging branch. You have a small bruise on your forehead. You rub at it, cursing.

The strangeness of the entire situation is just now starting to settle in. You start to feel creeped out. You hear a wolf howling in the distance, as well as some rustling in the bushes. Probably nothing. Just a squirrel, right? Still, you think it's best to be safe. You grab the branch that whacked you in the head and snap it off the tree. My, what a healthy, strong man you are. Do you think that branch is going to do you any good?

The immediate surroundings are becoming more clear. You're getting used to the darkness, now. Something is moving, shadows under the trees. You catch your breath. The hair stands up at the back of your neck. Something is wrong. Really, really wrong.

Two blue eyes appear in the night.

You run. You run fast, faster and faster, the branch long gone, your only source of protection discarded nearly around the same time that you wet yourself. You don't stop to look, you just keep going. You hear a whispered moan from behind that quickens your pace. Blindly you attempt to dodge trees and roots. It's a wonder you don't trip over something sooner.

You hit the ground hard. You groan, but with a start realize that your hands are touching something cold, metallic. You take the gun and fire it at random, screaming as you do so. Five shots, and a click. The forest is silent, save for your hurried, nervous breaths. Your heart is beating thunderously, but after several long minutes, the forest remains quiet. Perhaps you are safe.

As fear subsides, you notice a smell around you. It is an odour like no other. You peer into the blackness, and barely make out a figure, lying in the fallen leaves. You reach over, and recoil when your finger touches something slimy.

You stare more intently. Stricken with a morbid curiosity, you inch forward until it is visible. All at once, your heart begins to pump violently, you fling yourself away and you vomit a delicious green.

You recover quickly, and hold the gun before you. “D-d-don't! I...” You panic and try firing the gun, realizing all the bullets are spent. You begin to sob as the shadows approach you. You lie there naked, alone, lost in the woods, smelling of piss, bile, and fear.

Nothing could excite me more.

[Injin]

My father was not the nicest man. After mother died, he turned into an outright sot, drinking all the day and all the night. He only stopped drinking when he opened, of all things, a bar. For some reason his drinking stopped that day. Of course, I know the reason, but now I really wish I didn’t. One week ago an odd man came to my father’s bar. He had a quick chat with my father, and my father turned pale. My father, who had never been afraid of anything, not even when the mugger had shot my mother, seemed to lose all of the blood in his face. He glanced at me and mouthed for me to run, so I did. Then the screams came.

After a got a fair distance away, I looked back, and the bar was on fire. The people who streamed out seemed to be unaware of their surroundings, as acted seemingly on instinct. What I mean is, they all began killing each other. Some got hit by cars, some beat each other to death. When I couldn’t take anymore, I continued to run. Soon, I was almost home. However, that was when the fog rolled in. Shortly afterwards, I seemed to have walked off the sidewalk and onto a dirt path. The weird part about that is that we lived miles away from any park, living in the city and all. Soon I came upon an old house. It seemed to be near collapse, but at the same time, as I got closer, it seemed completely fine on the inside. Then I heard a voice behind me. Turning quickly, I got into a defensive stance that I’d learned at karate, which I was enrolled in shortly after my mother’s death, and I noticed it wasn’t a stranger. It was my father. The weird thing was, though, was that he was fine. He didn’t seem scared. In fact, he seemed overjoyed.

Now, I hadn’t seen my father happy for years, so I assumed he was just really glad I was safe. He began to speak, but instead of words, sounds erupted from his mouth, the likes of which I had never heard. Then he fell over backwards into the mists, and disappeared.

When I turned back around the house was gone, as was the dirt path. I was back on the sidewalk, way past my house. I didn’t know how I had gotten here, but I was now at school. The odd thing was, that it was day time and there was no sign of anyone. Anywhere. It was a school day for goodness sakes. And yet…. Empty. And then the mist rolled back in.

Thinking there was something to be worried about in these mists, I kept looking for something weird, like my father. Instead I noticed something weirder. A shadow was emerging from the mists. This time, it was my mother. Now, as you could imagine it was horrifying. Especially since my mother was wearing what she wore to her funeral. And she was smiling. Inside my mind, I suddenly heard a whisper, “Run child. You are being followed by-” and was cut off before disappearing into the ground.

I didn’t need to be told twice. Soon I was at the circus. The weird thing was, though, was that we were all the way in Newhaven that day. I lived nowhere near Newhaven. It was then that I heard a honk. Now, at first I thought it was a car horn, so stupidly I turned around. It was then that I saw what I had forgotten all this time. The face of my mother’s killer. A clown. He smiled at me and began to speak, “I am not the one you think I am child. I am here too, just the same as you. One day you shall understand. One day, you shall join us”. Now beginning to consider pissing my pants, I began to run into the woods.

I almost missed the tree house as I ran through the forest. Of course seeing it, I immediately stopped. The tree house was in my backyard after all. So I began to run towards the tree house. Just before I got there, my father appeared out of the mists once more, but this time he seemed more confused then happy. This time, he could speak, “Son. I am disappointed in you. I told you to run, not to return! Go! Go to your memory! Before it’s too late!”.

Not understanding what he meant, I opened my mouth to speak, only to have the air ripped out of me as something slammed me into the ground. Even today I don’t know what it was. It seemed….. Slimy. As soon as I could get enough strength to move, I used it to bolt back into the forest. Soon I was in some kind of glade, where a throne sat. The funny thing about the throne though, was that the bottom was missing. There was no seat. It just sank right into the ground, as if it had been there for thousands of years.

As I was looking at this mysterious glade, it seems the thing had time to catch up and I was slammed once more. This time, however, it hit me towards the throne. As my body hit the throne, I could feel my left arm break. Looking up, I saw something much worse then I had seen before. It was the man who had been visiting my father at the bar.

The man smiled, “Child. I have come to collect what is mine. Show me where you put it, or I will end your miserable little life”. Confused, I got up and ran away once more, to shouts by the well dressed man of “You can’t outrun the inevitable, boy!” and “You have chose poorly little one!”. This man seemed to be adept at hunting, as soon I kept on seeing him waiting for me in areas I was planning to run towards. Soon though, I was out of the forest. I was instead back at the house I had been to before. The decaying, yet perfect home.

Not seeing much choice, I opened the door and walked in. As soon as I went inside, the door locked, and I noticed a man I had never seen before. He was old, with a beard as white as any snow I’d ever seen. He wore red, with the occasional stripe of white. His cheeks were red, but not in a good way. Like how anyone would look after they laughed at some perverted joke. His eyes were blue. Were. Then they turned orange. He smiled at me.

He came up to me, and patted me on the head. “You are safe here Mr. Gere. The man cannot enter this sanctum. However, you were never supposed to figure out how to get in.”

Confused I looked at him, with a glint of worry in my eye, “What do you mean sir? I just opened the door”.

The man’s eyes turned blue again, but this time it was a deep blue, bearing a darkness I have never seen , “There was no door. You just walked in out of the blue”.

Puzzled, I looked back and saw the door was still there. When I looked back at the man, he was no longer red in the face. His cheeks were now sunken, his suit in tatters. His eyes, which before shone of the occasional color, had no luster.

Frightened, I hopped back and the now shriveled man asked, “What’ll it be then, kid, what he wants or what I want?”

Scared out of my mind, I asked, “What do you want?”

The formerly lively man responded, “Either you serve me for eternity, or you serve him. Simply as that.”

Knowing that the choice had already been chosen for me I answered and asked, “You…. I guess. Am I going to safe?”

Smiling, the man patted me on the head again, the dust and grime from his hands coating my hair said, “Why yes boy. You will be safe.”

Reticently, I asked, “Oh really, where will I be safe?”

Smiling in a way that no human could smile, with his mouth beginning to stretch all the way to his ears, he answered, “Yeah, R'yleh”.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

"Do you remember?"

My attention is pulled away from the story I'm trying to write. "Trying" being the operative word in the sentence because really I'm just gazing at the screen day-dreaming about clouds, lollipops, and future games. Not thinking about the story at all, really. My mouth is full of the cotton fluff of day-dreams and stale air but I manage to muffle out, "Remember what?"

I shift in the wooden seat, suddenly aware that I'm uncomfortable and that my tail-bone aches. I really should stop slouching before I do some real damage. Hesitatingly my finger-tips return to the keyboard but no words leak forth on to the computer screen and the blank page I was starring through.

She leans forwards conspiratorially and whispers. "You must remember? When we hid behind the BK lounge from the grown-ups!" She giggles out loud. Her white permed hair hangs around her face like a beautiful frame. The wrinkles, like aged wine, only add to the picture but strangely she doesn't have that normal Grandma look. This time she seems a lot more childish and silly. There's a mischievous twinkle about her crow-feet covered eyes. The thin lips, dashed with a light pink lipstick, pull themselves up to a grin that reveals the tips of her teeth.

"BK lounge?" I'm not fully with the conversation yet and it's obvious. My mind is still drooling over the idea of chocolate from the day-dream because everybody knows that treats help with writers block. My nose scrunches up and eyes close briefly as I attempt to return to the present. One hand eagerly leaves the keyboard to rub my forehead, removing some of the stress easily.

"Yea. Did it all the time." She grins and doesn't prompt any further. Her hands, that look like they're constructed of greaseproof paper and stuffed with something pink, are on top of the table as she is leaning forwards like a little perch. She looks physically smaller; the knitted pink cardigan hangs on her skeletal frame like a petal ready to fall from a dying fuchsia.

I wonder if I should ask her again what she's going on about but the moment will be gone soon. I know where I am now and more importantly I know where she is. Grandma's gone back to her childhood again. She must be talking about her childhood with Aunty Rita – her sister. They did hide at the BK Lounge and they got in trouble for it. Rita was the more sensible of the two. She must think I'm Aunty Rita. That's the third time today I've been somebody else. Earlier it was her mum and then my mum and then a complete stranger. That wasn't a fun hour.

"Did we?" I reply weakly, my voice a little squeaky with the stale air. I have no idea what else to say. I can't just make it up. The doctor's instructions were to just flow with it and don't break the illusion because it's upsetting for the patient. Truth be told, I'm scared of what's happening and how far she's gone already.

Silence. It was the wrong answer. Her face changes and creases slowing like mountains and valleys being born. I can't tell if it's upset or anger. There's definitely something in that face and I can't read it. The conversation's dead, gone. The marbles have all rolled away. Back to the story.

[Kaez]

You are gone and I am lost.

Jesus.

Where do I go from here?

I tried to bury you. I thought I had. For a moment, compacting the fresh soil, I was relieved just that you were out of sight. Just so relieved not to be putting all of my thought into you, just to be granted a single moment's peace from your haunting. Your haunting. You'd left, but you wouldn't let go – or I wouldn't let go. One of us was left, white-knuckled and clenched to the lingering silhouette you left in the air. Your scent. Some fresh lavender glow, lingering there in an empty sunbeam through a blemished window. Begging you not to go.

But the silhouette fades.

It's fleeting. Gone. Left gasping, trying to breathe it in one last time. Trying to breathe you in one last time, thinking if I did, I'd never let it go. I'd never, ever let it go; I'd cling to it until everything around me collapsed and dissolved away. Because you were all that mattered.

I am not magnificent. I'm not anything I ever thought that I was. Everything that I ever liked about myself, I liked because you liked. Everything I ever loved, I loved because you loved. But you are gone. And all of your thoughts and all of your feelings are gone with you. Your laugh is gone. Your smile is gone. The faces you made. The expressions that lit up your face – peculiar, charming looks that only you ever gave. You took them all with you.

I thought I had buried you. And now everywhere I go, there you are. Not even you, but some taunting hint of you. Some glimpse, like a spark flickering above the plume of a campfire – caught in the corner of my eye, but forever eluding my grasp. Wherever I go. Everywhere. Some hollow shadow of yours, lingering in my trembling hands, dancing past the gloss in my eyes. Isn't it just like you, showing up like that? Playful and teasing. Even now, playful and teasing. You are gone and you are inescapable.

Who ever thought I would miss you like this? Who ever imagined I needed you like this?

I don't remember who I am anymore. You showed me what to feel, what to love, where to go. There were things that I thought were 'me' that left with you. I'm tattered, now. You fell away and ripped a part of me down with you. And goddamn if it doesn't seem poetic.

You had showed me grace. Living, breathing grace. Grace in action. Grace of compassion and warmth. A kind of vivid thing, bursting with life, that can never be found in photographs. It can't be breathed through the faded colors of what you left behind.

Whatever remains of you is whatever's still warm in me. What's left of you can't be anything but alive. It can't. That much I'm sure of. Whatever faintness of you is left here, dancing in my memory, singing from somewhere deep inside whenever I think of the depth of your eyes... maybe I can do some justice to. Maybe I can take up your mantle. Maybe I can embody all of that beauty that you blossomed with. Maybe, somehow, through me, you can stay here. And I can keep you here. And you didn't have to go at all. And you never left.

And maybe everything won't seem so cold and distant. And maybe I won't be so lonely. Maybe all of that could be true.

But I don't know how to make that happen. I don't know how to get rid of you, and I don't know how to bring you back. I'm alone here and I'm afraid and I'm freezing over.

And I'm lost.

And I can't help but think, you would've known what to do. You would've told me and I would have believed you and you would have been right. And if you weren't, it wouldn't have mattered. Because at least I would've had you. Because that's all that mattered.

That's the only thing that ever mattered.

[James]

Allya:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 6/7
Quality - 7/8

Total -- 21/25

A lovely story, Allya.

I intended to be very strict on Spelling & Grammar, because I only have two points to play with. And I was going to take one off for coworkers, because I’m positive it’s co-workers only. However the internet is telling me that I’m wrong. Other than that, there wasn’t a single noticeable mistake. It was easy to read, although lists were heavily present in such a small piece, which made them quite noticeable and just disrupted the flow for me.

It was a great use of topic. I expected something about loss as grief and losing a family member, but you did it in a way that made it seem fresh. I loved the use of Amazing Grace. It was one of those lines where I went ‘huh… oh… oh that’s good’.

As I said, it was a lovely story. It was a nice uplifting piece of prose to win and I think we can all relate to it (reminded me greatly of my Great Aunt) and finding that universal link between us all just completes the story. It was well-written. Although as I said a bit list-y, both explicit lists and disguised lists. But I’m just nit-picking. It was a great story to kick off this competition.

Tamwyn

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 1/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 6/8

Total -- 16/25

What is it with you and echoes in your title!

Anyway. I’m going to be honest Tam, I think you’re better than what you wrote this time. You lost a point in Spelling & Grammar. At the start you kept switching tense to the point I think you were doing it deliberately, but I couldn’t figure out why. It was serving no purpose. Also the odd mistake I picked up on as I read like “as she breaths in sharply.” It should be “breathes”.

It was a good use of topic, when you finally got to telling us what the whole thing was about. However ease of read, entertainment and quality you took a bit of a hit on for several reasons. The narrative felt clunky. It’s important to be descriptive but I felt that you were overly descriptive. I was trying to digest all the words you were using to describe this woman’s pain that I wasn’t thinking about the actual pain. You didn’t achieve that emotional connection. Which wasn’t helped that for the first half of the story I had no idea why this woman was even on the floor.

Silver:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 6/7
Quality - 6/8

Total -- 19/25

Nice work, Silver. And you’re in luck, I’m not going to dock you any points for just being over the word limit.

Spelling & Grammar was nearly perfect, except for my confusion at why Brekken was picking up an inhabitant of Scotland during the Dark Ages instead of a picture. It was easy to read although I got sick and tired of hearing about how dirty everything was. The reader would have got the picture after the fifth variation of grubby/mud-caked/etc. But you kept on going!

It was an entertaining read though. I enjoyed the story and it felt like you had a proper world fleshed out.

Drall:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 2/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 5/8

Total -- 16/25

Right. Technically speaking that was a very strong piece. I didn’t notice any mistakes and it was really ease to read. Good work there. However, this is exactly what I expected when I gave this topic. And besides the unusual perspective, I don’t think you gave it enough of a twist. It just felt plain.

And that means you took a hit on entertainment. I just didn’t relate to the piece enough and you didn’t make me scared. This was a horror piece and emotionally it went nowhere. For such a piece it at least had to make me uncomfortable or scared, but it didn’t. It just fell a little flat.

Injin:

Spelling & Grammar – 1/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 3/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 3/8

Total -- 13/25

I know this isn’t a great score, Injin. But I want you to take heart because your writing is improving. By and large the spelling and grammar was pretty good; you’re definitely getting better. There were a few clumsily crafted sentences like “The people who streamed out seemed to be unaware of their surroundings, as acted seemingly on instinct.”.

You had two main problems in your piece though, Injin. Firstly, you didn’t give an insight into your character’s mind. You told us what happened. You didn’t tell us how he felt. So it went: I ran here, and I looked what happen, and people did this, and then I went here. As opposed more to: I ran here, and I was scared, and I saw what was happening and I found it unusual and I started to panic when the people started doing this, so I went there.

Secondly was that you got repetitive in your narrative. Something that Pete always used to pull me on was my sentence structure was always the same. Character A went to the kitchen as the wind whistled through the air. Character B threw the sword as he dodged the bullet. Your repetition is more on use of words (strangely, oddly) and your structure of describing what happens and then going “And by that I mean,”.

But take heart, mate. That’s a vast improvement on the last thing I’ve seen you written.

Reffy:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 6/7
Quality - 6/8

Total -- 20/25

Just very quickly, I want to mention this. And I don’t usually like to link people’s entries together but the juxtaposition between yours piece and Allya’s was really awesome to note as a reader. Allya had that elderly relative with a serious edge to her and yet it ended so brightly. Yours had the relative seem so innocent and childlike and it ended so tragically. So well done on both of you completely by accident working together as a team. Neither of you shall receive points for it. Ha.

…

Anyway. It was a great, sweet but also sad little story. On the grammar wise, there were a few mistakes. It’s writer’s block, it belongs to the writer; not writers block. Also:

“Her hands, that look like they're constructed of greaseproof paper and stuffed with something pink,”

I don’t think the first comma should be there. However it was really easy to read and it was a nice use of topic. I felt that the concept of ‘lost’ was working on so many different levels, which is something I wanted to see. It was a pleasant read. I know the feeling of staring at the screen but not thinking one jot about what you’re writing. And it was a sad, touching ending.

Well done to the Reffy!

Pete:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 6/7
Quality - 7/8

Total -- 22/25

I don’t know if you’re benefiting by the fact that I haven’t read much of your writing for a long, long time. I don’t think you are. I think this was just an excellent piece in its own right. There might have been one misplaced comma in that piece. But I didn’t notice it until I started looking for it and I’m not sure if it’s even wrong, so as with Allya I’m giving you full marks there.

Now I think we should take a look at that Ease of Read score. I’ve given you full marks for Ease of Read. I’m not sure that’s ever happened before. However I never stumbled over a clumsy sentence or a strange choice of word and indeed by about halfway through the narrative was absolutely flowing.

I have one little complaint. That you felt the need to batter me over the head twice with the fact that the character was ‘lost’. While it gave the piece a symmetry to it that did work, it felt like you were just making sure that I knew you were using the topic. And you were. Like Reffy it was working on different levels that meant that you could have got away with not mentioning the word ‘lost’ once.

So great work, Pete.

Round One Scorecard

[/size]
1st Kaez – 22 Points
2nd Allya – 21 Points
3rd Reffy – 20 Points
4th Silver – 19 Points
5th Tamywn – 16 Points
5th Drall – 16 Points
7th Injin – 13 Points

Round One Winner is Kaez![/size]
[/center]

[James]

Round Two
Topic: FAN FICTION
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 12th December

[Injin]

As the light of a new dawn rolled into Hogwarts, Harry and Ron began their morning stroll. Why is Hermione not here? Fuck you, that’s why.

Suddenly, the pair stops. Harry speak first, “Ron, I am feeling real weird all of a sudden. As If I was…. Out of character”. Harry grumbled and looked towards the sky, feeling the weight of the world suddenly lift off of his shoulders, “Ron! I don’t feel any connection to Voldemort anymore! Maybe some wizard got a pot shot off of him or something!”. Excitedly, he began to jump up and down in glee as Ron continue to stare at him awkwardly. “Umm… Harry… Something feel’s off to me”, Ron said as a weight suddenly arrived on his shoulders, “I can feel somebody. I think it might be Voldemort. Harry! I’m scared! Hold me!”.

Harry, taken aback by Ron’s suddenly obvious girlishness, stood awkwardly as Ron crushed him with a bear hug, causing much strain on Harry’s back. “Ron, get the fuck off me”, he began, punching Ron in the face. Harry was suddenly feeling… jealous, “Ron, that’s impossible. You can’t possibly be feeling Voldemort. I’m the one he’s after, I’m the one whose parents were murdered, I AM THE ONE WHO IS GOING TO END THAT NOSELESS BASTARD!”. Harry trembled as he pushed Ron to the floor, “GIVE ME BACK WHAT IS SPECIAL YOU BASTARD! GIVE ME BACK THAT WEIGHT OF DUTY!”

Ron began to cry hysterically, as suddenly the weight disappeared and Harry began to beat Ron to death. After a minute or two, Harry realized the weight was back. Awkwardly, he got up and lifted Ron with him. “I don’t know what came over me Ron. I’m so sorry. It must have been some kind of curse, I swear I will never harm you in any way ever again”. Ron only smiled, some of his teeth were missing and he was bleeding a lot, “Iz alright ‘arry, was’t yr fault” he attempted, hurting. Ron felt a great void where the weight had been, but at least he had his friend back. As soon as Harry dropped of Ron at the infirmary, he looked around to see what had caused the problem in the first place. He asked Hermione, but she couldn’t think of any curse that could do that. He asked every professor, but none of them knew what could possibly cause what had happened.

It was then that Harry remembered his comment from earlier. Something about….. Out of characterness? He went back to where the event happened, finding some of Ron’s teeth nearby. Looking around to see if any other student was watching him, he grabbed the teeth and put them in his pocket, in case that the nurse could mend them back into Ron’s ginger head. Begrudgingly, he decided to head back to the nurse, because he at least owed Ron that much. However, before he could even walk for more then a meter, a giant portal opened up. Suddenly forgetting his friends’ suffering, he looked at the portal in awe, since most wizarding portals didn‘t shimmer. He cautiously put his wand in and pulled it out, seeing no damage to the wand.

Thinking perhaps that the reason for his sudden change of character lay beyond the portal, he jumped in. Of course, not knowing how to jump very well, he fell face first onto the concrete that existed on the other side. As soon as he arrived, he began to have trouble breathing. He began to cough hysterically, as a mechanized man jump him and pinned him to the ground. A gravely voice began, “Kid, I don’t know how you got here, but this place is too dangerous for such an unprotected boy like you.”

Harry scoffed, not understanding why the man could possibly think him unarmed, “I don’t know who you are sir, but I’m Harry Potter and I am absolutely sure that nothing here can harm me”. The sharply dressed man laughed hysterically and pointed at the young man, “You? Harry Potter? HA! I haven’t heard such hilarious bullshit since I was at the police academy. Hello “Mr. Potter” my name is Jensen, Adam Jensen. Am I really talking to a book character from over a decade ago? Ha! I doubt it”. The large protagonist lifted Mr. Potter in the air, to the wizard’s protest, “ I AM Harry Potter you video gaming idiot! What do you mean I’m a literary figure? I assure you I am real!”

Now it was Adam’s turn to protest, “Video Game Character? What is that bullshit about. Tell me now pipsqueak, and you better make it snappy”. Adam began to look at Harry in disbelief, not even registering the fact that the wizard was just staring at him indignantly, “Wait…” Adam thought, the ideas burning through his brain, “I am real…. Right? If I’m not, then why should I save anyone. At all. Even myself. If I die, and I’m really a video game character, then does that mean that I could have died several times by now and just didn’t remember it? No… that would mean my whole life was a lie. I can’t believe that. This punk’s gotta die!”

Before Harry could answer, as Harry was struggling with his own misgivings about the news, Adam slammed him into the ground and got his arm blade out. “Mr. Potter,” he began readying to murder the Boy Who Lived, “Any last words before I make it so you are an ink blot on the wall?”. Shocked at this revelation, Harry rushed to find the right words. With his normally quick thinking completely spattered on the floor next to him, he just screamed a spell that seemed appropriate, “CONFUNDO!”. This caused Adam to hit the wall behind him, as well as cause him to begin to spatter gibberish. Something about his parents never loving him.

Dusting himself off, Mr. Potter noted that another portal had opened up. He gulped as he worriedly headed towards it, hoping that perhaps the end of his quest here was going to happen soon. He jumped through the portal, and felt his stomach turn inside out as he landed on the other side, hitting a bench on the way down. He his stomach reset itself after a particularly nasty journey, he noticed he was at the door to a rather nice house. He turned around and began to take in his surroundings, feeling happy that he was no longer in a smoggy hell-city with violent machine men. Instead he was in a nice suburb. The weird past was that despite the fact it was cold, there was no snow, and there were no children outside frolicking. Nervous about what to do next, he did the only sane thing he could think and knocked on the door.

As soon as he did that, he heard loud barking, as well as a distant voice yelling, “Quiet doggies, I’ll be down in a sec!”. After Harry worriedly looked around for machine-men, the door opened and Harry breath a sigh of relief. On the other hand, the man on the other side was less then pleased to see him. The person inside the house sighed and spoke, “You have got to be kidding me. You’re Harry Potter right?”. Harry shivered as he remembered the last time he introduced himself to a stranger, “Y-yes. I am Harry Potter. And you are…..?”

The man at the door sighed, “That doesn’t matter right now, come on in. You hungry? Need anything? Perhaps you want to know why you beat the shit out of Ron an hour or so ago. Do you?” Harry’s eyes widened as he entered the house and heard the words from the mouth of his “host”. “YOU DID THIS TO ME AND RON!?”, Mr. Potter screamed, his anger flooding off of him like steam from a boiling kettle, “WHY THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU DO THAT?!”. Sighing, the author of his woes replied, “Because it seemed funny to write about, Mr. Potter. But you knew that didn’t you?”. Harry raised one eyebrow questioningly and struggled to come to an answer, “Well… no. I… well. Maybe…. Impossible…I….NO. It was not funny you ass, you made me beat up my own best friend and possible future brother-in-law!”.

Laughing, the author smirked, “Well, at least I didn’t make it a slash fic. Now you should really be giving Ron his teeth back, Tally Ho!” and suddenly Harry was sucked through the portal and landed in the Hogwarts infirmary. He brushed himself off and groggily rose, still getting used to the odd variation of portal travel that was being used. “ ‘arry! Did y’ find m’ teef?”, Ron spoke, hoping that they hadn’t been stolen by the Tooth Goblin. Harry pulled the teeth out and gave them to the nursing wizard, “Yeah Ron. I got them….. And you’ll never believe the journey that I just went through to get these back to you….”

[Allya]

The Thing: After the Ashes

Kate closed her eyes and listened hard, trying to make out the words spoken on the other side of the padded door. She could only hear snippets as she struggled against the restraints, trying to inch even a sliver closer. “…obviously delusional…sedation necessary…no improvement” Resigned, she slumped back into the bed. It had been more than a month since her rescue and Kate had spent every day trapped in this room.

The lock mechanism clicked and bluish fluorescent light spilled in from the hall broken only by the shadow of Dr. Hanaan. He paused and flipped through the pages on his clipboard before quietly shutting the door. Kate eyed his movements as he dragged a chair from the corner of the room and placed it close to her bedside. The doctor sat down and watched her patiently.

“Show me your teeth,” Kate croaked; her voice hoarse and dry.

“Ms. Lloyd,” the doctor sighed. Everyday it was the same with her. She insisted that some “thing” had assumed the shape of every person in her Antarctic research team by eating and then becoming them. She was convinced it had followed her back to the states.

“Show – me – your – teeth, “she hissed again. The thing couldn’t mimic inorganic material. She had told them all of this already but they hadn’t listened.

“Ms. Lloyd, I’d like for you to tell me about the incident in Antarctica. What can you tell me about Carter?”

Kate looked away and studied the wall. “Carter is dead. They’re all dead. We’re all dead. You can’t kill it.” Her tears followed well-worn streams as they flowed from her vacant and distant eyes.

Dr. Hanaan stood up and leaned over her. He opened his mouth wide so she could see to his back molars. “Metal fillings, see? Nothing to fear.” She turned back to him, arched her back to sit up and studied his mouth closely before nodding acceptance. The doctor settled back into the chair beside her.

“You say Carter is dead but how did he die, Ms. Lloyd?”

“I know what you want me to say; I won’t say it. The thing I burned was not Carter. The thing I burned, It killed and then became Carter. It ate him. It ate all of them.” She pressed her fingernails into the palms of her hands and closed her eyes.

“And Dr. Sander? What happened to him, hmm?” He tapped his pen on the metal clip as he watched Kate and waited for an answer.

“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds,” she muttered. “A single cell, a single cell, not safe, not safe, nowhere is safe.” Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

“Ms. Lloyd?” Dr. Hanaan placed his hand on her shoulder. “Ms. Lloyd, I want to help you but you have to face what you’ve done. All those people,” he shook his head, exasperated.

Her eyes flashed angrily at him as she bit her lip to contain her rage. “You don’t understand yet, but you will,’ she said quietly, “it could be anyone and you wouldn’t know. How could you?”

This wasn’t getting him anywhere. The doctor decided to take a different tack. “Ms. Lloyd, we will soon get to the bottom of this with or without your help. A forensic team is at this very moment studying the evidence flown in from the Norwegian outpost. We will reconstruct what happened and when we do, you will be prosecuted. Don’t you want to make this easier on everyone?”

“A forensic team? You brought it back!?” She swayed silently, retreating into her own mind.

Dr. Hannan watched her for a few moments but saw that he would not be successful today. He stood up and dragged the chair back to the corner. “I’ll see you tomorrow Ms. Lloyd. Think about what I’ve said.” He rapped on the small square window on the door and an orderly outside clicked the lock and let him out. As the door was closing she could hear Dr. Hanaan address someone in the hall.

“Ah Sergeant Moore, thank you for coming. We can talk in my office.” The door clicked shut once more and Kate was left alone in the room.

**********************************************

It didn’t take long for the screams to start. First the lights flickered and went out. Then the emergency lights kicked on and Kate could hear the rush of feet on the floor followed by the screams of patients, doctors, and orderlies. She struggled against the restraints, trying desperately to loosen just one of her hands, but it was no use. Her breath grew jagged, her wrists turned red and raw, but the straps held. She lay there, listening intently and waiting for the end. It could have been only minutes but it felt like hours. The screams echoed through the halls and drummed at the numb fear in her mind.

When the door swung open a wild-eyed Dr. Hanaan hurried through the opening and quickly shut the door. He was no longer the calm and composed man who had visited Kate each of the past thirty-two days. His face flecked with blood, he swept a trembling hand across his brow and left a smear of blood trailing from ear to ear. “He, he...” Dr. Hanaan bent over and tried to calm himself by taking big deep breaths.

“I know,” Kate said as she raised her wrists to him, “now let me out of these.” With fumbling hands he untied the restraints and helped Kate to her feet.

“How, how?” The good doctor couldn’t seem to form full sentences.

“With fire, Doc. What do you have in the way of fuel here?”

“Kitchen?,” he asked and she nodded approval.

“It’s as good a place as any to start.” She started walking towards the door and she felt Dr. Hanaan turn to follow her. Gripping the handle, Kate turned back to face him. “But before we go, just one more thing: Show me your teeth.”

[Jenny (Reffy)]

"Archchancellor? Archchancellor!"

The wooden door to the office slammed open. The piles of letters and permissions waiting to be signed shifted slightly in the breeze from where they sat in the waste-paper bin. The Archchancellor didn't believe in paperwork. The door smacked against the wall causing several objects to wobble including a nice crossbow and the stuffed carcasses of hunted beasts. In the door way stood a sweating Dean who'd obviously been running. That meant that something had either blown up or blown up and killed somebody.

The Archchancellor looked up nonchalantly. "What have I told you about that door?" Proving the point Ridcully put the crossbow he'd been cleaning onto the desk, where the string suddenly pinged and sent an arrow into the door-frame. "One day I won't be able to hold my trigger-finger. Speak, Dean, I am bored already."

"The students," he paused to breathe, placing one hand on his round-sum belly. Was it nearly dinner time, the Dean wondered?

"Yes, yes. The students. What about them?" The Archchancellor waved his hand in an attempt to speed up the recorded message that the Dean carried in his tiny brain.

"They've invented … something!"

It was always a shock when anything got done at the Unseen University. Very often the Archchancellor didn't even remember that this was supposed to be a university, and usually all of the professors were too busy eating to teach. In fact, it was downright strange when anything did happen that went right. This was one of those occasions.

"Well? What is it?" He sat up in his chair. Previously he'd been leaning back far enough to have the front two feet of the chair off the floor. Polishing his favourite crossbow happened to be his most beloved past-time and it took him all afternoon most days.

"Well, I, uh, think you'd best see it." The Dean finally managed to spit it out and gain his breath. He even had the decency to wipe away the sweat that had laced his beard with the sleeve of his robe.

The Archchancellor knew that being asked to view anything was usually bad. It meant actually doing something as well. He was out of his chair faster than his age belied, white beard whipping in the wind created by the sudden movement.

"It's in the kitchens!" The Dean spun on his feet as best as a hippo could while wallowing in mud and with all the grace of a blind man going around an obstacle course. The Archchancellor led while the Dean scurried along behind him as best he could. It was hard to match Ridcully's stride, which dwarfed most of the people's in Ankh-Morpork including the Patrician's.


Ponder Stibbons closed the door on the new contraption. He had gathered quite a crowd in the kitchens. The maids and other hands had been posted outside of the room so he could show off the new invention. "Watch. It really is quite incredible!"

The invention sat still until he turned a small dial next to the door. It was a small metal box with a little viewing window. When Stibbons turned the dial the box started to emit a whirling sound and a light sparked on from inside it. Those standing too close took an involuntary step backwards. The step backwards was not formally taught at the University, but quickly learnt at one's own expense.

"You see. The thaums in there are charged and by shifting the octarine attraction spectrum quickly, thus exciting the thaums, with thaumatic and friction heating, you can create …" He waited and the new invention happily complied with a delightful ping. "Hot food!"

The door to the new invention was yanked open. Carefully and with gloved hands he reached in and extracted the bowl filled with the morning's porridge. "See? It's hot. Edible." The bowl had gone in cold. Ponder blew on the steaming hot porridge, unaware of the new audience that had stayed towards the back. It was only when the booming voice cut through the other wizards questions that he realised he was in trouble.

"Ponder Stibbons. And what shall you call this new thing?" The Archchancellor stepped forwards.

"I, uh, was thinking Thaumbox? Or, um, Pingmachine. Maybe Heaterup." Stibbons shifted in front of the group of other wizards, who were currently trying to escape quietly and unnoticed. Things like this didn't happen in the Unseen University and if it did you'd best be somewhere else at the time. Talking of time, wasn't it time for dinner yet? Several remarked as they all filtered away.

"And here I was thinking, Stibbons, that wizards don't belong in kitchens. Can you believe that? We have maids and staff waiting on our hand and foot but you figured you could help them, yes?" The Archchancellor moved to the box and gave it an experimental tap. "This Pingmachine. Magic stuff, right?"

"Uh, yes, Archchancellor. Do you like it?" He voice became weedy and thin. The Ponder Stibbons that stood before them slowly tried to shrivel up and disappear.

"Wizards, Stibbons, do not go in kitchens. What did you do with the staff? Have you frightened them away?" He spoke slowly, his every tone condescending, as it bore through the junior wizards robes and confidence.

"Sorry, Archchancellor. I'll just-"

"You'll just get rid of this confounded new box of junk and go back to whatever it is you were doing before. That thing you do where nothing gets invented or done. Yes?"

"Yes. Sorry." Ponder Stibbons swept up the box in his arms and made headway for the exit.

"And do let the staff know it's okay to return. We can't have wizards inventing things of their own accord at the University."

[athelstan]

She writes of wolves. She lives amidst sheep.

Homicidal rage is not befitting of a teacher at Lakeview Junior High School. Therefore, when a girl who stinks of cheap perfume gives a rude reply to a question, Amy – not Amy but Rejenna the Winter-Eyed – chooses not to grab her by the throat and begin slamming her head against a wall until the tofu-soft brains are smeared about like a Jackson Pollock painting. “Detention,” Amy says instead, with that nasal simper that John so hated. Maddie Mueller rolls her eyes and begins whispering to her effeminate male friend about the latest episode of Jersey Shore.

When night falls, Amy is alone in her little house in the woods. She eats bacon and ice cream and knows that coming out of a bad relationship was all about taking it one step at a time. When she isn’t playing with her cat or writing inspirational Post-it notes to herself, however, she is at her computer – she changed beneath the Crescent Moon – with her pack. She’d picked up Werewolf: The Forsaken about a year back. She has become the scribe for their adventures and for developing the stories behind their characters. She has written more than two hundred thousand words. Nobody in her “normal life” knows of it. The Herd must not know.

She is called to a meeting by Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Mueller. Mr. is a lard-gutted owner of a liquor store with bored-looking eyes and Mrs. is a hairdresser who wears skinny jeans as though she were not a bleached-blond forty-three year old. They accuse Amy of being prejudiced against their whorish thirteen year-old. They claim that Maddie has self-esteem issues from having been bullied when she was younger. Amy wonders idly throughout the whole meeting if they have Spirits of Pride haunting their house, before she remembers that there is no Spirit World patrolled by werewolves – the Hisil where the trees still speak in tongues of wind-struck leaves – The parent teacher conference ends with handshakes and agreements to move forward. Amy thinks of lapping up puddles of their blood.

The year passes into December’s gray. Maddie begins smoking weed, and her LOVE PINK clothing becomes progressively scantier, despite the coming of the snows. When Maddie fails, for the third day running, to pass in an essay, Amy says, “Detention.” Maddie retorts, “No,” and gives a challenging stare. Amy mentions it to the Vice-Principal, who promises swift action – swift like coursing through the thicket, scents of blood upon the breeze – but the attempts at reform come to naught. Maddie cycles through her various thuggish boyfriends.

When Amy comes home, she finds that her ex has left her flowers and a note begging her to take him back. It is not as bad as the drunken phone calls he was leaving on her cell. She burns the note, but the flowers are lavender, so she puts them on her kitchen counter. When she tells her pack – her kindred, guardians of the Gauntlet, chosen of Luna, the Uratha – they advise her to get her feelings out through writing. So Rejenna the Winter-Eyed hunts down the human lover who cheated upon her, tears out his heart and throws it in a fire. Amy finds herself growing agitated as she writes it, until by the end her hands are shaking. She leaves the house and runs sixteen miles. For the first time in two months, she goes to bed with neither insomnia to keep her waking nor nightmares to trouble her – she hunts upon the fields of swaying dreams.

When Maddie Mueller attempts to hold her boyfriend’s hand in class the day before winter break, Amy breaks them apart. As soon as Amy turns back to teaching the lesson, Maddie has jumped across the table and is making out with him, despite his surprise. Amy shouts at her until she’s hoarse, dragging Maddie by the shoulder to the office while the girl yells and makes a scene. When Amy’s parents are called to have a meeting with Amy after school yet again, Amy drives away, knowing that she’ll face a long and ugly lecture from her boss tomorrow. She can barely keep herself from beating her hands against the sides of her head and screaming with frustration – the Herd must not know. The Herd must not know.

When she arrives home, John is there, with all of his excuses. He is drunk again, and he is alternately begging her for clemency or else shouting about how hard life has been to him. He claims that he is nothing without her, and that he needs her. Then he asks her in his armor-piercing way about how her “friends online” are treating her. Amy feels herself growing angry and she tells him such with a few choice expletives. He ignores her and begins rambling senselessly about how they were going to have children. He stands up. She bolts to her feet. He lumbers towards her and roars, “What about our goddamn children Amy!” She yells at him, “Go away John!” Then he grabs at her breasts and his hands are hard and his breath is foul and she is not afraid anymore but she fills her lungs and lets out the fullness of her howl. And she is strong at last she is strong at last BEHOLD THE RISEN MOON.

The local silversmith is bewildered by the arson committed at his shop that night. They found no fingerprints. In the ashes, they discover what seem to be the charred remnants of a human heart. That same night, the Muellers are out at a restaurant, and return to find their home in ruins. Maddie’s clothing has been torn to shreds, and all the windows have been smashed. In the center of the living room, their family albums have been ritually destroyed with a stake. A few embers still glow on the ground, and the room smells of incense and blood.

And in the Hisil the woods sing and the hills proclaim and every trickle of a brook is a sermon to praise Rejenna as she howls her triumph.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Not even the torrential rain could douse the violent flames. It could not quench the scent of cooking meat. It could not drown out the screams of the accused. The woman thrashed and moaned in her bonds. Her back arched and her cracked face held a grin of ecstasy. The crowd looked on with morbid fascination. The witch hunters watched with grim distaste, hands still gripping their pistols.

The town’s priest was only one of two who did not watch. The shadowed eyes of the elderly man looked down upon the sobbing form clinging into his robes. The boy was no older than seven. The child didn’t even know what was happening. He only knew that his mother was burning. The men in black coats and dark hats had killed her and had set her to burn on the pyre. Father Berthold sighed softly, ushering the child away as the screams of the woman died with her.

The witch hunters had not told the child why his mother burned. They did not tell him they had found trinkets of the Dark Prince within her home. They had not told the boy that she had confessed. They had not told of her damning words to Sigmar, or spoke of sacrificing her child to the God of Pleasure. The look the dour men had given Berthold suggested he should not tell Kristoff either.

And so it went, another family split by Chaos. Another child left without mother or father. Another body consigned to the flames and the darkness that followed the damned. Father Berthold took one last, long look upon this grim world they lived in. A world filled with suspicion and blood, of cleansing fire and haunted shadows. A part of him, a small part, thought bitterly that it would have been a mercy to let the boy die. Ignoring that dark thought, Berthold ushered Kristoff into the town chapel. The large oaken doors closed behind them, shutting out the scene of death.

~~

Kristoff dutifully followed behind Father Berthold, his steps awkward as the gangly teen struggled to carry the thick prayer book. Berthold just watched with amusement, the smile crinkling his face and showing the wrinkles of a lifetime of dutiful service. It had been five years since Berthold had been able to carry the book with him, and it seemed Kristoff still hadn’t built the strength to lift it easily. “Don’t worry my boy, one day you’ll be strong enough to bear that tome as easily as a hammer!”

Kristoff grunted as the teen finally made it to the podium to dump the heavy book on the wooden lectern. He sagged against the wooden stand, puffing and sweating, his face a deep red. “Y-Yes Father… Father Berthold,” he managed between wheezing breaths. Shaking arms lifted the still gasping teenager back up, “Now… Now I’ll go get the ceremonial hammer.” He murmured with a low groan, knowing it was twice as heavy as the book.

Berthold waved him back, “No, no. No need for it today.” The old priest hobbled toward the lectern, his cane making a rhythmic clack against the wooden boards. As soon as the ancient fingers gripped the worn maple, a new vitality seemed to surge within Berthold. The weight of years lifted from his shoulders. New strength filled ancient limbs. The passionate fires of his faith burned within wizened eyes.

The strengthened priest looked to his acolyte and smiled, giving an imperceptible nod of his head. Kristoff hurried over to the large doors of the chapel, throwing them wide open to allow the congregation to enter. Kristoff smiled and greeted everyone who entered, giving each a very small benediction. The townsfolk gathered and either sat or stood as they listened to the fervent prayers of Berthold.

Only Kristoff remained untouched by the words.

~~

The hunched figure hurriedly left the village. Eyes darting around nervously. The alarm bells could sound at any moment. The militia could rouse and be upon him.

A shadowy form peeled itself out of the darkness. A cloak of brilliant crimson swirled behind it, shining like fresh blood in the moonlight. The sudden appearance cause the small man to halt in his tracks, he suddenly felt as if a predator had its eyes upon him. Swallowing his fear, the man moved closer until the moon lit up his shadowed face.

Kristoff regarded the tall creature before him. “Y-You have the… the book?”

The taller man gave a small nod, reaching behind his back. His hand reappeared it grasped a thick book bound in leather. Kristoff hurriedly took the proffered tome, holding it easily in hand. A soft sound drew his face up toward that of the tall man, even though the light fell directly on his contact, the form was indistinct. Only its crimson cloak was solid, the rest of its body blurred as if seen from far away.

“Do not forget my terms, little priest.” The voice flowed musically, soft and gentle as silk, “You will have your revenge and in return you will serve me faithfully.”

Kristoff nodded, “Of course, of course.” He looked back to the book. He quickly stumbled off, the tall man vanishing once more into the darkness of the woods.

~~

Kristoff spent the better part of four days within his cell, studying the book extensively. He repeatedly claimed an illness had overcome him to deflect Berthold’s worry. Each time the old priest listened, only hearing the plaintive murmuring of the boy. Berthold left well enough alone, believing the boy had fully found his faith. That the whispered words he heard were beseeching Sigmar to alleviate Kristoff of his ills.

Berthold was partially right. Spending his nights wide awake and much of the time in the cemetery, Kristoff had begun the work to cure his ills. He had begun to burn incense, masking the stench of the servants he already had. These were two horrors in the rusting armor of imperial soldiers, one a skeleton and the other with rotted flesh clinging to yellow bones. He had already been told that witch hunters had been summoned to address the issue of the grave robbers.

Kristoff journeyed out two more nights, awakening twelve more servants before returning them to their graves. Kristoff’s little surprise for the hunters.

On the third day they arrived, dour figures in dark cloaks and hats that carried with them an aura of fear. Berthold and Kristoff walked with them, the latter playing the part of the devout and dutiful acolyte. All the while simmering hatred was ready to burst free, barely contained within him. They walked through the graves, the hunters finding telltale signs of necromancy, cleverly laid reagents to keep the hunters interested. Licking suddenly dry lips, Kristoff dropped back from the group. Taking in a deep breath, words of corruption poured from his lips. Blasphemous spells. Father Berthold and the two hunters whirled around in surprise. From the ground bony talons punched upward. Rotting cadavers and skeletal horrors dragged themselves from their graves, hissing and groaning.

The two hunters drew their swords and pistols. The venerable Father hidden between them as they tried to slay the undead. Kristoff just laughed. Crooking his fingers and uttering glottal sounds, more of the corpses pulled themselves from the dirt. He raised his arms skywards, his crimson and brown robes swirled around him, “This is my revenge, one that has been in the waiting for ten years! Where is your pathetic Man-God now?! Where is the lie you preach as truth?!” He continued to mock the fear-filled men up to the point where two blades of shadow severed his hands at the wrist.

Jets of blood rained onto him. Kristoff stared upward in wonder at the loss of his hands. He was sure they should still be there.

“I find the problem with many necromancers is their god-complex,” the voice was tight, rough. Kristoff turned to look upon a man garbed in thick robes of deep purple. An intricate scythe was clutched in one bone white hand, the Amethyst wizard’s other hand was out flung. Another blade of shadow speared Kristoff through the chest. The blade of magic ended the short-lived power of the necromancer.

~~

That night, as the corpse was being prepared for cremation, it was visited upon by a figure that peeled itself out from the shadows. Here, alone in the small church, did the form become complete. The tall figure in armor as black as night strode to the corpse, long fangs sunk into his tongue. Blood was smeared across the mouth of the vampire count as it bent down; Franz von Carstein pressed his bloody lips to those of Kristoff.

It only took a moment for the corpse’s eyes to spring open and glance around in fear. “Your service is not at an end, child of mine,” Franz hissed in a deathly voice. The shadows swallowed them both.