The July Challenge

[Matteo ((Taed))]

Aftermath

Janus Kadath let his sword slip from his fingers and fell to his knees on the slopes of the Daggermount. Before him, The Dreadking’s body lay crumped and broken, still smoldering in places from the force of their duel. The Vile Crown was a twisted ruin; the black length of Heartsbane was splintered and brittle. Into the sudden silence, a wind swirled fingers of dust and soot around the two figures, and pebbles clacked hollowly against one another in their tumble down the mountainside. Janus exhaled slowly, and stared incredulously at his bloodstained hands.

“I did it.” He whispered. “I won.”

It was suddenly very difficult to breathe, and Janus scrabbled desperately at his armour. Foul magics had sapped the Dwarven steel of its strength in many places, so that Janus tore out great mouldering handfuls as he struggled to get free. The pauldrons finally tore loose and were tossed aside, followed quickly by what remained of the rotten breastplate. Janus sucked air greedily, his broad chest swelling the blood-caked fabric of his undershirt.

After what seemed like an age, his breathing steadied and he got himself under control. He stared at the still-steaming corpse before him for a long time before his slack-jawed expression broke suddenly into an incredulous grin. A slow chuckle welled up from inside, punctuated by a sharp guffaw, and before long he was laughing and whooping uncontrollably in the thin mountain air.

“I beat you, you son of a bitch!” he managed between cheers. “All your speeches, all your plans, that insufferable way you called me ‘boy,’ and the Gods-damned prophecy telling me I had to die up here, but I … BEAT YOU! YES!”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and cried out to the world at large. “A farmboy beat the Dreadking and everybody knows it! A farmboy saved the world!”

Janus stood, still grinning, looking out towards the horizon as the wind whipped around him, but his smile slowly faded as he noticed the vast armies still warring around the base of Daggermount. At this distance they looked like a solid, roiling mass, save for the siege engines and ogrekin who towered above the rest. An armoured skywhale, floating at about Janus’ eye level, went up in a rush of flame as a lucky shot set its flight bladders ablaze. The muffled whump of the explosion reached him a moment later.

“Oh right,” Janus said to himself. “That.”

He found his sword half-buried in ash, and returned it to its scabbard. Then he began the long, slow, march down the mountain.

As Janus began to near the bottom, he heard the clatter of hoofbeats approaching from below, and his hand tightened on his sword once more, but it was merely horses--not cloven-footed Un-Men--who rounded the corner and galloped towards him. A contingent of the King’s Fist rode up the path, their gold and crimson livery somewhat the worse for wear.

“My Lord Dawnbringer,” the lead rider--a woman--called out as the horses reigned in in front of Janus. “King Minobar sent us to find out how you fared. We could … see things. Up on the mountain. Lights. Explosions. Is it … is it over?”

Janus gave the woman a long stare before nodding slowly. “The Dreadking is dead.”

A murmur went up among the riders and visible relief showed on their face. “Thank the Gods,” their leader breathed. She whirled in her saddle and pointed to half of her group. “Go! Spread the word! Victory is now assured. The Un-Men’s nerve will not hold with their foul master dead.”

The selected riders reared about and galloped off at speed, racing to spread the joyous news. The woman gestured to another of her underlings, and a riderless horse was brought forward for Janus.

“Come, my Lord,” she said. “King Minobar and the other Regents will want to see you with all haste.”

Janus nodded again and climbed up into the saddle. They rode for a while in silence, and before long they had reached the outer pickets near the base of Daggermount. The fighting had been light here, yet still there were bodies and grievous injuries in evidence; nearer to the front lines it would be indescribable.

Such horrors would not have been in vain, however. Already, from this elevated vantage point, Janus could see signs of Allied forces rallying, as well as knots of Un-Men breaking ranks. The news of the Dreadking’s death was spreading fast, and the Free Armies gathered under Janus were pressing their advantage. Even now he could spot a troupe of fearsome Crag Giants being whittled away by Allied attack; their very flesh calving away with loud snaps under the assault of a Zanbari blade ballista.

Janus felt tears sting his eyes. In his heart of hearts, he had never truly believed this day would come. When the Southfold fell; when Kariana lay dying in his arms; when his body screamed under torture in that damn Quran’ar jail; whenever any hardship had faced him, he had always comforted himself and said that it was leading up to this moment, but deep down he could never quite make himself believe it could really be done.

And yet here he was, the nations of the world gathered under his banner, the Dreadking slain, and Un-Men slaughtered or fleeing at every turn. This is what victory feels like, he thought. This is what peace--peace after so much war--finally feels like.

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

Emperor Janus Kadath--The Dawnbringer, Lord of the Free Kingdoms, Master of the Regent’s Council, and Champion of the Daggermount--slumped wearily in his throne, chin propped up with one fist. The Grand Hall--200 cubits in length, made of red marble, with floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows all down the East wall--was filled fairly to bursting with courtiers, noblemen, bureaucrats, and petitioners, all clamouring to be heard.

The same as every other day.

Chamberlain Clavius was outlining the ongoing labour disputes between the Rangnar Dwarven Mining Clans, and the Buoyant Monks of the Highcrown Mountains. Apparently the mountains were very rich in magestone and mithral ore, but something something forbidden valley, something something sacred burial ground, something something potential profits, and now everyone was whining for Janus to solve the problem.

He could remember visiting the Buoyant Monks, back in the early days before a single nation followed him, when he could barely even swing a sword. Their hermitage floated on a cloud of hymns, and never touched the ground. You could only get inside by taking a leap of faith from one of the Highcrowns’ ice mesas as the temple flew past; and if any less than 77 of their members were singing at any given moment, the whole structure would come crashing to the ground.

He’d visited the Rangnar Dwarves as well, much later in his career. Their underground cities burrowed under the ice cap, and cultivated a type of insect which sweated alcohol to be burned in the vast furnaces. They served the same stuff in their pubs, where the thermostat always doubled as a bar tap.

Janus couldn’t remember much about his time with the Rangnars. He suspected it had been fun.

Clavius was still talking. He had moved on to discussing the problem of the Chinandar Rebels in the southern jungles. Apparently the issue was complicated because the Rebels--although defiant of the Empire--still fought to protect Imperial cities in the region from the leftover tribes of Un-Men. They were therefore venerated by the local populace, to the extent that it was thought many Legionnaires would disobey the order to attack them.

Janus missed the days when all of his enemies had been pig-faced cannibal-rapists.

As Clavius raised the topic of guild union reform, Janus fantasized about killing him for about the millionth time. It would be laughably easy. The most expedient route would of course be a quick working of Stormcraft, to fry the balding Chamberlain with lightning faster than he could say “three percent tax increase.”

That wouldn’t be the most fun approach, however. Janus may have had a few extra pounds around his waist these days, but the Kingsblood still gave him the strength of a dozen men. With a short run-up and a good follow-through, Janus reckoned he could punt Clavius straight through the window depicting Prince Amular of Varnath, and down the rocky cliffs to the ocean, two hundred feet below.

The Dawnbringer tapped his sword hilt thoughtfully for a moment, then sighed and shifted in his seat, allowing Clavius to continue. Guild union reform was important, after all. It wouldn’t do to let the weavers and glassblowers get too uppity.

Emperor Janus Kadath--The Dawnbringer, Lord of the Free Kingdoms, Master of the Regent’s Council, and Champion of the Daggermount--slumped in his throne, and silently longed for the bad old days.

[James]

Silver:

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

Total – 15/25


I’m going to be honest, Silver. That was not a favourite of mine out of the things you’ve written. It wasn’t necessarily poorly-written. Indeed, on the contrary, the writing was fine. But the story just had no oomph. I wasn’t entertained. I wasn’t invested. The narrative itself was fine. There were some moments of vivid descriptions that really lighted up the scene.

But the story itself? It was lacking. I’ve probably read a dozen or so of your stories now and I feel confident enough to pick out one specific thing that I think you need to work on.

You need to make the reader care.

You’re very good at describing situations and conflicts and the like. But they don’t become truly entertaining for the reader; they don’t mean something to them if you don’t make them care. Care for the characters. Care for the setting. The plot. Something. Anything.

You had three “heroes” cut down in the blink of an eye. I didn’t care. I didn’t know who they were. I got a brief little introduction to them and that was it. I knew next to nothing about them. But if I had saw them interaction with each other, maybe a hint towards a family, a moment of humour, an insight into their personality then… BOOM! Now their death is tragic! It means something.

Use of Topic? It was fine while not being adventurous. And I did like the twist that you made that these characters set to go on a quest were killed in the blink of an eye. I didn’t see that coming.

Also, I’d row back from opening the story with such a well-known phrase. Especially when giving it to a character as a piece of dialogue.

Reffy:

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

Total – 17/25

Dammit, Reffy! This was frustrating on so many levels and that’s both good and bad. In so few words you’ve started a story that I wouldn’t mind reading more about… and there’s no more. So in a way, that’s good. You made me intrigued.

But that ending was ridiculously abrupt. Absurdly sudden. It didn’t feel like an ending at all. In all of your other Flash Fiction, there’s a clear ending. You finish and you go “that felt right”. Here? Nope. It just ends and you go “did… did she forget to copy and paste another paragraph?” It almost felt like you’ve decided you can’t write more than 150 words and therefore panicked and fled your keyboard once you got close to it.

Besides that, though? The writing was strong. A tone was already set. Intrigued was built. It was well-written and I wish there was more to it.


Woeful:

Spelling & Grammar - 0/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 5/8

Total – 16/25

I think your one major issue to fix at the moment, Woeful, is grammar. Which, if you listen closely, will draw an intake of breath from everyone on the forum. Because I’ve never put a whole lot of stock on grammar. I say it’s the least important thing in the writing process. Heck, that’s what copy editors are for, right? Improve on other things first.

But I actually think you’re a pretty decent writer. There was an entertaining story, self-contained, that managed to keep me interested. I would have liked a little more background information about what was going on. But overall the story was strong.

The writing could have been given a little more detailed. It read a bit like a skeleton. Except from the start, where we got some nice descriptions, everything else sort of breezed passed at a rocket’s pace. But, like I said, it was generally written-well and we did get some good pieces of descriptions.

But the mistakes? They hit the flow of the narrative hard. Sometimes you forget a word. Frequently, you were missing commas. I feel like if you can cut those mistakes down then we can get a better idea of where the prose stands and where it can be moved onto.

While I’m trying to whiz through these judgments to catch-up on my scoring, if you’d like I can go back and PM you a review just pointing out some errors and how they should be fixed. It’ll have to wait a few days, but I’m happy to help if that’s something you think can help you.

Injin:

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

Total – 17/25

I think that may be your best score yet, Injin? Either way, it was a fine effort that you entered. Although, I don’t get the semi-obsession with angels with this competition.

You’re cutting out errors in your writing, which is always good to see. The next thing I would warn you of is word repetition. Using the same word over and over again can really hit the flow of your piece. For instance, I think you used “portion” twice within three words of each other. Change words up, flex the old vocabulary muscle.

The story didn’t exactly go anywhere, and the angel bit felt rushed at the end there, but on the whole it was okay. It felt like a beginning rather than a completed story, but it was okay. Overall, you’re definitely approving and I’m looking forward to your scores continuing to rise.

Orombur:

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

Total – 19/25

I tell you what, Orom. You have a remarkable ability of being a tidy writer. There never seems to be anything that glaringly jumps out at you when you first look over a piece. I see you’re writing and just get the impression I’m going to get something crisp. And I nearly always do.

Besides one missing space, I didn’t spot any glaring mistake. And the tidy factor that I’ve already mentioned makes it an ease to read. I wasn’t entirely about the Use of Topic. I liked the sea element, it’s something you don’t see often. But I’m not sure if I felt the High Fantasy vibe. Maybe it was the name New Portland, I’m not sure if that really made it feel High Fantasy.

Saying that, though, the story was exceedingly easy to read and kept me interested. I do wonder if maybe a little more information wouldn’t have gone astray, but I could get by on what you gave me. The fight scene should have been padded out a bit more, but I understand you were working with a word limit. If you weren’t though, I would have definitely made the battle a bit more long lasting and a bit more descriptive.

But overall, a good little story. I really wish you write more Orom because you don’t often hit a really bad note.

Bloodeye:

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

Total – 19/25

It’s been good to see you writing, Bloodeye. Very good indeed. And that was another fine entry from you.

There were far fewer mistakes this time, which is a good thing. In fact, there were only a few (little things like an “a” where it should have been “an”). And it was quite a breeze to read. My only complaint there is that while the rambling sentences were important to the style, sometimes they got a bit too rambling and lost the flow of the piece.

It was a great Use of Topic, again. You’re showing a knack for being able to deliver original, interesting concepts that still fit the topic. The format was more Lovecraftian than High Fantasy and yet you painted a picture of a High Fantasy world that was clear and intriguing. However, my only concern with the piece was that sometimes the style went a little too informal. I know I’m getting quite picky but the modern day swearing and the in-jokes always lend it more readily to an urban fantasy over high. And sometimes they just felt out of place and disrupted my entertainment of the piece.

But overall, great work again.

Taed:

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

Total – 20/25

Hmm. While this was still an excellent story (80% after all), I think this is one of my least favourite of yours in a while, Taed. On the technical side of things, I think I spotted only one or two mistakes. And as always it was a breeze to read. You know how to make a narrative flow and be a real pleasure to read.

I think my reservations for this piece comes purely down to identity. I’m not sure the story ever truly made up its mind what it wanted to be. Was it a parody or satire of the High Fantasy genre? At times, it felt like it (and did so brilliantly). And then at other times it took itself seriously and you were left wondering whether it was actually meant to be a serious story.

The writing was strong as always, though. Although there was an odd moment where it just felt a little clumsy like:

“After what seemed like an age, his breathing steadied and he got himself under control.”

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that sentence. But because you write at such a high quality, it sticks out as just feeling… odd. I don’t really know why, the end of the sentence sounded so basic perhaps.

But a good story nonetheless.

Scoreboard
1st Taed - 20pts
2nd Orombur - 19pts
2nd Bloodeye - 19pts
4th Injin - 17pts
4th Reffy - 17pts
6th Woeful - 16pts
7th Silver - 16pts

Round Three Winner is Taed

[James]

ROUND FOUR

[/SIZE]

Topic: A Beginning - Write me the beginning to a story. Show me you know how to draw in a reader. The story doesn't have to end. In fact, it shouldn't. The story should end at the end of the beginning.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 24th July[/center]

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Shadowed by her mum, Daisy opened the door; tiny hands barely able to operate the handle at the grand old age of two. Today she's a doctor, with stethoscope wrapped around her neck. Yesterday she was a fire-fighter. Tomorrow would be a new day. Who knew what would Daisy be?

[Injin]

A dream is what started it all. I was in the midst of a great plain, surrounded by the grandeur of nature. The weird thing about that is that I hate the outdoors with a fervent passion, and on top of that, most of the grandeur was a menagerie of things I was allergic to. Wild hey? Check. Horses? You know it. Mule deer droppings? Ayup. The oddest part was that I was fine. No sniffles, no eyes beginning to itch, nothing. For the first time in my life I was in the outdoors and something wasn’t bothering me. Then I woke up.That day was almost as weird as my dream, honestly. It started out normally enough. I woke up, brushed my teeth, put in my contacts, etc. A little later one is when it started getting freaky. Mostly because my school decided, “Hey we’re going to close for the week for seemingly no reason and not tell anyone until they arrive”. Seriously, not cool. I would have stayed in, but looking back, perhaps it was best that I wasn’t home at around 9:00. That was sort of when I got robbed, at least that is what the police told me, but perhaps I should move back a little bit here.

After I left school, I decided, hey I might as well go to the deli with Rico and Remy. Rico and Remy were, I mean are, my best friends in the world. Mostly because they are my only friends, but I’ll get to that when I get to it. Anyways, we headed to the old deli and guess who was there. Guess? Wait, this is a narrative, never mind. It was that oaf, Jerry. Fricken’ asshole always saw himself as some kind of marine or something, wearing that old army vest his old man kept after the War. Jerry came up to us and said the same thing he always says when he sit down some place, “Hey shitheads, that’s my seat your sitten’ in”. As he was somewhat stupid, he didn’t realize we weren’t sitting at all, but standing. So I simply respond, “Sure, sit down Jerry, it’s all yours”. So he falls the fuck over, because we were standing, and me and my best bros laughed. Jerry was always a dick to us, but the upside for us was that the dumb bastard was blind.

This is where the weird thing happened, so pay attention. He didn’t stop falling. Yeah, he wasn’t ever seen again. Oh? How long after the fact am I saying that? Two years. I’m not exactly in high school anymore… Wait, stop trying to side track me. Anyways, Rico said to me, “Dude, what the fuck happened to Jerry?” and I said, “I dunno, guess he fell through the world or something”. We sort of found out later that is exactly what happened, but really enough asides. So we sit down to eat, finally, and Trisha comes up to us to take our orders. Now, Trisha was the nicest lady I ever did meet, but boy was she scary to listen to. Her voice seemed to limp across the air as it bled out and asked us, “Would you like to start with some Cokes?”

Naturally we all said yes, because damn it we love that shit. So while I was eating, something started feeling off. Now, what happened to Jerry already seemed like a weird thing in itself, but this took the cake, and the silver platter it was brought in on. The food was the best I’d ever had from this decrepit delicatessen. The omelet seemed to have been made from the Chicken Queen’s personal batch herself, and the Emperor of Swine must have added a piece of himself as a present to my taste buds. The weirdest part of all was that I hadn’t tasted anything since the Atomic Chile Incident of ’94 but seriously, I need to lay off these asides, they are murdering my overhead.

So Remy was all like, “Hey mon ami, I see that the texture of your omelet seems to agree with you”.

That Cajun bastard was pretending to be French again, but I let it slide, “No Remy, I can actually taste this. Damn this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted!”

Remy looked at me like I was mad, “It’s the only thing you ever tasted, aside from baby food mon ami. If you have indeed gained your taste buds back, which I doubt as such miracles in life are not wasted on young men like us, then they would be the only thing you’ve ever tasted.”

Of course Remy was right and we all laughed. That was sort of when the diner exploded.

[Inkdrinker]

“Well, you certainly clean up nicely,” said Fasdren. He was taller than I remembered him, but his ears were just as pointy, and he hadn't aged a day past twenty. He had colored his hair, it was long and white as clouds, gathered in a ponytail.

“You forget, I used to be one of these noble-folk lifetimes ago,” I said, clenching my hands into fists in the pockets of my old black suit.

“Stop lying Vic, I stopped believing you ages ago,” replied Fasdren, “and I retract my earlier statement, your suit's dusty, you need to shave, you smell like blood and cheap booze, and that dark mahogany mess of a head of hair could use a good brushing. You'll never pass as a member of any noble elven house, let alone the waiter you're supposed to be!”

I chuckled and he grinned, it felt good to laugh. “And who are you supposed to be in that piss-yellow robe anyway?” I asked.

“Piss-yellow though it be, it's the latest fashion trend and those high-society types love it. We'll see who makes an impression at the end of the night, me in my awful robes, or you in that ancient three piece suit,” He smirked. Fasdren reached into the pocket of his great yellow monstrosity and revealed a servant's badge. “This is for you. Tonight you're no longer Vicwyn Riverblood, you're Hadraine Sungazer, servant supreme.”

Fasdren handed me the badge, it was silvery and polished, I stared at my reflection for a small eternity before pocketing the dazzling thing.

“Couldn't have given me a better name?”

“I cooked that one up just for you,” Fasdren winked at me and I hated him.

“If I'm to do my job correctly I'll need my... effects. I trust you haven't broken them yet?”

Fasdren shook his head and produced a small bundle of things, wrapped in a white handkerchief. “'Course not. They're better than new.” He unwrapped It carefully and slowly. “Knife small enough to fit up your sleeve, but sharp as a serpent. Poison, disguised as spice, put it in wine or food. Length of garrote wire. And you'll find that ceremonial sword around your waste is not just ceremonial. Oh and of course your pocket watch. Whatever is it you do with that watch anyway?”

“Professional secret.”

He seemed annoyed at this remark. “I'll be going in now, the ball starts in 20 minutes. You can use the servant's entrance. See you on the other side.” Fasdren did an over the top mock bow, and walked through the tall oak doors.


Knife up my sleeve and poison in my pocket I headed for the servant's entrance. I was greeted by a multitude of servers and house-maids, gardeners and cooks. “You, new guy! Go down to the cellar and get a couple bottles of the 28 red,” said no one in particular.

I complied, finding my way to the cellar quite easily. “28 red. 28 red,” I muttered as I searched. There was wine as far as the eye could see in the large stone room. Wines that were as red as blood, wines with demons and horses on the label, wines from before most people upstairs were born. Wine whiter than snow and more golden than a treasure hoard.

After the initial shock of the room's size, locating the correct bottle was a fairly easy game. Three bottles ought to be enough, I thought, stacking them in a pyramid and tucking them under my arm. Up the stairs, “who wanted the 28 red?” I asked, peering around the room for someone to turn their head.

“Over here!” Announced a stocky man. “Pour an even amount in each glass then put 'em on the tray and you're ready to go. Good luck, I got a pheasant to season.” I nodded in acknowledgment and began the meticulous pouring work, careful not to spill a drop, wine this good was practically liquid rubies.

“Don't go out without your gloves,” muttered someone who may as well have been talking to me. It reminded me anyway, so I slipped on the silky white work gloves of the servants' trade. I could hear music start to play in the grand ballroom, the speech was over and it was time for the dance. Showtime. I stepped through the small hidden doors that connected the kitchen to the ballroom, my body unconsciously swaying to the beat of the intoxicating music.

It was a wonderful sight: the bright flashy evening-ware of the noble class, the lights reflected off of the crystal chandeliers, the smell of fresh dinner rolls, the hum of conversation and laughter, and the ever present soft, creamy, melt-in-your-mouth melody of the miniature orchestra.

I was unnoticed at first, as I walked around my predetermined route, but soon I had attracted a large selection of wine-hungry nobles. As each glass was stolen off my tray I eyed the thief, looking for signs of potential danger.

There. Across the room, sitting at the corner table. Short elf, brown hair, exceptionally pointed nose. Obviously concealed weapon in his dinner jacket. Knife? Dagger. Stiletto. Violent intent? Not sure. Protection maybe? Can't take a chance.

It was a precarious thing, balancing half a dozen glasses of wine and weaving through a crowd. It had to be done without incident, so it was. As I bobbed and weaved I stuck my free hand in my pocket and grabbed a pinch of the poison. I rubbed it between my gloved thumb and index finger, coating them in the sugar-like substance before dropping it back into the pouch. “Would any of you care for some wine?” I asked the occupants of the corner table.

They dropped the conversation they were having and turned to me. Some of them nodding and some of them shaking their heads. The brown haired man shook his head. This was a problem. I handed out the glasses to those who did want it, careful not to get any of the poison on my fingers on them. “Are you sure sir? You look positively parched,” I asked in the most persuasive tone I could manage.

“Yes I'm sure, I've had 3 already,” He replied.

“You must have some strong willpower to pass up a 28.” It was a last ditch effort.

“A 28! I could make room for a glass of that.” The man looked eager. It had worked.

I smiled, “certainly, sir.” I plucked a glass of wine from the tray with my poisoned fingers, making sure to get some on the inside of the glass. I handed it to him, He drank at it with enthusiasm, almost finishing the glass before I left. The poison would go into effect very soon. “If you feel a bit sleepy after that, the lounge is just through there.” I could already see the poison had started, his eyes had been a striking green before, now they were a bit softer.

He yawned, “I think I'll...” he closed his eyes and almost fell asleep right on the spot. “Take you up on that...” He put down the wine and sleepily wandered in the lounge's direction. Problem solved.

[Matteo ((Taed))]

On a heavy side table of rich, dark wood, a vinyl record spun lethargically. Its accompanying gramophone hissed and popped, filling the large room with some crackling operatic tune. High above, a ceiling fan with one blade missing revolved with equal laziness, its uneven weight causing it to wobble in unsteady circles.

The chamber was shadowed, and the sandstone walls were cool to the touch, but fierce, dry heat blew in like air from a blast furnace, passing through the columned loggia, which left one wall open to the outside, and billowing the gauzy curtains as it went. Beyond the curtains lay a narrow balcony, its yellow stones fairly glowing in the noonday sun.

Against one shadowed wall, a broad and ornate sideboard held row upon row of chilled liquors. Many of the colourful glass bottles were missing; still more were partially shattered, their ragged necks gaping jaggedly. Those which remained sweated fat drops of condensation in the brutal temperature.

A man lay sprawled across a large and overwrought armchair upholstered in green velvet; his body limp, his legs dangling over one armrest. The chair sat directly before one of the balcony-leading archways, at the border between the shadowed interior and the bright yellow sunlight which penetrated some way inside. A bottle hung loosely in one of his hands, and shards of broken glass were scattered around the chair, glinting brightly in the sunlit meridian.

The man started suddenly, coming up from some restless dream. He slowly pivoted himself the right way up, his chest vibrating with a subsonic, unbroken moan during the entire realignment. He pressed the heel of one hand to his temple, and kept his eyes stubbornly shut against the buttery light which assaulted them. Feeling the cool weight in one hand, he brought the bottle blindly to his lips and, finding it still partly full, emptied it in one go. A moment later, the bottle went sailing over one shoulder and shattered on the floor.

The man stood up shakily, glass crunching under heavy military boots, and stumbled towards the daylit archway in front of him. He was shirtless, but wore brown and grey fatigues to match the boots, and an empty holster at his hip. His short walk--more of a standing fall--ended against one of the narrow columns, and he finally deigned to crack open his eyes, even as he shaded them with a free hand.

At first he could only see featureless glare, but as his eyes adjusted he began to make out the city beyond. Squat, yellow-brown houses with flat roofs and square windows lay stacked and scattered as far as the eye could see. Colourful awnings and lines of laundry provided splashes of colour against the baked, monochrome backdrop, and here and there a few slender, glassy skyscrapers thrust up in proud anachronism from the humble underbrush.

Other than a peculiar stillness, the city appeared largely undisturbed, save for a few whorls of dark smoke that still rose in the distance. The man took his gaze off the horizon and focused on his immediate surroundings--the multifarious palace courtyards and outbuildings which surrounded his lofty vantage point. Nothing interesting jumped out at him, but the absence of several somethings told him everything he needed to know.

The man turned, and swayed carefully and deliberately back into the room. He passed a pile of naked women, sleeping atop a pile of pillows, and beneath a pile of empty clothes, then doubled back and quietly extricated a sleeveless brown jacket from between their tangled limbs. Putting the jacket on, he felt a bulge in one pocket and, after a moment of rooting around, he pulled out a severed thumb, still relatively fresh.

The man stopped, scrunched up his bleary eyes, and stared very closely at the thumb, which he held very close to his face. He moved it back and forward a few times, trying to focus. After a moment of this, he carefully examined his own hands, and counted off from one to ten under his breath. He looked at the thumb again, then shrugged, and tossed it casually aside.

The man continued his trek into the shaded bowels of the very deep room. A long wooden table ran down most of its length, and a bewildering assortment of weaponry lay piled on, under, and around it. The man stopped by the table, steadying himself with one hand, and picked up an enormous rifle; he quickly realized that he needed both hands to hold the firearm, and so had to spend a moment balancing himself before he could examine it properly.

The weapon was a meter and a half long, with a thick, blocky barrel, and what seemed like too many holes in the muzzle. It bristled with dials and levers, glistened with a patina of oil, and trailed streamers of comically large ammunition from both sides. The man gave it a thorough once over, bounced it up and down a few times in his hands, then snorted in derision, and selected instead a sleek, stub-nosed silver pistol. He slotted the pistol into the holster at his side, and tossed the giant rifle aside as absentmindedly as he had the bottle or the thumb.

The rifle made an ungodly clatter as it thudded into the marble floor tiles, and this was accompanied by a second clatter and a string of imaginative profanity, as someone started awake under the table and banged their head against its underside.

The man paused, then slowly leaned over. It seemed to take a long time for his head to get close to the ground, and once he got going he had a hard time stopping it from going all the way down. It was dark under the table, but based on the size of the shadowed figure, and the eloquent diversity of expletives which still streamed from it, he could make a solid hypothesis as to the identity.

“Zig. Time to get up,” the man said. He straightened too quickly, almost fell over, then steadied and turned back to the table. He began selecting other small silvery gadgets from the weapons pile, as well as a collarless, long-sleeved shirt of some shiny black fibre. He banged on the table a few times for good measure. A groan rolled up from underneath, peppered with more cursing.

“Bloody hell, Wolfe,” a disembodied baritone proclaimed. “Give a man a break. That’s no way to treat a hangover this early in the day.

Arcturus Wolfe glanced at the colour of light through the high archways. “I think its late afternoon.”

The deep voice pshawed. “Last night we led militiamen in an attack against the Distillery District because there was no booze left in the entire Merchant’s Quarter. It’s going to be too early for a very long time yet.”

Arcturus nodded silent agreement, but banged again on the table all the same.

“By the Hive Queen’s six-hundred tits! Stop that!”

“Not until you get your fat ass up. We’ve got company.”

The back of a large head appeared from under the table. There was considerable grunting as it pivoted around to face the right way up. The front of the head was actually hairier than the back; giant bead and astonishing eyebrows.

“You saw something?” the head asked.

“The opposite. All the looters are gone.”

The bearded face frowned and furrowed its brow. “Maybe they looted everything and went home?”

“That sound like any of the looters you know?”

The head disappeared back under the table, and a moment later the whole body came skidding out, rolling on a dolly track of empty bottles.

Nenteen Churanziggar ban Juranya came to his feet, then kept on going. Seven feet and God knows how many rotund pounds later he was standing upright, dishevelled but mostly intact. Arcturus tossed him an ornate heavy pistol from the pile, which sailed past the giant’s outstretched hand and clattered to the ground.

“That does not bode well for our chances,” he said, and turned to retrieve the weapon.

Arcturus finished outfitting himself from the pile, and made for the doors at the far end of the room. There was a splashing sound from behind him, as Churanziggar relieved himself into a mostly-melted ice bucket, before following in his wake.

They faced each other in front of the doors, and performed a final, fumble-fingered check of their personal effects. Arcturus glanced down the length of the room at the jumble of still-sleeping women. He thought they’d probably be fine through what came next.

“How many, do you think?” Zig asked, nodding his head towards the door.

“Enough,” Arcturus replied. “But we’ve got them outgunned.” He held up his tiny pistol, and thumbed a switch on one side. It hummed quietly.

“How drunk am I, really?” Zig asked.

Arcturus squinted. “Which one of you is asking?”

Churanziggar laughed, just as the still-playing gramophone suddenly cut off with a squeal, overpowered by some more powerful signal. A nasal voice echoed from its tarnished metal horn.

“Arcturus Wolfe. Nenteen Churanziggar ban Juranya. This is Chamberlain-Regent Pogall. You are hereby found guilty of illegal planetary immigration without a visa, as well as sedition against the lawful monarchy of Corbuda. You are sentenced to be deported into space without breathing equipment. Come out with your hands up.”

The two men looked at each other. Churanziggar stabbed a finger at Arcturus' chest.

"This is the last time I let you pick our vacation spot," he said.

The huge man turned and pressed his eye up against the door’s keyhole. He could see little, but got a general impression of matte-black tactical gear, and wicked automatic weapons. A lot of them. He pulled back from the keyhole.

“How long has this mudball been under tech sanction again? 400 years? I mean, they still use bullets for crap’s sake. That has to weigh in our favour.”

The duo stood in silence before the doors.

“I really am very drunk, though.”

More silence. More standing. From outside it sounded like people were getting tired of waiting.

“Did you ever really see a Hive Queen’s tits?” Arcturus asked suddenly.

Churanziggar waggled his ludicrous eyebrows. “Did more than see them, my son.” He turned away. “Not as fun as it sounds. More of a chore, really. I mean, with 600 of them and all.”

Arcturus eyed him. “I’m not sure if you’re joking.”

“I am very drunk.”

“Fuck it, let’s do this.” Arcturus kicked the door open and the two men walked out shooting.

[James]

Reffy:

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

Total – 17/25

I think you actually stand a chance of ending this competition at the top of the scoreboard. All from Flash Fiction! But I’m not going to complain, because it’s good to see you writing again.

Spelling, grammar and the flow of the piece was spot-on this time. I can’t fault you for anything concerning it. However, I feel you’ve really missed the point of the topic. I wasn’t asking for a story based on ‘beginnings’ (and if I was, you would have scored well). I was asking for a beginning to a story. I wanted to see whether people could identify the pieces behind a good beginning. You gave me a completed piece of flash fiction based on the concept of beginnings. Which wasn’t what I was actually asking for.

Other than that, though, I felt the piece was short and sweet. It was just a nice little story.

Injin:

Spelling & Grammar - 0/2
Ease of Read - 1/3
Use of Topic - 3/5
Entertainment - 2/7
Quality - 3/8

Total – 9/25

I am going to be harsh, Injin. And I really hope this won’t backfire. You’ve improved with regularity over the past year. So, for the sake of your writing, I want to cordon off what you did here and say ‘look, you’re better than this, take heart that you’re better than this and move on’. Hopefully, it won’t be the opposite and you’ll give up completely. Don’t do that.

But in all honesty, that was a mess. There were far more errors in that one story than you’ve had in the entire competition. And the stream of consciousness, which made up the narrative, was painful to read. I struggled to make it to the end. It was just weird.

And it wasn’t entertaining because of it. The narrator was a bit of a dick. It didn’t make any sense. I felt nothing to the story. I just wanted to reach the end and read something else.

So… yeah, a bit not good, Injin. Go back to what you’ve been doing earlier on. Keep it simple. Concentrate on the small things. And make gradual improvements. Don’t pull up the entire floor and try something new, which is what it felt like you did here.

Oh, and don’t centre format your text. It makes the whole thing looks messy.

Inkdrinker:

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

Total – 18/25

Oh, I liked that story. That was good.

There were a few problems, especially missing commas, but overall it wasn’t too difficult to read. And I think you’ve really hit the components of a good beginning. You gave us hook, but didn’t reveal too much and therefore built intrigue. You introduced characters and a hint of a plot. It was just a really good job.

Entertainment was high because of that intrigue you built. I was wondering what was going on and wanted to read more to find out the backstory to these events. And the writing was quite strong, with a nice flow to the narrative. One tiny thing I would mention is that I would always lean to writing out numbers in full, rather than actually using the number itself.

But nevertheless, a good story.

Taed:

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

Total – 21/25


When I saw the name ‘Wolfe,’ I grinned. I knew Arcturus was about to appear. That name belongs in every story, no matter the genre.

I think I noticed one mistake, and it was a typing one with a missing space. Other than that, everything was spot on.

I did take a point off for Ease of Read, though. The start was a wave of paragraph of descriptions that just kept coming and coming. They were all excellently written. But it felt too much. I was starting to get bogged down. And then you moved onto the appearance and movement of the man and everything got great.

It was entertaining to the end, I flew through all 1,700 words (yeah, I noticed it was a tad over length!) and wanted more. We both know it was well-written. It’s very rare for you to write something that isn’t. However, just on the use of topic, I felt like perhaps it was too rounded? It could have easily stood as its own story in a way. It doesn’t need anything more to it to be finished. It can also work as a beginning to a wider story, but that factor did weigh in just a little bit.

Either way, another great story. Although, I still think the sentient spaceship story was the best from this competition.

SCOREBOARD

[/size]
1st Taed - 21pts
2nd Inkdrinker - 18pts
3rd Reffy - 17pts
4th Injin - 9pts

Round Four Winner is: Taed[/center]

[James]

Round Five
Topic: THE ARENA ROUND - Finish this story. 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 - 31st July

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold such nonsense.

[Bloodeye the Bai Ze]

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold such nonsense. However, much like any good Russian Reversal, it was nonsense that held you.

They might have been considered fortunate had this been Soviet Russia.

In that case, they'd have far more pressing concerns on their minds then the black, ungainly monstrosity that had itself perched on their ottoman. The couple could only stare blankly as the beast stiffly adjusted the derby hat on its head and let out a puff of smoke from a vigorously glowing cigar.

"So," the creature spoke, its voice sounding like it mouth-washed with a mix of gravel and razor blades that morning. "I'm your new neighbor."

Mr. Dursley's mouth fawned open slightly. His mind, as small and impotent as it was, couldn't quite comprehend the action of speech in which this being seemed to be able to utter forth.

Mrs. Dursley only pinched the corners of her cheeks with a grimace. She was less receptive than her husband. It was something that those of illy functioning minds could react to such circumstances with an outwardly showing of stern resolve that hid an inglorious amount of stupidity beneath.

The silence in the living room was as heavy as a sauna without the heat or the sweat.

The creature cleared its throat, the garble of marbles rolling about in its trachea loudly.

"Um... sorta... nice weather... for Britain... I guess?" The monster's voice was as inquisitive as quarry-like. "Not that I get to see nice weather very often. I mean... you don't get too many high-pressure systems rolling about the deepest pits of Hell these days. Maybe back in the old Sheol years, but not anymore. Lucifer kinda likes things... uh... climatized? I guess that's the word I'm lookin' for."

Mrs. Dursley was the first to find her voice.

"Dear. That dog is talking."

"Mag! Ssshush!" Mr. Dursley chided. "P-perhaps if we ignore it, it'll just... tottle off."

"I can hear you." the hellhound snorted, releasing another plume of smoke. The smog had a slight twinge of annoyance to it with a hint of burning sulfur.

"Oh um," Mr Dursley choked. "My apologies. It's just that we don't get too many... hat wearing! Yes! Hat wearing dogs here."

"At least not this far from Poplar." Mrs. Dursley added, causing her husband's already sagging face to sag ever more.

"Uh huh." the demon deadpanned.

"Mag," Mr. Dursley turned to his wife. "You didn't happen to buy our tea at that organic store, did you? Because I feel like they mixed it up with some bad weed."

"No. Our tea came from our regular grocer."

"You aren't hallucinating," The demon interjected, scratching at it's ear. "Hallucinations are never as good as me."

At that moment, there was a knock at the front door. Normal manners would imply that one wait to be let in, but the young woman felt no need to wait for such things.

"I'm sorry I was just- CHURCH!" She exclaimed as she rounded the corner of the entryway. She nearly leapt on the creature as if to pin it to the ground, but settled instead for roughly rubbing it's chest.

"I am so sorry!" The woman huffed. "My dog just has this habit of slipping his chain and getting into places. I'd love to ween him of that behavior, but I just don't have the time!"

She then turned to cigar-chomping lupine "Now now Church. You're a naughty doggy! Let me get you home and-"

"But I'm not done telling them about hallucinations!" Church the hellhound blurted at his master, dropping his cigar from his mouth. The former piece of tobacco didn't even have a chance of burning a hole in the Dursley's carpet as it suddenly dispersed into a small cluster of flies and gnats.

The woman's blank expression said a lot, her instant palm to her forehead said even more.

"Church... did it ever occur to you that regular people don't, you know, think that dogs can talk?"

"They also think we can't look up. But hat's beside the-" The hellhound stopped and placed a paw to it's chin. "Oh. Ohohoho! I see now. Yeah... I kinda fucked up there."

"Kinda? You "kinda fucked up"? No. You royally fucked up!"

"That's ironic seeing as we're in England. I should go talk to the Queen."

"No more talking!" the woman shouted. "We're here to hunt demons! Not make social calls!"

"I'm just being friendly." Church whined.

"Knock it off." the woman grabbed her hellbeast by the collar and proceeded to drag it towards the door.

"Ow! No wait- ow! Stop pulling!"

The woman reached the door. "Sorry about the inconvenience. It was nice meeting you." She proceeded to open the doorway with one hand and struggle with the creature with the other.

"No! Wait!" The monster barked. "Have either of you seen Black Shuck around here? Son of a bitch owes me fifty bu-"

The door slammed shut hard enough to echo through the house.

The Dursleys sat mystified for a few seconds before Mr. Dursley let out a gruff sigh.

"Americans."

[James]

Bloodeye:

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

Total – 17/25

That was bizarre. Which isn’t necessarily a good or bad thing. However, I do think one of the things you need to work on is your grammar. You’re reaching a point now, Blood, where your writing is good but its standing to be hamstrung by a few errors like misplaced apostrophes or missing commas.

The use of topic was fairly good, I suppose. I liked the switch you did straight away from the beginning. But I was really hoping for fantasy to stay away from the Dursley’s living room and to see something completely different.

Other than that, it was decently entertaining and decently well-written. It was good without ever being great. It was amusing without ever being truly funny. But a good story, nonetheless.

Scoreboard

[/size]
1st Bloodeye - 17pts

Round One Winner is: Bloodeye[/center]

[James]

LEADERBOARD

[/SIZE]
1st Reffy – 68pts
2nd Taed – 63pts
3rd Bloodeye - 57pts
4th Injin – 57pts
5th Inkdrinker - 48pts
6th Lilam – 39pts
7th Croswynd – 39pts
8th Silver – 33pts
9th Woeful - 32pts
10th Orombur - 19pts
11th Astrael – 18pts
12th Jordoom – 17pts
12th Allya – 17pts
12th Jackal – 17pts
15th Mena – 15pts

[/center]

ROUND WINNERS

[/SIZE]
Round One: Taed
Round Two: Bloodeye
Round Three: Taed
Round Four: Taed
Round Five: Bloodeye[/center]

Total Score Winner: Reffy with 68pts at an average of 17 per a round.
Round Winner: Taed with three wins out of five (and three out of three from the rounds he competed in).