The December Challenge

[Allya]

Casting on Carnival Island

I never liked Regina even though both Sadie and I could be considered her friends. She was a bully and she tormented everyone in our fourth grade class. After witnessing a few black-eyes, bruised arms, and hair-pulls, both Sadie and I made the calculated move of becoming Regina’s friend. A year older than us, Regina had been held back and was now repeating the fourth grade. She was consequently bigger than all of us and boy did she throw that weight around. Wherever our group of three went was “our spot.” Whatever Regina wanted, she got.

At least that’s how it went at school and among the kids. At home it was a different story. We never went into Regina’s house but we could hear the yelling from the porch. I didn’t ask Regina what her parents were arguing about and she never said. But every time we swung by to get her on our way to school she would come scrambling out the door, running as though she were escaping from prison. By the time we got to the bus stop we’d all be breathless from the running. As we dipped our heads and caught our breath Regina would stand up straight and scan the road, unconsciously touching each fingertip on her right hand to her right thumb over and over again.

Now that I’m older, I often wonder about nature versus nurture. Was Regina cruel because she was born that way? Or was she a product of her environment? Of course, as kids we didn’t think about such things. We just went along to get along. Which is why one Saturday morning when Regina suggested we all go camping, I said yes without hesitation. When Sadie and I later found out what exactly she had planned…well it was far too late to back out. Besides, only babies believe in ghost stories and we were ten going on eleven. We knew better.

Growing up in Harper’s Ferry we were always surrounded by ghosts. Everyone in the little town made their money off the Ferry’s storied past and our parents were no different. Regina’s parents ran the local ‘historic’ book store which was mainly a collection of books about the history of the town mixed with some older maps and stories. However there was one whole section dedicated to ghost stories, witchcraft, and all things ‘occult.’ It was from this aisle that Regina had smuggled a very ominous looking book with a strange language on the front and a rusted metal clasp on the side to keep it closed.

We were going to be witches she said. All we had to do was follow the book. She also said that the number three was important. There were three of us so that was one three. She was bringing all the ‘ingredients’ in threes so there was another. But Regina said the spell would need to be very strong to work so we would need at least one more set of three. I don’t where she got the idea but when she swung by my house to get me, Regina was all smiles. “I’ve got the final three,” she said, “The rivers. We’re camping on Carnival Island.”

Carnival Island is a small bit of land that sits in the middle of the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers. The two rivers mix right in the middle before forming one string river flowing south. Way back before even our parent’s parents had been born the people of the Ferry held their carnivals on the island, hence the name. Until one year a flash flood had wiped out everything on the island. The merry-go-round, the carnival games and barkers, every tent, every person had been washed away leaving only the mud and grass to emerge from the steel-blue waters the next day. Since then, the island lay bare. It was a stop for kayakers and looky-loos in the summer but no one stayed on the island.

We went to Sadie’s house to pick her up and while we sipped lemonade on the porch we heard her tell the same story to her mother that I had told to mine. We’re staying at Regina’s house and camping in the backyard. We knew our mother’s wouldn’t check with Regina’s parents. Everyone avoided them if they could. As we trekked down the hill towards the rivers with camping gear in tow, Regina turned around and took one last look at Sadie’s house. I could see the longing in her eyes. No one’s life is perfect but it was evident that Sadie’s life of lemonade and forehead-kisses was far more preferable to Regina than nightly screaming matches.

We waited until dusk to slip the canoe into the water and paddle our way to the island. The waters were low but still a little choppy; nothing three fourth graders couldn’t handle! We made quick work of the trip and soon beached the canoe on Carnival Island’s western shore. We hauled the camping gear to the middle of the island and set up our tent in a small outcropping of weed trees that had sprung up over the summer. “So they don’t see the fire,” Regina had said and we both had nodded our agreement.

This was Regina’s show so when she said we had to wait until midnight to perform the ritual we quickly agreed. We spent the next few hours eating and playing cards, laughing and telling stories, occasionally glancing at the Casio watch that Sadie had brought. At about eleven-thirty our laughter grew quiet and the games ended. It was time to begin.

“Mom tells me that there are places in the world where the veil is thinner,” Regina said, “places where ghosts and goblins can slip through.” She stood up and started to pull out her ‘magic supplies.’

“You’re mother shouldn’t say things like that. My Mom says the ghost stories are just for tourists,” Sadie said. She received a steely glare form Regina in response. I decided to stay mute and help unpack.

“She says that it’s easy to spot these places if you know how to look because you’ll see threes every where you look. It’s like nature is posting a big neon sign.” Regina looked at both of us with a challenging stare, daring us to dispute this. When we didn’t she started to draw a circle on the ground.

Holding the book in one hand she began drawing a copy of the pattern pictured inside. “Grab the candles and place them in the triangles that I draw,” she said. We did as we were told. We watched as she moved this way and that making distinct markings in the dirt and muttering to herself. When she finished the drawing she lit the candles and told us to turn off the flashlights. The tent soon filled with a warm orange glow.

The rain started spattering against the tent as we sat around the circle and joined hands. Regina looked at both of us and in a very calm, detached voice told us to repeat after her. She glanced down at the book and began repeating words that neither Sadie nor I knew the meaning of. We repeated as best we could but we both wondered what exactly was supposed to happen. Regina hadn’t said.

As we repeated the words over and over the rain outside grew louder and rivers began to roar around the island. The wind beat against and whipped the weed trees until they bent in submission. Still, we repeated the words. Neither Sadie nor I wanted to be the first to break the spell and suffer the wrath of Regina. Regina’s face had grown strong and resolute. She repeated the words as her grip on our hands grew tighter. Our voices grew hoarse from shouting over the rivers, wind, and rain. I felt my own voice become a whisper and heard Regina’s booming over the din.

I was so dizzy with concentration and fear that at first I didn’t notice the water seeping into the tent. It was Sadie’s scream that broke me out of my fog. But Regina’s grip became tighter and she pulled us to our feet. Soon the noise became so loud that I couldn’t even hear Regina’s voice but in the flickering candle-light I could see her mouth form the final series for the ninth time. As her mouth closed a rush of water pushed through the tent and sent us rolling. Still she gripped our hands and I gripped Sadie’s, afraid to let go.

We three tumbled out of the tent, a mass of arms, legs, water, and playing cards. I struggled to get a footing, anything to stop our momentum but my feet only slid on the mud now slicked with rain. It was Sadie who managed to get a foothold, her arms braced around a rock, she held each one of us and pressed her head into the cold wet stone. She was crying in fear and pain. I think I was too. I could feel her arms trembling and feared what would happen when they failed her. Regina held on too but through the flashes of lightening I could swear she was still muttering those words.

“I can’t hold you both,” Sadie screamed over the wind, “Can either of you grab hold of the rock?” I released Regina’s hand and tried to grab the rock but it was no use. Instead I grabbed Sadie’s arm with both hands. I looked over to Regina whose mouth had just closed from uttering another round of the spell. When she finished she looked at me and smiled.

Sadie looked frantically from Regina to me. She knew she would have to make a choice. The river would take one of us. I think we both knew what she would do but I saw her hold on as long as she could before she let go. She kept waiting for something else to happen, something that would prevent her from choosing. But as we clung to her in the driving rain and swirling waters, no help came. We were on our own.

Even in the rain I could see the tears rolling down Sadie’s cheeks as she released Regina’s hand and gripped mine. Sadie pulled me to the rock and I wrapped my arms around just as she had. We huddled in the rain and shrieked with the wind. After Sadie let go Regina’s head bobbed beneath the rising rivers. When it came back up it was several yards away, then even further away. Before long we couldn’t make out her face among the other shadows. But I could make out Sadie’s. She was no longer crying and instead it looked like she was almost laughing. It was like seeing Sadie in a funhouse mirror. All the features were the same but it just didn’t look like her. I put my head against the rock and clung to it all night with one hand while gripping Sadie with the other.

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

Sadie and I aren’t friends anymore. We saw each other at the funeral for Regina and barely spoke. It was the first funeral I had ever been to so I wasn’t sure what was normal. The parents all seemed horribly sad. They held each other and cried. Mine made me promise never to go to the river again. Most of the kids cried too, everyone except Sadie. She just held tightly to her Mom with her left hand and casually touched each fingertip to the thumb on her right hand, a slight, distant smile on her face.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Falling.

I'm falling.

Wind howls against my eyes. It pushes tears across my frozen cheeks. I struggle. I fight. I seek an escape or life-line. Ice dashes into my soft skin. Everything tingles with a numbness I am not used to.

I don't want to die. Not like this.

I hit the ground. The pain is instant.

Legs find themselves and I run. I run with abandon. It's coming. It's right on my heels. I know it but I can't see it. The hot breath tickles the fine hairs on my shoulders and neck. The stench is unbearably of rotten meat.

The ground is soft. I stumble, once, then twice. The vegetation reaches out to me. Branches, cold and slick, slap against my face and arms. The woods loom about me like giants in the night.

It is velvety dark. There's no moon or shape to the world. The woods are endless. The cold is incessant as it gnaws into my joints. There are sparse thoughts and those are scattered to the winds. I know it is coming and it will consume me. My heart rages against my ribcage. Arms and legs pump against the wind. My pulse rings in my ears.

I make it to a clearing. I push myself away from the trees. My throat is ragged; each breath feels hot and disgustingly sticky. I gulp in the air like it might be my last one. I feel like I've been submersed in water and finally the first tendrils of air can make it to my lungs. Every muscle yearns for sleep, for the floor, for rest, for anything, but I cannot stop. To stop is to die and I will not die here.

Onwards. Onwards I push.

My feet leave the moist earth and crunch on to a wasteland of bones. The clearing is scattered with it's last meals. I am running into a trap. I know I am but I cannot stop. To stop is to die. I don't give up. I can't. I'm too scared to stop. I realise I'm shaking and it's not the cold causing it. I feel sick. Bile rises into my gullet. The exertion of energy, the sweat pouring over my forehead and down my spine, and that cold feeling of sheer terror as it pounds around my body.

I slip and slide as the bones shift and crack. The sound of crunching bones echoes over the barren landscape. The white, yellow, and rotten colours, and shadows and lumps become all I can see. The woods disappear. A sea of murder. A desert of desolation.

The cloud covered sky opens up quickly, changing, ever changing. The expanse above my head is red, then purple, then chequered. Things float in the sky; old pictures of horrible things. There's monsters here both human and not. I don't see it. I try not to see it as I push on.

When will this nightmare end? I want to scream or cry but my lungs won't allow enough air to do so. All I can do is grunt under the strain. Energy wears thin … and it's coming. Always coming.

Don't stand still.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

175,498 AR. 13, Sekunde

Nosfyr 5

Davos Fried was not an impressive man upon first glance. Barely reaching five feet in height, he was squat and stocky. A mustache of soft white drooped limply over his mouth. His hair was thinning where it wasn’t already missing. His nose was as a lump of jellied flesh more than anything. The one thing about him that gave anyone pause were his extensive bionics. His right arm and eye were replaced during the Gothic Era. Dark metal formed with hard angles and sharp edges. The hand fitted with spikes at the knuckles and talons for fingers. The eye had the violent plating to cover almost the entirety of the right half of his face. Its violet center harsh and unforgiving. His left arm, however, had been fashioned during the Baroque. Sleek lines of gold-chased silver, almost delicate and gentle.

But Davos Fried was unique amongst the common dog soldiers he had slogged with. What he lacked in appearance he made up for in personality and presence. He filled a room either with good humour or grave solemnity. He commanded the attention of the great and good, all mouths shut when he had something of import to say.

And these days, there was much of that. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice was dour, morose. “I have just learned of a fourth attack. The fourth this week, that is. Which brings the total to…?” He trailed off, his harsh eye focusing on each officer.

“Fifty-eight attacks since 175,497 AR. 26, Behuf. Preliminary attacks were infrequent. Attacks spiked in 175,498 AR. 17, Anfang at-.”

“Thank you, Jericho, but I’m sure we all remember those bloody days.” Grim nods greeted Davos’ words, “I have gathered you here to address the issue more directly. None of our cameras have caught our assailants. Our lights are destroyed almost immediately. I’ve had to station armed guards in the mines just to assuage the colonists. They speak of Night Daemons. They call Nosfyr the ‘Bad Rock’ or ‘Void of Hells’. A few have been shot for saying that the light of the Auras does not shine upon this world.” He paused, “Which is another issue… I need all of you to prepare for the worst come signs of such heresy. It is bad enough we are dealing with an unknown foe, I do not need to deal with rebellious heathens at the moment.”

Nods accompanied this decree. “Have the chaplains increase devotionals,” a faint grimace formed on the face of the commander. “If necessary force the Dejected to perform ‘miracles’. Nothing grandiose, just a display of light and warmth now and then. Now, back to more important matters. The foe we face are certainly not daemons, I have faced such ilk before. The scans by the Archivum were either incorrect or, Heaven forbid, we’re being faced with an invasion.

“This is a foe we have never faced before, I want you to express this plainly at your own forts. Triple the sentries on watch, none are to leave their post until relieved. Armour-piercers and Pyre-rounds are now permitted under my authority. If these things come at us, I want to make sure of a kill.” He drew in a slow breath, “Auras protect and guide you.”

Each sub-commander saluted sharply, repeating the benediction, before leaving the small room.

Davos balled his hands into fists, placing them upon the table in front of him. He leant forward and placed his weight on the polished wood. A groan left the sturdy timer from the pressure of his bionics. “What I wouldn’t give to be off this bad rock.”

The lights flickered before shorting out. Only the space in front of him bathed in the violet glow of his eye. After a few moments the emergency lighting came on and turned the room red.

Then the screaming started.

~~

Davos grabbed his service pistol and four clips of Pyre rounds. He ejected the simple chron bullets currently in the gun, replacing them with the incendiaries. He hurried forward, throwing the door to his office open and looking for madness beyond. He was not disappointed.

Soldiers rushed back and forth along the hallway. Some had faces set with determination. Others were wailing the end was upon them. Davos shot those whose morale he couldn’t boost. Their burning corpses a warning to any others harboring such ill thoughts. “Soldiers of the Empire! Devout followers of the Auras! Stand firm before the foe! For to be strong of character is to be strong of faith, to be strong of faith is to be strong of arm!” He practically roared the words as he marched through the hallway, his rolling bulk clearing a path through the rushing armsmen.

The emergency lighting went out. The screaming reached a fevered pitch.

Davos’ eye still projected its burning light. He suddenly felt very alone. Holding his pistol at the ready, Davos turned a slow circle. The sounds of fighting and death were a distant thing in the darkness. There was only one sound now. A clicking, growling sound.

He whirled and fired. A brief flare of orange that died. The chemicals of his round finding nothing to burn. A hiss, to his left. Another shot. Once more a brief light then darkness. Pressing his back to the closest wall, Davos began to make his way through toward the exit. The sound stayed with him. The thing content to wait for a moment of weakness.

A figure stumbled forward in the darkness. Davos almost fired until he saw the wounded, bloody figure of the trooper. The woman was whimpering, “D-Daemons! They are daemons sir! They’re horrible. I… I saw Snattz brought down by three. They tore him apart. They… they’re everywhere! I-!” A resounding smack silenced her.

“Get a hold of yourself, woman! They are alien filth and nothing m-.” He only had a brief glimpse. A grey form that launched itself out of the shadows. He fired wildly after the receding shrieks of the woman. His shots hit nothing. Mercifully, the shrieking ended with a wet sound.

Davos took in a deep breath, and continued on down the hallway. He needed to organize the defense. He-

click, clack, a twisted screech

-needed to boost the morale of his men.

A cold sweat broke out across the veteran commander. He was hearing things now. A gibbering laugh, a low hiss. He cursed his own cowardice and began to move faster. A low, thrumming growl echoed through the hallway. Davos froze. The growl dropped off slowly. Licking his lips, Davos began to move again, slowly this time.

He realized he wasn’t the only one breathing. He heard the sounds of rasping lungs. Heard the panting of others around him. Somehow, the sound drowned out the noises of battle. Davos pressed his back tightly against the wall behind him. The short man looking around at the shadows quietly.

He realized why. The gunfire had stopped. The screaming had stopped. Only the rasping breaths remained. Closing his eyes, the post command ejected his clip of Pyre rounds and slotted in a new one. He commended his soul to the Auras and raised his gun. In a sudden burst of motion he began to fire wildly. Shouting at the top of his lungs. The screeching and wailing started.

Dark forms lurched out of the shadows.

The gunfire stopped. There was no time for screaming.

[Drall]

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The little, green bugs were all over Terry, sinking their sharp mandibles into his skin, piercing his veins. He lay on the forest floor, unable to move his limbs as the insects continued to crawl over his body.

They had paralysed him first. He had thought nothing of it when one of the insects had flown to his hand. Bugs had always fascinated him, and this was a strange, new kind that he had never seen in this area before. The bug had bitten him, surprisingly hard, and he felt his arm stiffen. It wasn't long before others had flocked to him, and he fell to the ground, immobilized. He heard the sound before he saw the rest of them; a swarm of the green bugs, flying straight towards him, their coming preceded by an indescribable, shrill shrieking that curdled his blood.

Then came the biting. Despite their size, each bite felt more sharp than a knife to the gut. As they bit, he could feel a warm, gooey liquid seep through his veins, pumping through his bloodstream. It tickled his insides, and made him feel sick. He tasted bile in his mouth, but swallowed it back down desperately. He hated vomit.

“aaaaaaAAAAARRRRGGGGG!!!”

The monsters were now crawling into his open mouth and biting the insides of his throat. He gagged, and this time when he felt the slimy liquid enter his body, he couldn't help himself. He puked in revulsion, covering his entire body in vomit. He gasped and sobbed, but there was nothing he could do. The bugs crawled through the vomit and continued to sting and bite him.

He tried to move, but his limbs were still paralysed. It was as if someone had placed a pile of rocks on him. All he could do was sob, gasp, and cry for help as the bugs began to burrow into his flesh. He felt their sharp claws and piercing mandibles tear through skin, until at last the bugs had burrowed so far as to reach his bones, and still they continued to dig. The pain was more than unbearable, yet Terry could not fall unconscious. It was as if some dark force had not given him permission to die.

After what had seemed like hours of excruciating torture, the bugs burrowed back out of his skin. They took to wing and flew off, the terrible shrieking noise following them until finally, all was still. Terry still lay upon the ground, immobile, his blood boiling and every nerve in his body shuddering in pain.

For days he was left there, weeping in the cold forest. By all rights he should have not survived that long with blood oozing from his open wounds, and yet somehow, he never blinked an eye. He was awake for every agonizing second. Every moment of regret, knowing this was the end, wishing it to be the end.

And then, to his horror, he felt them inside again.

At first, he thought it was only his twisted imagination, playing a nasty trick on him. He thought perhaps that he -was- dreaming, that this was all a nightmare that he would wake up from momentarily. But he didn't wake. Nor was it a trick; somehow, the bugs were still inside him.

He felt sharp needles ripping him apart from the inside, and he cried out again. Suddenly, the air was filled with shrieking. Except this time, the noise sounded more akin to the crying of a hungry newborn, and it was coming from inside his body.

That was it, then. The bugs had not been feasting on him; they had used him as a nest for their offspring. And there were hundreds of them.

The surgical digging of the adults felt like nothing compared to the frenzied newborns. They feasted on his marrow. They chewed on his intestines. He could even feel them nibbling on small bits of his heart and lungs. His head pounded as they gorged on his brain. He tried to scream, but he couldn't make a sound; they were pouring out of his mouth, his nostrils, his ears. They exited from every opening in his body while eating pieces of him along the way. He could do nothing, nothing at all, as they devoured him from the inside out.

By the time the bugs were full and had flown off, there was nothing left of Terry. He was simply gone.

[Kaez]

“Gregory Joseph Oliver?”

The man wore a thick, brown mustache and a neat, deep navy suit. He sat down at the small table across from Gregory and opened up a thin, tan-colored folder. “That is your name, isn't it?” he said. “Gregory Oliver?”

Gregory nodded.

The man glanced up from the folder and stared at him.

“Yes,” he added. “That's my name.”

“I'm Dr. Hill,” he said, offering out a hand. Gregory manipulated his handcuffs enough to offer a hand in response. Hill shook his hand firmly, offered a polite smile, and sat.

“I've read this file,” Dr. Hill said, waving the pamphlet. “Front to back, side to side, twice over. I think I've come to pretty well understand how the events that took place were interpreted by the reports of your various neighbors and by the officers on the scene. I've heard what they all have to say about it. And just before I walked in here, I went downstairs and saw your wife's--”

“My wife?”

“... but I want to hear what you have to say about all of this. That's what matters to me. That's what I'm interested in. Tell me. Talk to me. Just us two, you-to-me. What's your side of the story, Gregory?”

“I don't have a wife.”

The doctor closed the folder and slid it to the side, placing his folded hands upon the table in its place. “I understand you've been distressed by all of this, but please, try to keep focused. Try to stay relaxed. Let's start with last night, hmm? What do you recall from last night?”

Gregory ran his hands over his hair, tucking back the untidy, sweat-clogged mess.

“It's a Sunday night. I had work in the morning. I watched an hour of TV and went to bed. That was it. That was all. Nothing happened until I went to sleep.”

“Until you went to sleep?”

“That's when I had the dream.”

“Dream?”

“--Yeah,” Gregory added tersely, half-snarling. “The fucking dream.”

“What happened in your dream?”

Desert. Endless desert. Sprawling sand, like oceanic waves, expanding infinitely in each direction. No landmarks. No signs. Nothing. Not one point of reference. One tremendous openness, and I was at the center.

The sky was wrong. The blue was off, tainted, ill. Murky, stained with green. There was no Sun, there were no clouds. The bright heat that baked the sand was ethereal, radiating from everywhere toward everywhere.

No shadows here.

I closed my eyes and the desert didn't disappear. Inescapable, not even in my own mind. Trapped. Lost. Clueless. Hopeless. Aimless. My skin was warm and slick with sweat. My feet sank into the sand. No wind.

I searched the horizon meticulously. Afraid to move. Afraid to take a step in any direction and lose any sense of where I had been. I searched for something. Some anything. Some sign of existence outside of myself.

I spun over and over. I made circle after circle. I had stood there for hours, analyzing every detail of every direction. Sand. Desert. The off-green of the sky meeting the burnt orange of the sand in a flat, featureless horizon.

Without sound, without warning. Without any vibration or signal. I turned, frustrated, and there a hundred yards away, was a dome. A white, chromatic dome, like a polished marble sphere partially erupted from the ground. It should have given me pause. I should have been frightened, shocked, confused. I should have had some reaction to such an inexplicable thing. But I didn't even think. No pause, no thought, no consideration. Like the waving of the flag, some primitive sense of tension and alert was signaled. I ran, charging at it, moving with every ounce of energy my body could muster toward the anything at all. Was it dangerous? Was it safe? How was it possible at all?

I didn't care. Something came over me.

It was pure white. Pure, absolute, neat, spotless, unreal whiteness and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen; a gorgeous offering sprung forth into the barren and lifeless.

And a door. Half-buried by the sand, some hatch, some opening. I grabbed at it and pried and pulled and tugged and it gave way, opening, cracking wider and wider, unveiling some bizarre, blinding white radiance. I wanted in. I needed in. The opening was barely large enough to fit my body, but I pried and pulled and tugged and pushed and finally dropped my legs into the white void and fell.

A white glow.

A massive, pure space.

An emptiness.

A room, perfectly spherical save a small, flat bottom – where I found myself. The largest room I'd ever seen. The largest room I'd ever imagined. Miles in each direction and miles high.

And I wasn't alone.

There were others. There were men, white-clad men. They were on their hands and knees, bowed deep, their faces pressed against the ground. They were bowing for it – some thing situated in the center of the floor, some distant figure, toward which they all knelt.

I stepped over the cold, smooth floor, through the people – the unflinching people – and stood before it.

And laying there was a woman. Naked and pale. Her skin seemed translucent, the blues and reds of her veins and muscles viewed through the opaque film of her flesh. Her neck was a deep, vibrant shade of purple. A shade so alarming, so abnormal that it seemed to reflect uniformly on the towering, concave walls and ceiling. Deep blue veins ran from it like paint splatters. Her face was empty, her expression rigid and unnatural. Her nails, red. Her eyes, blue.

She seemed at once innocent and completely disclosed. Her body was small and beautiful and her hair was long and silken and her face was gorgeous and young and familiar.

And she was bare, laying there. Dead, laying there. The perversity of seeing her naked in the flesh was robbed by her lifelessness. She was exposed, unwillingly, for anyone to see. For everyone to see. For everyone to feel her beauty and see the hideousness that had been wrought upon it. To see her innocence and its shredding away all at once. Her grace and repulsiveness, revolting and awe-striking. Captivating. Entrancing. She was perfect and horrible.

I couldn't look away.

Who was she?

“The next thing I remember, I was being woken up in my bed in the middle of the night by two cops.”

[James]

Allya:

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

Total -- 21/25

Firstly, I did seriously consider docking you a point for being length, because you were quite a way over. However I only noticed it at the very start, by the end I didn’t notice it, so I’ll let you off.

I think there were only two mistakes: a missing word and a run-on sentence. Beside that it was perfect and very easy to read. I also thought it was a good use of topic. You didn’t try too hard. It was subtle and had a quiet understatement to it.

As all your pieces have been, it was well-written. However it felt a little fragmented at times. Everything happened at such a breathtaking speed that I felt some of my questions were ignored. That included the big ones “so wait, was there some connection between the witch-ing and whatever happened at the end?” and the small ones “shouty domestic parents own a bookstore? What’s up with that?” However it was fun to read and it’s an excellent little self-contained story.

Reffy:

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

Total -- 18/25

Only one mistake jumped out at me in the piece, an it’s where it should have been its. Other than that, it was good in that regards. It was a little choppy to read, but I also suspect that was intentional to reflect the stop/start running narrative.

It was a good use of topic, but it was a little clichéd. Running from some unseen threat isn’t exactly the most original idea in the book. However it was well-written and entertaining. The descriptions of what was being felt were excellent. My only complaint is I just didn’t care enough by the character. We didn’t know enough of what was going on to form any bond with character or plot. It was good, but it was just… well, there.

Silver:

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

Total -- 17/25

There was something likable about this piece, Silver. It wasn’t your greatest work and there are some flaws that I will get to later, but by the end of I came away enjoying the read. So well done.

Like Reffy, I think the use of fragmented sentences was deliberate, but it did affect the flow of the narrative and how it read. And occasionally it became overbearing for the reader. An evil thing in some dark place is hardly groundbreaking territory, but the setting and character made up for it.

Now, here’s two things I want to comment on. Firstly, try and avoid a big listed description of something in the first paragraph. Look at what I said to Tam for Round Three. You can get away with it occasionally, but certainly not from the first line. It’s not a great hook for me to continue reading. And the heavy dialogue of the first part of the story didn’t help. You could have tried varying how you gave the reader all the background information.

But after the screams began, the quality really picked up and it was a better piece. Good work.

Drall:

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

Total -- 15/25

Technically speaking, it was well-written. Only one or two mistakes throughout and it was easy to read. You used the topic well as well. You went for the in your straight route and you sort of pulled it off. The situation was scary and I think we would all shudder to think of that ever happening to us.

However, content wise I felt a little disappointed, Drall. You gave us nothing but the well-written, descriptive gore. We didn’t know the where or the what or the who. We hardly touched on the why. The whole plot existed purely to give you a narrative to try and be as disgusting as you could. And that was a disappointment. I got to the end and sort of shrugged. I didn’t feel anything after reading it. It’s not something that’s going to stick in my mind.

Kaez:

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

Total -- 21/25

Do people wear moustaches? I always thought they had moustaches.

…

Anyway. Once again you’ve stepped up to guard your lead. There wasn’t a single error I picked up on (well, you had a lot of Amercanised spelling, you bastard). And it was nice flow to the read.

Once again, I’ve particularly liked the Use of Topic. I’m going to be honest, for half a second I expected I was going to stumble across a Lovecraftian Old One. But you quickly stopped that with your reveal. And the intrigue of the ending kept me thinking long after. That’s what I’m enjoying most from your entries. The fact that I’m not sure I understand what you’re going for. I feel like there’s a risk I’m going to sound like an idiot every time I write a review for you.

As always the writing was fantastic. You got to show off two different, and excellent, styles. The poetic, slightly unusual dream style was a pleasure to read. The dialogue at the start felt so real. And that was key. That anchored the story and gave it weight. Just great stuff again.

Round Four Scorecard

1st Allya – 21 Points
1st Kaez – 21 Points
3rd Reffy – 18 Points
4th Silver – 17 Points
5th Drall – 15 Points
Round Four Winners are Allya & Kaez![/b][/center]

[James]

Round Five
Topic: THE ARENA ROUND - Finish this story. You may change the name of the character. You do not have to count my opening paragraph in your word count. You may change perspective/style, I won't judge you down for it.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 24th December

A horn sounded as John Smith stumbled from his bed, his body swaying from the waves. It felt as if it was only a few minutes since he had left the card players on deck and headed below in search of some needed rest. Pulling on his clothes, the only personal belongings he had brought on the vessel; John stumbled out of his room and raced up the stairs. Other people were rushing from their rooms, clutching bags and suitcases and all in varying degrees of shabbiness. The horn sounded again.

[athelstan]

That was what they were all called when they came to the Raj: John Smith. He was the quintessential white man, the refugee seeking shelter from the War, the hungry babe come to suckle at Mother India’s breasts. Once, he had been the handsome aristocrat come to govern, the military captain come to command, the well-heeled railroad man come to lattice the Raj with tracks. Now, John Smith was the lucky one who had embarked aboard the ship in time, before Bristol had begun to burn.

However, this particular John Smith was named John Smith. In his luggage, he carried Mary Smith, and Elizabeth Smith, and little Wilbur Smith, rendered eternal in monochrome. Around his neck, he carried not the Christ. Let Him save the Mohammedan fish of Araby.

India sang to greet him with a seaport’s din, the voice of Calcutta. The other ports had all been filled to bursting with John Smiths, and only the Crown City could still take them. The rickshaw drivers scuttled about on the roads like so many cheeping squirrels, crying out their question, “Kaha ja ra hai?” But John Smith stood apart from them, still aboard the ship. The soldiers came, Singh after Singh, the afternoon sun glinting from their bayonets. They talked gently to the Englishmen, and their speech was thick with the music of Punjab: “Your name, please? Your date of birth, please? Your papers, please?” The soldiers worked with a strange and graceful care, neither swiftly nor slowly, as if the affairs of hungry white evacuees were something important to them. Then they would look up and smile, showing a glimpse of teeth, shockingly white against their skin, as they said, “Thank you, sir, and welcome to India,” being sure to give direction to the customs bureau.

Sunrays glanced through tobacco smoke uncoiling. The bags were scrutinised and weighed. Names were written in voluminous codices, the archives of a race. Next came the oath: I do solemnly swear my fealty to His Majesty Edward the Ninth, Maharaja of India, of Ceylon, and of Burma; and I do pledge my loyalty to the lawful authority of the Parliament empowered to act in His Majesty’s name. And John Smith saw his papers stamped with blue ink, sealing his covenant with this heathen country. He was given direction to the hotel. He departed.

Alone, he went forth through the jostling crowds. “Jaan Smit! Kaha ja ra hai?” was the endless rickshaw query, even as he brushed past them, not hearing. On some street corners, English-language newspapers were being sold by Indian boys, their skinny brown hands tight around their little roughly woven bags of pennies. The headlines of those newspapers were vividly stamped with the accounts of apocalypse. Onwards, through the sultry air that smelled of mangoes, sweat, and wood-smoke.

The entrance hall to the hotel was thick with the scent of lilies, grown by some artifice that John did not know. A narrow space, it must have been a townhouse once. The Indian servants worked with silent hospitality, carrying luggage up the stairs with the steady steps of oxen. They were dressed to make them seem the good British servants in trousers and pigskin belts (never cowhide), their faces freshly shaven. One of them stubbed his toe and bit off a curse: the illusion was shattered, his blasphemy invoking an alien god. John followed the little train of false Englishmen up three storeys. They put his luggage in his room and left him with fluid bows and wishes for his comfort. When John knew that they had left, he went into his chamber over the street. He sat at a cheaply made desk.

The sun was sinking into the breast of India. John watched it as it fell and turned into a glowing drop of vermilion, making all the mists of Calcutta sanguine. It died as men do, feeble and alone. John did not respond when the door was lightly rapped to summon him to dinner. He stripped naked by his bedside, his clothes damp from the swampy heat that had clung against his skin all day. He lay to sleep, perchance to dream. The memory of gray faces startled him, drove his drowsy eyelids apart. He took them from the luggage and placed them on the desk. He looked at Mary, standing behind the children, her red hair robbed of its fire, the delicate peach paleness of their skin turned to pallor. He took his straight razor out from its case, to consider its keen edge. He stared at it with his breath so shallow in his breast that it was little more than a whispering puff.

A glimmer came upon the perfect, pit-less blade that John had not seen before. He sought its source through the window, and saw the yellow moon suspended, vaster than he had ever known it to be. He saw it turn from yellow to white, its blessing coming down upon gods and men. He threw the razor to the street far below, and left the photos. He left the hotel, and crossed the shadowed streets, hiding from the passage of guardsmen. Mother India threw open her arms to him as he stepped into a temple, his naked body wrapped in cloth by an attendant who had awaited him. He sat and sang English praises to those alien gods of many arms, dancing, seated, and standing, until the sun came once more to Calcutta.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

A horn sounded as John Smith stumbled from his bed, his body swaying from the waves. It felt as if it was only a few minutes since he had left the card players on deck and headed below in search of some needed rest. Pulling on his clothes, the only personal belongings he had brought on the airship; John stumbled out of his room and raced up the stairs. Other people were rushing from their rooms, clutching bags and suitcases and all in varying degrees of shabbiness. The horn sounded again.

The sound filled him with a new urgency. This was the last stop before the north. No one wanted to go north. No one ever came back from the north.

The bodies jostled and shoved. The detritus of a newly formed nation which struggled to eke out a living. There was a calibrian, standing high enough to look over the twelve foot ‘rails’. It peered down from the prison ship, it’s thick lips struggling to form human speech. “P… pease! Pease! Famy n-need fud!” the plaintive cries of the beast were echoed in the forlorn and sunken faces of its mate and child.

John frowned deeply. They all had had to adjust to the human way of things. By human understanding, almost everyone on board the work-ship was a relative of his. He couldn’t count on his fingers and toes how many other ‘John Smiths’ he came across. A thickset dwarf shoved John aside, “Erta me wa’ yer blasted nathair!” The small creature shoved a grubby hand out, “Food! Food fer a true son o’ th’ dwarves!” Only a few old women gave him bread. Others added spit to the slices he received.

More hands reached out and were given bread or cheese. The calibrian smiled as one man gave up a link of twelve, thick sausages for he and his family. The generosity of the imperials was heartwarming. “Awright you lot! Off the docks! Off! We’ve got processin’ to do!” the voice bawled from behind the masses of humanity. A tall figured strode through the crowd, backed by eight other men who looked as if they could be his brothers.

The captain stomped along the walkway above. He pressed a button on the railing that extended a ramp for him to stride down and meet with the harbormaster. “Eighty head, all told. Lookin’ to lighten the load up a bit ‘fore the north.”

The harbormaster sucked on one rotten tooth thoughtfully, consulting a paper with one eye and giving a meaningful look to the captain with another. A sneer was all he got in return. Returning the ugly look, he turned toward his men and nodded his head. “Twenty of you lot get to disembark! The rest can enjoy the north!”

The harbormaster turned and marched away, the captain following him with a glare before returning to his ship and his quarters. The ramp following his steps until it was once more fully a part of the walkway.

John’s eyes had widened at the proclamation. All at once the men and women began to shove and bite. The calibrian bellowed and slammed his fists into any who were too close. The giant created a bulwark of flesh that allowed his family to be first off with him soon following. The dwarf was trampled underfoot, crying out for help. His cries became a pitiful sobbing before being silenced entirely. The press of bodies prevented people from slipping in the blood.

John scrabbled and bit, talons sinking into flesh as he tried to claw his way toward the front. He was three bodies away from the gate when it slammed shut in his snout. He hissed and yelped, falling backward and being caught by the prisoners behind him. Blackish blood slowly leaked from one of his nostrils as the guards turned and ushered the new arrivals through the crowd. It was all too easy for them to ignore the plaintive cries of the prisoners to be released.

John sank back further, the two holding him uncomplaining. “N-No… No! I can’t go to the north! I’m a nathair! I’ll die as soon as snow starts to fall! Please! Please let me off the ship! I’m an engineer! I can help rebuild!” He struggled up, his fingers locking around the bars. “Please let me off! Please! I have a wife and clutch to think of! Please!”

The turbines on the ship began to whine, its ropes were cast off and it turned slowly from port. He watched as the city shrank from view. The hands that held him easing him down before they retreated into the hold.

John sat on the deck, looking away at just a black dot on the horizon. He closed his eyes and sank down onto the coils of his lower body. A soft sobbing causing his shoulders to rise and fall. Only a few imperial cities were in the north. All were heated by large gas vents. But those who went north on the ships did not live in the cities. Where the south still bubbled with potential revolt, none cared for the mood in the north.

John, and all the others on board, were destined to die. Worked to death in the mines and quarries. Killed by the bitter snow, the choking gases or the ravenous beasts. He continued to sob softly. Whether it was his imagination or not, he could already feel the first snowflakes settling on his scales.

[Injin]

A horn sounded as John Smith stumbled from his bed, his body swaying from the waves. It felt as if it was only a few minutes since he had left the card players on deck and headed below in search of some needed rest. Pulling on his clothes, the only personal belongings he had brought on the vessel; John stumbled out of his room and raced up the stairs. Other people were rushing from their rooms, clutching bags and suitcases and all in varying degrees of shabbiness. The horn sounded again.

Soon he was on the deck, surveying his surroundings. It had only been a week ago when the Neudelberg Journal had hired him as a foreign correspondent for the Neuhaven region of Neu Germania. Neuhaven was a beautiful place, but he couldn’t really enjoy it right now. After all, he had work to do, and plenty of people to interview for the Sunday Edition of the paper. Other people had already begun to flow out from the under decks of the vessel that had brought them here. He sighed as he watched those who had gotten up before him stream off of the ship, and onto the docks. While he also began his journey, he watched his steps carefully. After all, ships such as these were dangerous to get off of if you tripped and fell off.

As he got onto the small bridge leading down to the docks, he looked over the edge into the empty abyss below. Miles upon miles of empty space lead down to what seemed to be green water, although from this height he wasn’t exactly sure. The continents here were high up in the sky after all, and he hadn’t brought a telescope, although he didn’t really care too much for heights anyhow. After disembarking successfully, he walked towards the Neudelberg Journal’s district HQ, to report to his new superior, Johann Sebastian Blauenberger. Blauenberger had been a famed war correspondent back during the days of the Germanian-Berberan wars, and John admired him for it. War was a scary thing after all, and he really hoped not to ever have to worry about it.

After walking a few blocks up the street, he arrived at the headquarters of the paper. The doorman nodded upon seeing his face, knowing that he was supposed to arrive here today, “Mr. Smith, it is my honor to meet you. Your expose on the Duke of Neu Hohenzollern was magnificent, as was your discovery of Victor von Greenberger’s tomb. Mr. Blauenberger has insisted that you see him immediately upon your arrival, so if you wouldn’t mind, just go up to the tenth floor and take a right. You can’t miss his office”. Smith smiled and handed the man a few Eurobucks and headed up.

Upon entering the elevator he let out a squeak. Not intentionally of course, but enough for him to rub his neck in worry. He hadn’t been to the doctor since his last physical, and it still caused a weird noise occasionally. Sighing ominously, he noted to himself that he really had to get to a doctor or a techanic or something. It was really starting to itch, especially since the physical therapy stopped. The doors opened on the fourth floor and a lady walked in. She smiled at seeing the light on the ten and walked and stood next to John as the elevator closed and rose again. Still smiling, she started a conversation, “So, who are you here to see? Mr. Blauenberger or Mr. Blutenkopfer?”

John smiled back at her, “The former miss, he’s apparently asked for me to see him as soon as I was to get here. I didn’t expect to meet him so early in my tenure here”.

The lady smirked at him, “So you’re a reporter are you? I heard that a new guy was going to be here today, but no one said he’d be so… foreign looking”.

Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “What do you mean foreign looking? My parents were from New Brittania, at least they were before the war. They moved to Neu Germania after the war had ended. I am aware my eyes are a bit off as well though, you don’t need to say it”. As he noted his eyes, their purple color flickered in amusement. He looked into the fellow passenger’s eyes and asked, “You don’t look so local yourself, where are you from then? Your accent makes you sound almost like a Yankee, but softer”.

The woman snickered before answering, “Well I thought I was masking that well. I am actually from Neuhaven, but I spent most of my life on New Dixie. It’s sort of hard to grow up without being made fun of if you sound like your voice is being wrenched into two directions. Anyways, my name is Ada Blauenberger. And don’t worry, my father may be imposing, but that’s the way he is. The cameras always made him look bigger then he actually is, but nonetheless he is pretty big. I’ll be there at your meeting, doing some paperwork, so if you need anything, just ask”.

The door opened and the two came out of the elevator shaft and moved to the right, towards the editor’s office. She turned to him before he opened the door and asked, “So you’re John Smith right? Glad to know you’ll be working with us”. As she finished, the door swung open, with a large man looking outwards from his desk.

“Mr. Smith? I was expecting you. Although I didn’t expect you to have already met Ada. Anyways, come on in both of you. I have something I need to discuss with you two before I send you off”. The editor, Johann Blauenberger, was indeed a large man. His bristling orange mustache dominated his face, while his mechanical arm and left eye dominated the thoughts of those he passed. He was quite used to his new limb and eyeball, as was evident by the ease of their movement as he gestured John and Ada to come inside.

Johann began, “You see Mr. Smith, the last reporter we got from the main headquarters turned out to have faked his credentials when he applied. The man couldn’t have actually graduated from Hasselhoff University without cheating or bribery, and it was just embarrassing for all of us when he died. He got the local ruling duke here so mad that, well, got hacked to death by his guards. Apparently the man didn’t understand that you can’t just suddenly claim that the duke’s aunt was a whore and ask him if he’d like pictures. You’d think that would be a no brainer, but some people don’t have good logic skills. I need you to do the interview that he didn’t do, or the main headquarters will have me fired for incompetence. Believe me when I say you have no choice but to interview the duke well. If you don’t, we’re all going to be fired, and as such, I would have to seriously consider harming you quite a bit”.

His daughter interjected, “Daddy, don’t threaten him, you know how good he is, you asked for him yourself!”

Blushing for a moment, John Smith sighed in joy. Mr. Blauenberger had been one of his idols while he was in university, so to get that type of praise from him was practically a dream come true. Mr. Smith smiled and responded, “Mr. Blauenberger, I swear to you that this interview will go off without a hitch. If it doesn’t, consider me exiled to the Berberian Wastes”.

Johann Blauenberger choked out a laugh or two before regaining his composure, “I see you came prepared kid. You were an up and comer back in Neuhausen, but here you are officially a professional. I have full confidence that you’re first interview here in Neuhaven will go without a hitch. Between you and me, I think that the duke’s aunt was a whore too, but you don’t see me saying it in front of him. Now go. The second sun will be up soon, and if you’re not back before the Crimson Dusk, then I’ll assume he killed ya”.

John got up and bowed to the editor, “I won’t let you down Mr. Blauenberger, you have my word!” and went out of the room and left.

Ada looked at her father and grimaced at him as John left, “Why’d you lie to him about who he replaced, we both know he just retired”.

Johann chuckled, “Motivation, Ada, Motivation. Plus, I think he likes you”.

Blushing Ada retorted, “We just met in the elevator daddy, don’t think too deeply into it!”

Johann nodded knowingly, “And I think you like him too”.

Going bright red in the face, Ada threw the notepad on the table at her father’s head and left, to calm down somewhere.

The editor just looked out the window, towards the town center. It was going to be a fun news season.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

A horn sounded as John Smith stumbled from his bed, his body swaying from the waves. It felt as if it was only a few minutes since he had left the card players on deck and headed below in search of some needed rest. Pulling on his clothes, the only personal belongings he had brought on the vessel; John stumbled out of his room and raced up the stairs. Other people were rushing from their rooms, clutching bags and suitcases and all in varying degrees of shabbiness. The horn sounded again.

Still fuzzy-eyed and half asleep John joined the wave of people in their panic. In the corridor it looked like everybody on-board was leaving as automatic doors hushed open and vomited the contents of their rooms. The dull grey interior, splashed with flashes of circuits and lit panels, passed by lazily as the crowd moved slowly, lugging all they could, through the corridors in a bid for escape. The waves coming from the Corridium Core were steadily getting worse as it shuddered across the hull of the spaceship, pushing and stretching it in places that shouldn't be able to move. The horn continued on, oblivious to the crowd below, in it's monotonous tone. The comms system had been replaced with the horn, a make-shift repair done deep in space and away from any suitable technology.

"What's going on?" Once his head stopped spinning and he found his legs, John asked somebody next to him as he was bustled along. He checked who the question managed to find: one of the Garfoush; a thick skinned creature with an extra eye, slightly yellow, and about two feet shorter than most grown male humans. The stench from John's alcohol-laden-breathe eked out between the pair but luckily the Garfoush didn't catch it.

"Under attack. Shova ship. One jump away."

John sighed. The Garfoush still hadn't learnt how to speak in proper sentences. What was new? As for the Shova ship, was it worth the panic? Probably when taking into account the larger guns they could carry.

After being stuck in the long corridor with the masses for longer than he wished, John left and pushed his way back to the deck of the ship. At least there he could try and help rather than running away. The friends he'd left there, if they could be called such since they'd already taken all of his Hawij coin during the card game, were still playing. Currently the cards were laid on the box between the swaying players, who were passing a bottle of something foul smelling between them.

"Report?" John liked to appear in control and was probably someone worth to listening to. It was just a pity that nobody realised this in the few years that John had been aboard the Krakli ship.

"Returned to win back your coin?" One of the friends turned all of his eyes on John, who shuddered involuntary. Looking at all of the different aliens was something you were supposed to get used to but John had never found a way to stop the shock. This alien had several eyes set in what John could only assume was it's head and each of them followed him carefully in their multifunctioned way. The others at the table laughed in different volumes and tones.

"Why aren't you guys running with the rest?" John pulled up a crate and joined the table again. The bottle was passed to him politely despite the harsh welcome. He took it, welcoming the idea of 'hair of the dog', because anything was better than this headache.

"How do you think we got on Krakli?" Another answered, picking up the cards with something that wasn't hands but wasn't tentacles either. John was sure he'd just seen them ripple as the ship shuddered again but maybe that was the drink. The horn blurted out once more but it was far away enough this time to be less irritating.

"So you're just going to sit here and wait for the Shova?" John took a slug from the bottle, grimaced at the bitter taste until it turned sweet and then passed the bottle to his left.

The deck was a collection of crates and other smaller craft that had been sent up here for repair. This area was the closest to a maintenance bay as a Krakli could come but this was just a tourist ship, commanded by somebody who thought that tourism was a waste of time. Unfortunately the captain was also a yellow-belly and was probably abandoning ship right now along with the rest.

"Beats fighting for escape pods and cramped deep-space with other sweaty and disgusting creatures." Several had called him Batuk before, so John had to assume it was his name. This creature carried most of the weight and authority below the important levels - amongst those who didn't have much more than a single Hawij coin to their name.

"This is madness, Batuk." John waited patiently for the bottle to return. The card game was headed down hill anyway. From this position he could already see that two were bluffing and he was sure he'd just seen one other slip a card from a pocket.

"Shova don't kill, John."

Finally the bottle made the circle of the crate-table, back to John. He took another gulp. The taste was getting better. "Sure they don't but have you heard of the power they're packing on that ship?"

The occupants of the table did their best to ignore the human but he continued. "We're slug-food, Batuk, and you know it. The Krakli could out manoeuvre the Shova ship."

"Not with the Corridium Core doing that," Batuk returned smartly just as another shudder rocked through the ship.

"There has to be something we can do! Sitting here is foolish. The ship'll be empty soon. We'll have an entire Krakli ship to ourselves!" John rubbed his hand though his greasy hair. The frustration was evident in his gruff voice. With the ship, they could do anything providing they escaped the Shova.

"We're left with Krakli ship that going to tear apart soon. Maybe we do abandon ship!" The alien that had first spoken laughed.

Batuk shot the other a look and John almost flinched. The leader of the underbelly was definitely the most intimidating alien he'd ever met since he'd left the breeding colony. He spoke again after a period of heavy silence. "Maybe John has a point. Foolish, yes, and bloody stupid too, but something..."

"Why listen if foolish?" it whined again, shuffling the cards hastily.

"Because maybe I'm fed up of being a bottom-feeder, Knish."

[Allya]

A horn sounded as John Smith stumbled from his bed, his body swaying from the waves. It felt as if it was only a few minutes since he had left the card players on deck and headed below in search of some needed rest. Pulling on his clothes, the only personal belongings he had brought on the vessel; John stumbled out of his room and raced up the stairs. Other people were rushing from their rooms, clutching bags and suitcases and all in varying degrees of shabbiness. The horn sounded again and he heard the groan of the gates as they shuddered to life and opened wide the jaws of the Black Harbor.

You can’t take it with you the saying goes and yet those around him clung to their belongings like life rafts as they lined to disembark. John clutched only to his mission and the key he had lifted while distracting the skeleton crew of The Whispering Mary. It had taken all his courage to smile and laugh while angling closer to the key. Their faces were a mix of bone and apparition. They smelled of death and fear, decay and regret and he barely stomached their friendly game.

His feet were unsteady on the plank as he walked off the ship and onto the docks. The black water below lapped silently against the graying wood and beckoned him nearer. John tore his eyes away; he was a trespasser here but could easily become a permanent resident. The water was just one of many traps in the land of the dead and John would have to avoid all of them if he were to see the sun again. “Find her,” the Chief had said, “and we will save your people.”

She had died trying to save him. After he had been captured by her people he had been led to the feet of Chief Powhatan who raised his hand to execute John. But it had been his daughter, Pocahontas, who died that day. She had raced between the two men and laid her head upon John’s, pleading for his life. In his anger the Chief struck his beloved daughter and killed her instantly. The Chief’s grief had been almost as immediate and in those first moments the deal was struck. The shaman would send John to bring her back and in so doing he would save his people.

As John had felt the world of the living slip away and awoke upon The Whispering Mary he was surprised to find the land of the dead so different from what he had been taught. This was neither the Christian death nor the death of the native people. No, this was a dark and harrowing path into the belly of the world. Were it not for the shaman he would not have been prepared. “You must steal the key to the shadow door. Do not walk before the mirror as the others do. It will see you and you will die.” As he had spoken he had painted John and filled the small hut with a smoky mixture of herbs. “Do not touch the waters no matter how they call to you. If you do, they will wrap around you and you will die.” He poured into John’s mouth a foul-tasting concoction that burned as it flowed down his throat and into his gut. “Find her name in the book. Erase it and come back to us. Do not be greedy for we will know and you will die.” John’s last image before awaking on the ship had been the grin of the Shaman’s yellow teeth and the hilt of his jagged blade.

The passengers were being led toward a towering mirror. He watched as one after another placed their hands upon the glass and vanished. Some went without trouble but others screamed and cried as they approached. The line grew shorter John grew fearful that he would not have a chance to escape but when a large man ahead of him approached, he began to thrash wildly. “No, no I won’t go. They can’t be here. They can’t have me.” John had no time to wonder at what the man saw. The guards moved to force him forward and John used the distraction to slip the line.

The shadow door was aptly named for it hid in the dark recesses of the great wall that surrounded the city. John pushed the key into the door and found it turned easily. On the other side lay a maze of twisted alleys that snaked across the wailing city. “The dead will not suffer the living,” the shaman had said “your blood will be pulled to the book. Follow it.” On each side of the road bones were loosely piled and John found a sharp splinter that would do the trick. He sliced his forearm open and watched as the blood pooled onto the slick stone pathway. It was only a moment before it started to flow through the cracks in the stones, leading him deeper into the city.

The way was long and tiresome, plagued by the phantom wails of unseen sufferers and the harrowing laughs of their tormentors. But the shaman had spoken true; his blood had led him through the ghostly labyrinth to the center of the dead city. It trickled into the pool that surrounded a large stone platform. Hastily John bounded up the steps, leaping over the narrow pool that was turning red as his blood mixed with the still water. At the top he found a small podium with a worn book and quill placed on top.

As he placed his hands upon the stand the water surrounding the platform rose into a wall of red water, trapping him inside. John began to turn the pages and in it he saw many names he did not know but he saw many more he recognized. Voices came from the water, calling to him and he soon realized that these were the souls of those whose names he was reading. There were famous names, kings and conquerors, and they all called to him to erase their death. John remembered the yellow smile and turned the pages faster.

At last he came to her name and he could hear her call to him from the water. John grabbed the quill and struck her name from the book. The cries of the dead were deafening as the surrounding water crashed back into the pool. The stones beneath his feet shook and knocked him to the ground. The world of the dead knew he was here.

The liquid in his gut grew hotter until it felt like he was boiling from the inside. On his hands and knees John crawled to the edge of the platform and screamed in pain as the hot concoction pushed itself out of his body. It was expelled in a hot fountain of vomit and agony. Once it left him he collapsed in exhaustion and lay facing the dark sky as his vision clouded over.

John awoke to a cacophony of excited sounds. Through blurry eyes he could see the shaman and Chief Powhatan lifting Pocahontas from her bed. She stood unsteadily at first but within seconds she was walking and talking just fine. The wound on her head had disappeared. She looked just as he had seen her before she had so bravely tried to save his life.

He tried to sit up and speak but his body ached and his throat was raw. The shaman came to his side and covered him with furs. “You sleep now, John Smith. Your people are safe. There will be time to see her when you are well.” John slept like the dead for that night and two others before finally waking again. When he did, he found Pocahontas at his side. Such a young thing, he thought, to see so much. There is much we can learn from each other. He stood up and took her hand as the stepped outside of the hut. He looked out upon a bustling village of natives surrounded on all sides by the wilds of the land. All of us.

[Kaez]

A horn sounded as I stumbled from my bed, my body swaying from the waves. It felt as if it had only been a few minutes since I'd left the card players on deck and headed below in search of some much-needed rest. Pulling on my clothes, the only personal belongings I'd brought on the vessel; I stumbled out of my room and raced up the stairs. Other people were rushing from their rooms, clutching bags and suitcases and all in varying degrees of shabbiness. The horn sounded again.

“John!”

“Hey.”

Christopher rushed up to me, throwing a backpack over his shoulders. “How do ya' feel? Excited? Nervous?” He tugged on both straps with his thumbs like a giddy schoolboy. “I'm a little of both? Yeah. Kind of, uh, anxious. Yeah. Anxious-feeling. Jittery.” He half-giggled the last word, his expression shifting incomprehensibly.

“I don't really feel much of anything, Chris,” I said, finding a gap through the swarm of passengers in which to interject myself. “I'm just floating.”

“Boat pun?”

“Hadn't thought of that, actually.”

The traffic snagged on a crying, stomping child and Chris and I slithered our way through the masses into the long, narrow ramp that led down to the deck.

“Toffs and nobs,” Chris spat, “Look at 'em all, packed up like they're going on holiday.” He half-shouted to a few passersby dragging large, black luggage behind them: “None of that's gonna' do ya' any good, don't you know?”

“Relax yourself,” I sighed, just glad not to be dragging along anything useless myself.

“Idiots packing up every odd and sod in the house.”

“You've got a backpack on, too,” I said, stepping out onto the main deck. Hundreds of people flocked the deck, funneling into the narrow disembarking passage through which bright, blinding white light poured.

“You know what I've got in here, John?” he huffed defiantly. “Four bottles of water, two Dairy Milk bars, a flask of Black Label, and ten thousand pounds.”

I worked my way through the booming crowd until some decipherable remnant of a line emerged and secured, as much as I could in the chaos, a place in queue. I had to nearly shout to be heard over the roaring mass of travelers. “Why in the hell did you pack ten thousand quid? What for?”

“Well, what else was I to do with it?” he replied with a bit of a grin.

“Good point, I guess. Most people just blew it all. Went on holiday, got hundred-pound sundaes with gold foil in them, bought the rights to Beatles records.”

“Fuck that,” he said. “I'm going to hand it out to everyone I see. A few hundred here, another hundred there. Everyone's getting some.”

“And no one will have any use of it at all.”

“Exactly.”

I couldn't help but smile. “You're the worst at being charitable.”

“I live for irony,” he said.

The line gradually crawled forward, inching person by person until the blinding glow of the outside world dissolved into something vaguely decipherable. Clouds, sky, trees, people. Tens of thousands; hundreds of thousands of them.

“Christ,” Chris said, stretching to peer over my shoulder. “Are those all people?”

“Sure are,” I replied.

Stepping out onto the long steel ramp that led from the ship to the docks, the full view of the scene hit me. The people. More people than I'd ever seen. More people than I'd ever conceived of. They seemed endless in every direction, so many that I had no sense of perspective, no sense of judgment. Was it millions? Who could say? There came a point when there was no reference, where it was just a sea of uncountable, innumerable figures.

The last great gathering of humanity, one colorful steppe of people, every skin tone and hair color, every size and shape, children and elderly alike. Every kind of person from every kind of place, with all their language barriers and prejudices between them, all their fervent racism and nationalism, all their fictional senses of division – all dissolved into a single conglomerate of scared, nervous, anxious mammals, each with their own eccentricities and ambitions, emotions and quirks, unique amongst a million other unique people, humbled by their own sheer number and their equivalent tininess under that immaculate, golden beacon, stretching up to heaven, that had headlined every newspaper on the planet for the past week straight.

And now I had witnessed it, in all its surreal glory.

My mind dropped. Something cut out the ropes and let it plummet straight down into the deep voids of memory. The feeling of the carpet that I sat and played on in my bedroom. The smell of my backyard in the summer. The squeak of tennis shoes against the floor in gym at school. The dim lighting of Christmas morning. Cookie batter licked from mixers. A fluttery warmth in the center of my chest when she had smiled at me.

A sense of familiarity, of being home. The security and comfort of being within my own blankets, on my own bed – and there I was, on the shore of a country I'd never visited, beholding a sight I had never imagined nor dreamt of. Overcome with a sense of being present, of being here and now, of focusing on each passing moment. Of all the past and all the possible futures, of all the feelings I had ever felt or might ever feel being wrought from this very moment.

I noticed the saltiness of the air. The gentleness of the breeze. The warmth of sunlight on my skin and the comfort of my own clothes. The freedom from anything I had ever owned or might ever own.

A voice in my head, soft and gentle, embraced my mind.

Come home, child.

[James]

Erakko:

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

Total -- 20/25

… Edward the Ninth?

Anyway, there wasn’t a mistake that I noticed. And while it had a poetic element to the narrative, it was easy to read. You pretty much carried on the general theme of the story I started. In my mind I would have continued on with some sort of immigration story, so points there.

I thought the writing was excellent. I loved some of the lines throughout the piece. Rendered eternal in monochrome, for instance, is absolutely brilliant writing. I felt a little that the story sort of failed to gain any noticeable pull in it or too much connection with the character. However the poetic nature made up for that.

Silver:

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

Total -- 18/25

There were a few errors through. A were where there should have been was; a it’s where there should have been its. Other than that it was a pretty easy read. I liked the use of topic. It was well-done and it was a nice idea.

I felt we were lacking a connection to the character. He was being left for dead and we knew he was upset. But I still didn’t feel a connection to him. I didn’t care that much. Beside that the writing was good. I think you managed to portray the urgency of the situation excellently.

Injin:

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

Total -- 16/25

It pleases me to say this that your writing has shown considerable improvement in this little competition alone. There was only the odd mistake and it was very easy to read. I also liked the Use of Topic. You made it a nice little self-contained story. Well done.

Again, there was a few problems throughout. You have a habit of repeating little things. The use of ‘after all,’ popped up twice in quick succession that made it very obvious. You don’t need to keep clarifying everything. Either trust your reader. Or trust that your writing is clear enough. Beside from that, it was good. Sometimes your narrative can seem a little mechanical and surgical, not bothering with emotions or poetic description. But you’re improving vastly. And that’s excellent.

Reffy:

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

Total -- 18/25

You’re cutting down on the grammar mistakes, Reffy. I think there was only one there. However sometimes the narrative got a little bit difficult to read. It was especially noticeable around the dialogue, where you were trying to explain the alien’s names and it felt like the sentence just kept going and going.

It was a nice use of topic, I liked the fact that you basically just ran with the idea. It was entertaining and the writing was strong. However I felt at times it sort of wandered a bit. Even though these aliens were completely ignoring the threat, I kind of wanted to see a bit of atmosphere from the rest of the ship. A scream through the air, someone stumbling pass by mistake. Just something to keep up the atmosphere along with John’s impatience.

Allya:

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

Total -- 23/25

I think you saved the best for last, Allya. That was fantastic.

I didn’t catch a single mistake and it was an absolutely breeze to read. Personally, I loved the use of topic. It didn’t cross my mind that someone would actually use John Smith in that context and when I realised it, I smiled.

It was really entertaining to read, it was just fun. And the writing was great. The book and the crossing out of the names. The blood leading to the book. It was great. I really can’t add much more to that.

Kaez:

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

Total -- 23/25

You know what I liked about this one? It had all the trappings of the rest of your work in this series and yet it seemed a little simpler. It felt clean-cut. As a reading experience (and 34 stories in half a month I think that counts as a reading experience) this was a great way to end it. Allya and now yours have been two of the best stories in all five rounds. Up there with Erakko, Taed’s Sci-Fi and your earlier pieces.

There’s not much I can say. There wasn’t any mistakes. It was ridiculously easy to read. I loved the use of topic, it was so simple and clever. It was fun to read, the characters were interesting and yet felt so real. The irony of giving out money was great. Just a really good story.

I can’s say much more, Pete.

Round Five Scorecard

[/b]
1st Kaez – 23 Points
1st Allya – 23 Points
3rd Erakko – 20 Points
4th Reffy – 18 Points
4th Silver – 18 Points
6th Injin – 16 Points
The Winners of Round Five are Kaez & Allya![/size][/center]

[James]

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]