Team ABBA Group Stage Round 1

[Sekot]

This begins Sunday August 6th at 0000 EST and will end Sunday August 13th at 0000 EST

Your prompt is:

Pick a story from any previous competition. I want you to choose one thing from it, a concept or a person, and I want you to write a new story about it. This will be the foundation for your future prompts. The beginnings of the web you will weave throughout. Did you really like that one character, did you really like this part of the story but hate that one addition? Here's your chance to recreate it. Bring me the fanfic!

Please include a link to the story you are drawing from at the end of your story. You will be judged on how easy or difficult it is to tell what you're inspiration was.

[Allya]

Begin Transmission - Prophecy 031977…
When the Ides of Rosen sang their knell
When the sky was painted black
When silver wings from Heaven fell
When the ground welcomed them back
When our blue waters turned to dust
When our green turned sallow brown
When our plowshares went to rust
When our towers tumbled down
Here we gathered, you and I
To build them up again
We used our hands to shield our eyes
To the blinding work of men
Truth whispers to darkened hearts
As we construct the frame once more
We are doomed before we start
What will be has been before

I see the world through a kaleidic lens and I can’t look away. The dining hall lights bounce off my eyes in fractious rainbows that cut through the fog trying to creep around my mind. The steady thrum of the fans overhead still pulse but seem to slow to half-tempo. All around me my friends and our other schoolmates have paused in unison. They stand slack-jawed and glassy-eyed with their bodies stuck in whatever position they held when the transmission began. Distantly, I feel the pain from my right hand which I sliced on a tray just a moment before.

I raise my hand to see a swath of red across my palm. As I do, I spot a blur of movement through my fingers. My eyes focus past my hand and settle upon a boy I’ve never noticed before. He seems similarly unaffected by whatever has stopped the world around us. My eyes meet his. The boy is standing still, watching me. He points up and then pulls his finger to his lips. I shake my head confused; all I see above him are the fans, the lights, and the ceiling.

The thrum of the fans begin to beat faster and in a moment they are back to full speed. All around me the others are waking up. My friends shake their heads and blink their eyes but soon resume the same conversation we were having just before the transmission. The people around us keep talking and eating too, as if nothing has happened. Was I dreaming? I hold my hand in front of my face again.

“And that’s why I think they should move the…Wren?” Escher stops and looks at me, concerned. I take a step back and bump into Aila who catches my elbows and keeps me upright. “What happened?” Escher rushes forward and grabs my hand. He points to a table against the wall. “Help me get her over here.” They lead me over to the table before I can get a word out.

My head is still spinning but I swing it around to try and catch a glimpse of the one I saw before. Through the tangle of diner’s limbs, I can only see his hand. He is laying a small card on a table just across the room. I strain to see more but I lose sight of him as my friends whisk me into the nearby chair. “Alright, let’s have a look at you.” Escher squats down in front of me and looks into my eyes. I try to bat him away but he grabs my jaw and peers more firmly. “You look drugged or like you’re going to faint. What happened?”

“It’s nothing, it’s a scratch.” I flip my hand palm-side up to show them where a light scratch has pierced the skin and is still bleeding. “I just need to clean it; that’s all.” It’s so strange, they look fine but they don’t seem to remember the transmission we heard or remember standing still just moments before. I choose to say nothing. I place my other hand on Escher’s shoulder and push myself up. “I’ll just duck into the ladies room to wash it off. Won’t be a tick.”

“Do you want Aila…?” I hear him asking for her to come with me but I’m moving too quick to answer. I have to get to that card. I focus on my steps as I weave past the diners. I’m still a bit dizzy from the message earlier and figure I must look half-drunk as I make my way through. But it’s finals week. No one will notice one more sleep-deprived girl tripping her way through lunch. I casually sweep by the table and slip the card into my hand. I grip it tight as I push into the ladies room, find a stall, and sit down.

The din of the hall is closed with the door and I’m thankful for the muted space to take a breath and gather my thoughts. The fog has lifted completely from my mind. I breathe in deeply and slowly, then breathe out before opening my hand. I’ve creased the card and a bit of the blood has stained the edges, but the writing is still perfectly clear. ‘Blood awakens ancient thoughts but memories are fleeting. If you seek what you’ve forgot then follow where we’re leading. If you wish to sleep once more, you need only stop the bleeding. You’ll hear the words as said before, unchanged from our meeting.”

I grip the card with both hands, willing there to be more. But that’s it. It’s just a cryptic message. I flip it over to find nothing but the intertwining symbol of our Three Sisters, the watchers of our world. It tells me nothing. All I know for sure is that I’m meant to follow and that I can’t stop this bleeding until I find him. I pull a bit at the cut and start to stand up. As I do, I hear Aila rushing into the bathroom.

“Wren, you still in here? You OK?”

I push the card deep into my pocket and step out. “Yeah, doing fine.” I give her a slight smile and walk to the sink to wash my hands. “I think I’m going to head upstairs though.”

“Do you want us to come with you? I’m sure Escher would…”

“No, don’t worry about me. It’s not that bad. I’m just tired from the late-night crams.” She looks concerned so I give her a quick hug. “Really, stay. I’m fine and I’ll see you at dinner.” As I’m walking out I look back over my shoulder, “And tell him not to follow. I’m really fine.” I see her nod before the door swings shut.

From the ladies room I make my way to the central hall and walk up the grand staircase to the upper levels. I head down the hallway to my room and then walk past my door to the end of the long passage. Each hallway links to a back stairwell and I have decided to use this more private route. I slip through the doorway and begin the long climb to the roof.

I ponder over what has happened as I walk upwards. It was so strange to see everyone standing there, still and vacant. The message on the card hadn’t helped to make anything much clearer. It seemed to indicate that my cut had somehow made me immune to whatever had happened to the others. But it didn’t tell me just what it was I had avoided. I can only hope I have interpreted the boy’s gestures correctly and that I will begin to find some answers on the roof.

My legs ache as I round the landing and start up the last flight of stairs. I trail my fingers along the intricate tile work that lines each side. It’s odd that even in the service stairwells the Hands create such detail in their work. Each flight has had a different theme in the tiles, almost as if they tell a story. I wonder as I open the door if anyone has ever taken the time to read it.

I step out into sunlight yet I see nothing but roof lines and the far horizon. My shoulders slump in dissatisfaction. I have guessed wrong and have no idea where to turn next. I let the door click shut behind me and start walking towards the edge figuring that I might as well take in the view since I’ve walked all the way up. With my eyes focused on the distance I almost trip over his foot.

The boy has been waiting for me after all. I turn to see him sitting down and leaning against one of the large air compressors that dots the roof. He holds out his hand and I grab it to help him up. We walk to the edge together and look out. It’s a moment before I realize that I am holding my breath, waiting for him to speak. I breathe out and turn to face him. He continues to face outward.

“Have you ever watched them?” His eyes are still focused on the distance. I follow his gaze and see that the Hands are busy reconstructing an unused part of the city. “They’re amazing things, always changing our world just when we need it in just the right way.” He points to another section that is starting to change as well. “How do they know? Who tells them when it’s time to change and what to change it to? Where did they come from?” He shakes his head. “We don’t question enough.”

I listen and in my mind I think that he is right. I know very little about the tiny machines that make our lives easier and more efficient. They change the city, that’s all I know. They seem to do their job well. No one complains. But I suppose I’ve never given thought to what or who gives them direction. Or even why they make the design choices that they do. They do seem to adhere to a specific style because as much as things change, they seem to always stay the same; a paradox I find suddenly unsettling.

“I’m surprised that you came; many don’t.” I study his face. He is young like me. He can’t be older than sixteen but he sounds much older. His green eyes look like they have seen more than sixteen years and his voice has a measure that only comes with age. “Most let the initial shock scare them.” He shrugs and kicks at the ground. “That or they aren’t smart enough to figure out the message.”

I hold out my hand. The bleeding has almost stopped and it has begun to throb. “Was it because of this that I didn’t end up like…,” I pause, thinking about my friend’s blank expressions, “…like all the others?”

He nods. “There are other ways to disrupt the signal but endorphins from pain are usually the first thing that wakes someone up. It has to be recent, right before the signal in order to work. It doesn’t happen often and, like I said, most don’t get very far after that.” He takes my hand and wraps a small bandage around it. “I can help you disrupt the signal for good, without pain, if you want.”

I take my hand back and flex it. It already feels better just being shielded from the open air. “You haven’t told me much.” I study him again. He isn’t dressed in the clothes of the academy. Instead, he’s wearing a long, worn, black leather trench coat and behind that some close-fitting clothes that seem to have all manner of compartments for holding small tools. His boots come up mid-calf and look as though they may hide some secrets as well. I’ve seen similar dress on a few people when I’ve stared out the windows of the academy late at night. I’ve often wondered as I watch them just who they are and what they do but those thoughts usually melt away by morning as the concerns of the day come to the forefront of my mind.

“Do you go to school here?” He shakes his head no. “Then why were you in the dining hall?”

“We look for those who wake.” The boy gestures to the pile of clothes over by the compressor. “This is my territory. I quite like it actually; the science academy is a more likely spot than some to find those smart enough to listen.”

My head is starting to swim again. It seems the more this boy says the more questions I have. “To what end? Why do you look?”

He smiles. It’s a boyish smile that I can tell he has used many times to charm his way through life. “I’m sorry; I can’t tell you much more until you’ve made your choice.” He unzips a small pocket in the lining of his coat and pulls out a box. “I have in here the way to keep you from falling asleep again. This will distort the signal, like the endorphins from your cut, but without the pain.” His eyes focus on mine and I feel the gravity of his words. “You have to decide if you wish to wake or dream.”

I think of my friends and their glassy-eyed stares. I think of how quiet the world became when the prophecy was transmitted; how time seemed to pause and even the fans beat in a slower tempo. My mind is filled with questions and before me is a boy offering answers. Still I fear what comes with knowing. “Will it hurt?” It’s a silly question but I’m biding time as I puzzle over my choice.

“For a moment, yes, and then never again. But you cannot take it back. You must be sure.”

I look at him and his clothes from outside the walls of the academy. In all the time I have looked out those windows at night it has never even occurred to me to step outside. I have been asleep. What else have I closed my eyes to? I turn to face the section that the Hands are changing and watch as they tear down the old structure. “What do I have to do?”

The boy opens the box and pulls out a small needle. He leans in over my right ear. I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin as he whispers, “I’m Oz.” Then he squeezes my left arm with his hand and presses the needle into the tattoo just behind my right ear. My arm jumps a bit but his firm hand holds me in place. I feel something cold flood though the veins behind my ear. The icy feeling seems to follow the circular route of the Three Sister’s mark we all bear as it prickles through every cell.

Oz is right. The feeling only lasts a moment. Already I feel the warmth rushing back but I also feel a bit light-headed. Still clenching my left arm, his hand holds me upright a second longer before helping to sit me down gently. He sits down next to me and waits silently as the feeling passes through me. I focus on the new structure the Hands are now constructing in place of the old one and on the colors that have spread across the sky as the sun starts to dip behind the buildings.

It’s nearly dusk before I speak again. “So what happens now?”

He stands and holds out his hand to me. “Now you go back to your friends. You act as though nothing has happened. You think about today and look for me tomorrow evening after dinner. I will find you.” He takes my outstretched hand and helps me to my feet.

“And what is it that you have done? Will they be able to tell?” I feel no different now than I did before our meeting. The cold feeling has left my veins. I fear that whatever he has done was not effective.

“The receiver is in the mark. It’s in all of us.” He comes close to me again and pushes the hair back behind my ear. His fingers lightly touch the mark of the Three Sisters. “The Hands, there is much we don’t know but we know enough to reprogram them. I’ve injected them into your bloodstream. They disrupt the reception just enough. You will still ‘hear’ the new prophesies but nothing else will happen. You don’t forget and they don’t see.” I’m not quite sure I understand but I nod all the same, weary of learning new things for the moment.

He walks me to the stairwell door and pauses with his hand on the latch. “Tonight you will start to remember and that is important. We don’t have all the answers. Every person we wake is a possible new piece of the puzzle. What you remember could help us all so pay attention.” I look at him, confused. I don’t feel as though I have forgotten anything but he seems sure. I am through the door and down the first flight of steps when I hear his voice echo lightly down to me. “Remember, not a word to anyone.”

I round the last flight of stairs and run smack into a very harried looking Escher. “Where have you been? We’ve been everywhere.” He glances past me up the steps. I don’t turn to look because I know there is no one there.

I shrug and try to look casual. “I just needed some air.”

He looks past me again and, seeing nothing, grabs my hand. “Well, let’s go to dinner. You hardly ate any lunch and the bio-engineering final is tomorrow. I follow him but feel an itch in my mind at the idea of a bio-engineering exam. It seems wrong. I remember all the lessons and know that I am ready but I am unsettled just the same.

We head into the dining hall where Aila has already grabbed our food and is waiting at the table. “There you are!” She beams at Escher, “I knew he would find you.”

“She says she was getting some air.” He sits down beside Alia and shoots me a questioning look.

I smile and shrug as I take the seat across from Alia. “Oh Wren, you know you’ll be fine! You’re always at the top of the board on exams.” I nod as I take a bite of my dinner. Alia is so sweet and I figure it’s better to let her turn the conversation. Besides, my head is full of new information. The last thing I want to talk about is school.

They keep talking but I hear little of it. I agree when I should and laugh in all the right places. I eat my dinner without noticing what it is. I return my dinner tray and ghost walk through the evening. The world I’ve always known, moves around me as I walk through it without touching. I feel I have walked these halls and spoken these same words hundreds of times before. Yet the sameness has never bothered me. I was comfortable, I was happy.

Now it is the differences that bother me. The classes feel wrong. Bio-engineering for a level nine? It never seemed odd before but now it is blaring signpost in a fog of memory. The fog seems to fold in on itself and I feel the shades of old thoughts creeping just outside my vision. Small flashes shine the haze and the shapes of figures long forgotten hide in theses glimpses. I am awash in uncertainty as I drift through the evening.
I hear my door click behind me and feel the latch leave my hand. I am alone in my room and with my thoughts. My feet slip from my shoes. My head rests upon my pillow and in a moment I am lost to the fog that has crept into my mind.

I see her, a smiling child in a simple white dress. A blue ribbon is tied in her hair. She is laughing and safe. She picks the flowers on the hillside and brings them to him. Father. She blows the puff of white in her hand and watches as the seeds take flight. Her eyes become my eyes and they follow the seeds as they float into the sky. They melt further until they break free of the atmosphere and become tiny points of white, indistinguishable from stars. The pin pricks of white move deeper into the black and begin to travel faster and faster until the stars are streaming past them in a river of light. They spread into the void, a million points of hope. A universe fills my mind as the seeds move further away from one another. I follow one pod and race to catch the source until at last I am upon it, three seeds spinning as one and moving with purpose. They are joined together and move each other in an effortless dance. They move so fast that their edges blur and soon I see it. They are forming the mark of the Three Sisters. Hypnotized, I reach to touch them and as my finger reaches their center a flash of light blinds my vision. I awake with a start. I sit upright, panting and sweating with the girl’s laughter still ringing in my ears.

Father. These are the memories Oz spoke of. I breathe and then replay my dream, trying to recall each detail. Hopefully some clue will help my new friend find what he seeks. Perhaps then he will give me more answers. I glance at the time and see I still have several hours before dawn. I close my eyes and this time find a welcoming and quiet black. I am asleep in minutes.

Filtered sunlight warms my eyes and slowly brings back from my dreams. I awake before the bell as I always have and go about my normal morning routine. I find comfort in doing the things I always do to get ready even as my mind drifts to yesterday. In short order I am washed, dressed in my class uniform, and am pulling back my hair into the infinity bun that is all the rage at that moment. I am inspecting myself in the glass when I hear a familiar knock on the door.

“Enter.”

The door slides open and Aila glides in, landing gracefully in one of the two chairs by my window. “You’ll never guess! Oh today is going to be so fun. I wonder why they’re here. I bet they’re going to name someone new. Oh my gosh, what if it’s you?”

“Aila?” She keeps talking but making little sense. “Aila, who is here? What are you talking about?”

She blushes. “Oh sorry, the Oculi. They’ve come from the temple for exam day. They are all along the halls. Just, you know, watching like they do. What do you think?” She’s practically trembling with excitement.

“I think they’re creepy.” And I fear they are here for me. What if Oz was wrong and they know that I remember the transmission. What if those blind watchers saw everything? “I mean, the masks over their eyes, what’s that about? And the metal on their heads; creepy.”

“Wren.” She speaks in a hushed and worried tone. “Working for the Temple is the highest honor. Why would you say that?” I pause. Aila is right, I would never say that and so I shouldn’t.
I smile, “I don’t know what I’m saying. Of course I would be honored.” I smooth my skirt and hold out my hand to her. “Come on, let’s go get some breakfast before it’s all gone.” She smiles and grabs my hand. I pull her up and in a moment we are out of my room and moving briskly through the halls.

It’s hard to look without looking but I do my best. The Oculi are everywhere today. The buzz in the halls is that they are here to watch the exams. I can only hope that is correct. I try to keep my thoughts on the exams as we pass them. I have heard that they can see our thoughts. Why else would blind acolytes be called Oculi? We are not so cruel as to name them so ironically.

The Temple is a part of our everyday lives yet rarely do I recall seeing the Ocs within our halls. They are much more imposing in person. They have placed themselves at every corner and turn. They stand stoic and silent. No loud noise or sudden movement seems to phase them. It’s like they’re not really here. They are out of sync with the rest of us. Even their clothes separate them from us. We are clean and bright. They are flowing and dark. I feel the overwhelming urge to go back to my room away from unseeing eyes but I fear the attention this might draw. I grab Aila’s hand and squeeze. “Let’s hurry. These pre-exam jitters have me feeling sick.” She nods and we make our way faster through the halls. As we finally round the corner to the dining hall I think I see an Oculi’s head turn to follow us.

We fill our trays and sit down. I eat as steadily as I can, surprised that no one has approached me. They have said nothing. They have made no move. They seem indifferent to the change in me. Perhaps they are not as all-seeing as we were led to believe. I smile and take a few bigger bites.

“You know what it is?” I speak between bites with my mouth full of breakfast. “I have never known someone who became an Oc. Did you ever think about that?” Aila runs her fork around her plate in silence. “It’s just, who would choose to lose their eyes? And if they aren’t choosing, are they forced? There aren’t that many blind people? What do we really know about them anyway?”

“Wren, maybe we should just talk about something else? I don’t think…”

“I’m just saying, does anyone actually know an Oculi? Like it’s their sister one day and a watcher the next?”

Aila shakes her head and keeps staring at her plate. “Are you feeling alright? Why all the questions?” The fork in her hand is trembling a little bit. I am pushing too far.

“You know what? You’re right. This is a weird line of thought.” I take another bite. “My mind’s just all over the place today.” Really I wish to be anywhere but in this building. I feel caged, ready to bolt. I grab her hand. “Hey, what if we just blow off the exams today? Go out into the city instead?”

She pulls her hand away. “What? No, Wren, we’ve worked so hard. You more than any of us!”

She’s scared and confused. I’m acting so strange but she doesn’t know what’s changed in me. I have to pull back. I smile at her. “You’re right. I’m just jittery, that’s all. It’s been a long season.”

Aila nods and seems to relax. “I know, but it’s almost over. How about this, we can grab Escher and go out tonight. The Oculi will be gone, or exams will be over, even if we’re caught it won’t be a big deal.” I smile, of course she wants to bring Escher.

“That sounds like fun! I can’t remember the last time we got out of here.” And I can’t. I feel like I’ve been walking these halls forever, looking out of windows and through the glass panes in doors, but never passing through them. How long has it been? “Ok, we’ll do the exams and go tonight after dinner?”

Aila nods. “I’ll tell Escher to meet us. He’ll love this idea.”

We finish eating and go our separate ways to our exams. I go through the motions of my day. I take my tests and I know I am scoring well. The knowledge is there. I eat lunch, I walk the halls, and I keep my mind clear around the watchers. As I pass, I fear that they turn the heads to follow. It’s not so easy to keep a mind empty. It takes effort and vigilance. I have no practice at this.

But I make it through the day and am relieved to find myself breathlessly waiting with Aila for Escher to arrive. He shows up, trying to look cool but clearly agitated. “I hate this idea.” Aila looks crushed; her shoulders slump in resignation. “What if we’re caught?”

I’m not about to let his mood ruin my plans. I want out, now more than ever. The walls feel closer, like they’re touching my skin at every turn. I need to leave. I place one hand in Aila’s and another in Escher’s. “Oh, come on. It’s end of season. Break is in a couple turns. What are they going to do?” I pull on their hands. “Let’s go live a little! Before we start this race again.” I feel him giving in.

“Alright,” he laughs, “fine, what’s the plan?”

We make our way down a back staircase and through a service hall. All the staff are still in the upper halls dealing with the evening meal. The place is empty. We follow signs until we find ourselves outside in the brisk night air. My skin tingles with excitement. We are out!

We furtively walk along the bricked alleyway, expecting our progress to be halted at any moment. We hold hands until we spill onto the bustling street at the end of the alley. Aila lets out a long sigh and I realize I’ve been holding my breath as well. I breathe and take in the new tableau.

Rêve thrums with energy as people and vehicles rush before us. It all seems to flow in secret rhythm and even the buildings are part of the act. Their sleek, chrome shells capture the light and blare into the darkness. They jut into the night sky, blocking all notion or memory of stars. The city shines the dark, leaving little room for any other light. Its beauty and bustle is electrifying. Already, I feel Aila and Escher pulling me further onto the street. We’re here and we’re ready to explore.

There’s some discussion about where to go but I have my mind set. “I want to see what they built.” I’ve interrupted them both. “The Hands. When I was on the roof I watched them tear down and rebuild. I really want to see it.” They look at me and shrug. It’s as good a destination as any and it’s an adventure!
It takes me a moment to get my bearings. Rêve looks so different from below and it’s hard not to get caught up in the stream of movement. But from every angle, we can see the city center. The Temple of the Three Sisters sits at the heart of our metropolis and all streets lead to her. She’s the perfect landmark to find our way. The perpetual beacon of white light that beams from her highest point and into the night sky can be seen from every point in the city. Looking at her skyline and working out from there, I see the top of the new building, our destination.

I watch her as we start walking. Unlike the polished buildings that surround us, the Temple’s façade is ornate and intricate. Every inch is covered in fractal patterns that extend to the large glass windows and through the iron work that graces every curve and angle. I notice her curves for the first time and start to wonder what she looks like from above. From here it seems like the building might mimic the seal of The Three Sisters. I marvel again at the detail of our Hands and wonder at deeper meanings.

“How do they all know where they’re going?” It’s Escher. He’s actually questioning something for once. I hide my surprise as best I can.

“What do you mean?”

“The city changes all of the time. But these people,” he points as someone brushes by us, “they know exactly where they’re going.”

I admit, I have no answer for him. Our halls never seem to change but I’ve watched the city change night after night. “Maybe they just use the center as a guide?” It seems as good an answer as any though it feels incomplete. He shrugs and we keep moving.

It’s an hour before we reach our destination. In that time we have marveled at the latest fashions, peered in windows of giant stores, and nearly been run over by the Phantom cabs that rule the streets of the city. I have never given the cabs much thought but nearly smacking into one brought them to my attention. Upon truly seeing them, I realize they are the only vehicles on the road. Everyone is either walking or catching a Phantom. I add it to my growing list of things to think about.

The outside of the building we’ve come to see is much like all the others. It gleams in the streetlights and the line of wooden and beveled glass doors at its front are sleek and welcoming. As we watch, a couple exits the building and the sound of dance music wafts onto the street.

“A nightclub!?” Aila tugs at my arm. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted to go dancing?” She pulls us inside. The music envelops us as we move through the crowd. The dim ambience is punctuated by pulsing lights that bounce off the sequence of the ladies’ dresses around us. Some are dressed to the nines with swinging shifts that flutter around their bodies as they move. Others are more reserved, looking like they just came from work, with men’s ties loosened and ladies jacket dresses billowing slightly at the knee. But they are all loud, smiling, dancing, laughing, and crushing in on one another.

It’s fabulous.

Soon I’ve lost them. Aila and Escher have melted into the crowd and I am left to feel the electric pulse of the music and move with the bodies around me. I dance with them and let the feeling rush through me. My head swims in the rhythm. I dance until my feet hurt, until my limbs ache, until I am cool and drenched from sweat and in all this time, I forget them.

It is the transmission that brings me back.

Begin Transmission - Prophecy 033299…
Still breathing in the black
Still whispering a name
Still waters can’t reflect
Absent light

Still moving forward, back
Still standing here the same
Still feel the disconnect
Absent sight

Still reaching to abstract
Still burn to quench the flame
Still pulling to what’s left
Absent right

Still hoarding what I lack
Still grounded in the blame
Still hoping to perfect
Absent Flight

The music goes on but the dancers have stopped. Their eyes are glazed over like the kids in the lunchroom. They are frozen by the words. They are like machines processing a command. I search the crowd for my friends and spot them near the back of the room. They have found a table and look like they were about to sit. I move through the frozen dancers to reach them.

It’s as I move that I notice others like me. They are not hypnotized by the words. They watch me go to my friends. It is tricky work dodging the out-stretched limbs and dancing feet of these stone revelers. I move through them like errant branches on a dense forest path, careful not to disturb their stance or slumber.

I reach them and am about to place my hand on Aila when instead I feel someone grab hold of mine. “Do not wake them,“ he whispers. I turn to find Oz staring at me intently, a silent friend at his side. “We should go.”

I pull my hand from his. “I’m not leaving them!” My mind races. They will worry if I’m gone and I haven’t had time to tell them.

“They will not miss you. When they wake up they will think they were here on their own if you have gone.”

I pause a moment longer but I know I don’t have much time. The transmission has stopped and soon my friends will come-to. “Let’s go,” I hiss. He grabs my hand again and pulls me through the crowd. His silent friend trails behind us. I hear conversations resume just as the door closes at our backs.

I follow him through a kitchen where cooks are resuming their tasks and a server is picking up a tray that must have dropped during the transmission. We are unnoticed in the first moments and gone before they have fully regained awareness. From the kitchen we move through a long hallway that leads to double metal door. I assume it’s for loading in the kitchen supplies but I don’t have any time to really sort out anything as we pass.

Oz opens one side of the doors just enough for us to slip through and then quietly shuts it again. I find that we have stepped into a dark alley that must be behind the building I had entered with my friends. He turns towards the shadowed dead end and starts walking intently again.

I stop.

“What is this? Where are we going?” I find the black that licks the edges of the shadows deeply unsettling and feel my body willing me to turn the other direction.

“I know what you’re feeling. It will pass. You must push past it.” He almost sounds bored. He has said these words before. But I sense that he is afraid as well. I wonder how many turn back here.

“No, explain.”

From behind his silent friend leans in and whispers tersely, “There is no time!” I feel them gently push me forward. "We have to get you to Catch before dawn." I stumble a bit but remain upright. As I get closer to the shadows I feel a buzzing across my skin. Afraid, I step into the black.

This story incorporates elements from many of my worlds:
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4517/group-cake-1-german-chocolate
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4275/challenge-thread
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4047/septembers-writing-assignment

[J. Russell]

Parts of the world are scarcely populated by Homo sapiens, but that does not mean they are empty. Flora and fauna fill the gap left by the lack of human habitation. It seems a natural law that some living thing must inhabit any and every available nook and cranny on the Earth. Human beings carve out areas to live from this forested fabric because they have no natural habitat. Are hairless primates meant to climb trees? Are they supposed to live in jungles or plains? Maybe they are supposed to live in a nest made of the things around them. This could be a cave, a hut, a tent, or some other shelter.

One collection of these nests formed the small hive of a town William Cornett was heading to. It was nestled between two wooded peaks in a valley where a small tributary of the Kentucky River flowed. Hazard, Kentucky had a name that kept many away if they had ever heard of it, but Will knew his birthplace well. He'd left seeking adventure he'd read in dime novels, but he never returned. His letters always made it to his family, and theirs made it to him. It was always weeks in coming, but he remained connected for ten years.

No major roads connected Hazard with the rest of the world. There were only two ways to reach the government seat of Perry County: backroads or the River. Will took the latter with the cheapest possible small steam launch built from an old barge and a small boiler. Though the war was long over, the owner of the launch still wore his worn, gray forage cap. He was much older than Will, with white hair that blended with his cap, and he contrasted Will's youth.

The final stretch of the river gave Will some well-deserved time to check the newspaper the owner of the steam launch had from the week before. The August 20, 1891 edition of The Kentucky Post, a part of The Cincinnati Post for Kentucky, mentioned the ongoings of somewhere far removed as the launch continued downstream. There were no mentions of the reason William was returning home anywhere in the paper. It was not an important enough event to mention on any of the pages -- front, back, or page three.

No, the events that led the prodigal son to return was a misfortune detailed in a letter he received on the 18th, and delay after delay seemed hell-bent on preventing him from making it to the town. Rail-road workers on strike in Chicago, flooding of the Ohio River, and being unable to find acceptable travel arrangements down-river led to delay after delay.

Now, Will was approaching his ancestral home, and he wouldn't be long. He wondered how the rest of his family would be, and he wondered if they would recognize him from the memories of a decade previously. He wondered if they would be angry that he abandoned them. It had only been his mother who wrote him. It was a surprise when his little sister, Eliza, wrote him. No one else knew where he'd gone.

The sun was still low in the sky when the boat glided around another bend. The light streamed through the clouds higher in the atmosphere to turn the morning mist into a gold ocean suspended above the ground and above the water. Will admired the sight from behind his paper as the town again came into view.

Coal was the chief product of Hazard. The black gold of the era powered everything from the newest steam-ships roaring across the sea to heating systems in homes. Anthracite came from deep below, but it ended up covering everything. From the golden sea, the town rose. Its black, sooten buildings broke the illusion of heaven being here in the middle of the mountains. Each of the small towns along the river had the same effect. No visible reaction came from Will as the launch steamed along-side the barges of coal sitting at the shoreline on the outskirts of the town.

Rumbling and spewing smoke along the water-front, the ram-shackle machine fit in as it cruised to a halt. The small rucksack Will brought with him also fit in with the wooden buildings of the speck of sand town in the middle of the mountains. Will handed the boat-man ten dollars for the hundred mile trip, a price that seemed too high to him despite the remote location, and he turned to continue into town. Ten years hadn't done it much good, so Will recognized most of the surroundings as he went through the town.

He didn't have to travel far until he found the path that would take him home. It led a further 5 miles to Ary. It was a journey that would be lonely and slow. It would give him much time to think of the letter burning in his mind and sitting in his pocket. He'd gathered a few things from the six page message. In short, Eliza found the correspondence when mother fell ill. That compelled her to write and urgently forward the letter from Hazard to Chicago. It was only three days old when Will received it.

Mother fell ill, so Will felt that he was running out of time. No matter the speed he could travel the rough country-side, the distance would not pass quickly. Each painful footstep brought forth painful memories of a frontier child-hood with his mother running the small tavern marking Ary on the map.

The winding road finally forked north, and Will followed it through the primal forest to a clearing filled with the few buildings on Ary's Main Street. Bubbling Brook Tavern stood in the middle of the street, and the buildings decreased in size from there. A lady stood at the doorway clutching a handkerchief to her face. Her brown hair and brown eyes were bloodshot from obvious sorrow. The tear soaked rag fell the moment she saw William.


An entire family suffering from the numbness of the death of the matriarch may seem uncommon to most families, but that was the reaction of the entire Cornett line. For Steven Cornett, William's father, all thoughts of abandonment were forgotten and forgiven. His son returned in the hour of his wife's death. One soul departed. Another returned. It was either that thought or the moonshine lightning his mood. Steven looked down at his wife's coffin as it slowly descended into the grave.

Pastor Raleigh managed to stop in the tavern on the way to visit the Cumberland Gap, so the woman had a proper funeral on account of free room and board for the holy man. It was the small things like this rural socialism that made Will wonder why he ever left. Eliza joined Will and Steven by the coffin as it descended. To Will, she seemed the most affected by her mother's death.

As the shovel fulls of dirt hit the coffin with thudding that could be mistaken for signs of a premature burial, the family turned and walked toward the town and tavern again. There were things to do. Steven and Will knew that there would be some celebration at the wake. Mother was in heaven now. Soon, it could be hoped, the family would join her.

Eliza was lost in thought as the two men discussed their hopes for the future. Although there was conflict about Steven wanting Will to stay to run the tavern, they agreed to put their differences aside for the funeral. The trio arrived at the tavern half an hour after their loved one disappeared from above the earth.


It is no secret that liquor loosens lips. Most people know that. Steven knew and did not care as he blathered drunkenly to his son, "You know your mother never did know the best for the family. She may've been leading it, but she made mistakes. See here, if I was her, I'd never've had your sister around."

"That's unkind," Will returned as his sister sat across the room with Abby Gowers. They were both comforting one another. Will observed, "She's grown up to be a fine young woman."

Steven knew no one would hear above the din in the dance-hall mess celebratory madness, but he whispered, "I promised to keep the secret while your Ma was alive, so I guess I don't have to now. She's not your sister."

Will didn't find the joke funny. He frowned and turned back to look at the mourning girls across the room. It didn't seem right to say that, but Steven continued, "We took her in when you were a lad. Ma knew where she came from, but I never knew. All I knew was that she owed someone a favor. I don't think she knows, but you are never to tell her, Will. You know your ma wouldn't like that in life or death. She'll strike you down."

William only nodded and watched his sister to see if he could see any clues to her origin. She looked normal. She looked like him.



William was staying in the tavern the night the murder of Pastor Raleigh occurred. It was the night before he would leave for Chicago, but the murder changed the circumstances of any departure. Anyone fleeing would instantly be suspected of murder. The murder weapons were not immediately visible, but it appeared to the Sheriff of Perry County that he was bludgeoned to death with a large rod. He argued that it could only be a man of large build who could perpetrate a crime like this. Neither Will, Eliza, or Steven fit that description. Many of the coal miners did. His investigation went nowhere but underground

Will wondered if he should go, yet something made him stay. It was the following night when Eliza vanished.

In her room, Will found a diary belonging to his mother and two wooden sticks that he burned in the fireplace. The diary was old, dirty, and worn, but Will could make out his mother's name written in the front.

The entry it fell to only read: Eliza must never know about the trees.

Why did Will burn the sticks? They were shaped like human arms, and they were both covered in Pastor Raleigh's blood.


Drew inspiration from: awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4848/5-nymph

[Injin]

Chapter One

It was rude to keep the Director-General waiting.

The Sharpshooter arrived first. When the call came down from the Bureau’s Chief Administrator, Elizabeth hardly had to look up before the Sharpshooter came strolling into the room and comfortably rested her back against the far-left corner of the room. Her eyebrow twitched as she clicked her teeth, settling back down into her chair. She let out a quiet sigh and tensed before she spoke, the hands twitching before settling into a professional stillness. “How many times have I told you, Beata?”

“Told me what, Madame Director?” the Sharpshooter asked, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, “you called, I came. What else is there to tell me about?” Beata was dressed like she jumped out of a Wild West show, minus the flair. Her hat was ratty, her ascot singed and gnarled at the edges. Her gloves, taut over her hands and tight around her fingers, had tiny holes dotting its surface and hastily stitched up tears running up the side. Her blazer was the cleanest and most pristine item she had on and even that had scuffs, scratches, and a hole three inches above her heart. Her boots, shined as they were, were cracked and stiff, with nary a spur attached to either heel.

“Forget it,” Elizabeth said, clicking her tongue again as she sat up, her eyes trained on the door. If the Sharpshooter was here, then all it would take was a count of One. Two. Three.

“Have I been summoned?” the Spartan asked, her voice piercing, leaving both the Director-General and the Sharpshooter wincing. Zosime was a head taller than both Elizabeth and Beata, her gaze sharp. Adorned with white cloth with a red trim, the wrap constrained the bronze plating beneath, bulging uncomfortably ensconced in the silk that girded her. Her arms were mostly bare, the occasional ring fastened tightly around her upper arms and wrists, shifting uncomfortably with every movement. The xyphon at her side remained sheathed in its shining, yet well-worn scabbard while her spear, oaken and sharp, was held as both a walking stick and a threat. The grey curling up the side of her head showed no consistency but peppered hints of her age more than anything else.

“Yes, Zosime, you were summoned,” Elizabeth said, her eyes blinking as she rose to her feet. “I have an assignment for you. But first, let’s wait a few minutes. Our respective friend and agent should be along once he realizes that his lab assistant isn’t handing him another beaker. Right Zosime?”

“Should I fetch him so we don’t have to wait?”

The Director-General shook her head. “Do you remember the last time you ‘fetched’ him?”

“Is it truly my fault that menfolk of his time are so fragile?”

“He’s barely from a time that distinct from your own. You need to remember that and that human arms aren’t supposed to make a snapping noise when you grab them.”

“I think I would rather forget.”

As Zosime and the Director-General spoke, Beata’s eyes all but bore a hole into the side of the latter’s chair. The Sharpshooter said nothing, but her eyes remained solely on the object of authority in the room.

The Spartan clutched her spear as she trod over to the Sharpshooter, the two comfortably leaning back against the wall of the office, awaiting the final member of their crew. And waited. Waiting with the Alchemist was not quite a game so much as a trial in patience. The Spartan eyed the door repeatedly but made no move to extricate herself. The Director’s gaze was upon her after all. Beata kept her eyes on the Director, arms crossed as she kept perfectly still.

Half-frowning, Elizabeth looked at the other two women and back to her desk. “Does he think field missions are optional?” she muttered to himself, licking her lips idly. The Sharpshooter perked up, but after that moment of complaint resumed her prior pose.

Fifteen minutes later, a voice blared from the speakers throughout the Bureau.

“Isaac Tzul, please report to the Director-General’s Office immediately! That means now!”

“Beata, really? Get off the PA,” Elizabeth said, her tone flat and as her face grimaced. “Get him here. If he isn’t already on his way, having you meet him halfway would for the best. Go.”

“But-“

“Go.”

Tripping over herself as she rushed out the door as quickly as she could, the Sharpshooter disappeared as quickly as she had entered the room initially.

“Should I stop her?” Zosime asked, tapping her spear against the ground as she spoke with a tempered rhythm.

“No, Spartan. She’ll do as she is told to do and then she’ll come back as she always does,” the Director-General said tensely.

“I meant should I stop her from colliding with the wall just beyond your office again, but -“

“Fuck!”

“Never mind.”

The Director-General shoved her face into the assignment ledger and let out a small noise. Peeling herself away from the book, she wearily drew lines with her fingers along the rows and found that, as she had already recalled, none of the other teams were at full complement or available.

--------------------------------

“Sorry,” Isaac said, brushing his beard with his fingers, “you know engrossing my work is?” The Alchemist was if nothing else, bleary-eyed and remorseless, shrugging as he entered the room. His robes, formerly a deep blue, were covered in three layers of soot of different composition, only to be matched by the cake of soot and grime that was his untrimmed beard. Halfway down his chest, the beard showed signs of being taken care of at some point in his life, but no longer. The base of it by his chin was far more twisted, spreading the coarse hairs fair and wide without goal or aim. Beneath the initial robe, hints of an immaculate, black undershirt remained visible in glimpses with each short, jerking movement of Isaac’s body at every impulse. The pack on his back was burnt and filled to the brim with strong smelling and rare materials.

“No, Isaac. What was it this time?” the Director asked.

“Vesuvian Ash. You see, I have a theory that the reason that it preserved the fallen so well was that each bit of ash from that volcano is actually a soot-covered mote of pure life energy.”

“No.”

“No? But I was sure that I could detect life when I touched it to my tongue and-“

“I don’t have time for this. Your mission starts now.”

Isaac opened his mouth to protest, but nodded his head, standing back as he was joined by the others.

The three agents stood at attention, each looking directly to the Director-General for their task. The Alchemist again bit his tongue, the Spartan crossed her arms, and the Sharpshooter stood at the ready. “To the task at hand,” she said, tapping the wall behind her as a small clip began to play. “We have reports of a Basilisk terrorizing 16th Century Switzerland, particularly in the hills southeast of Berne. Or multiple Basilisks. From what we can determine, the actual number is unclear. Until we know for certain they’ve all been eliminated, you are not to return. One of the grandfathers of an important member of the Swiss Federation is lost in the woods and if he dies, Switzerland will cease to exist. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Madame Director!” all three agents shout, saluting her as they kept otherwise as still as before.

“Dismissed. Bring the corpses if you can, you know the drill.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

The bright, ethereal portal opened before them, the glowing, peaceful light beckoned the three to their mission.

“Time to get to work.”
---------------------------------

“Where is Switzerland?” the Spartan asked, as they stepped into the alpine forest.

“Europe,” the Sharpshooter said, her eyes trained on the horizon, eyes scanning for a tall tree.

“But where in Europe? Beata?” Zosime asked, turning her head only to find that the Sharpshooter was already gone.

“Did you expect something different?” the Alchemist said, sighing as he looked down at his feet.

“Where is Switzerland?”

“Northwest of Greece.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, oh. Now keep your eyes out, we must find this Snake soon.”

“Right,” Isaac said, scratching his chin, before turning back toward the Spartan. “You mean Rooster, right?”

“What?”

“That’s what a Basilisk is. A fully-grown rooster with a snake’s head as a tail.”

“Ridiculous. Why would a snake allow itself to be molded into a tail?” the Spartan asked, her eyes wide and her brow tensed as she shook her head.

“I, well, that’s actually a good question. Maybe I’m remembering this wrong.”

As the Alchemist flipped open his book, the Spartan’s eyes trained themselves to the environment around them. Despite the occasional scampering noises that occupied one of the tall trees nearby, the scene before her was quiet. Zosime breathed softly as she slowly sat down, spear lain on its side on her thighs as she began to think. Inhale. Exhale. She repeated the action, eyes closed as she focused on only that short, shallow movement.

The Alchemist turned page after page, paper clipping and shuffling in his hands as he looked for their quarry. The Spartan nearby remained still on the forest floor, spear in hand, quiet.

“So.”

“So? What is it, Alchemist?”

“There are three entries for Basilisk. The Basilisk of Cyrenaica…”

“The Snake. As I said.”

“the Basilisk of Castille, which is as I described, and, uh.”

“What?”

“The Basilisk of the Alps. Which resembles a giant, black horned lizard that sometimes resembles a snake or a rooster depending on what season it is.”

“Another preposterous animal. How can it resemble a lizard, a snake, AND a rooster?”

“Well-“

“Hey, I think I see something. About a click or two north. Looks like a giant black chicken going mad with rabies!” the Sharpshooter shouted, her voice echoing in the trees.

“Could you be any louder, Sharpshooter?” the Spartan said, voice hushed yet project, eyes stern with brows furrowed, “you’ll attract its attention. Get down here, now.”

“What?” Beata shouted loudly to Zosime and Isaac, the Basilisk turning its twisted head over and over until it looked directly at her. “Oh.”

Letting out a strangled and barely constrained sigh, the Spartan took a few steps forward toward the Sharpshooter’s tree and caught the unconscious agent in her arms as she tumbled, broken branches and leaves clinging to her form.

“Rooster form, then?” Isaac asked, “drat. She locked eyes with it and without a real rooster nearby.”

“Can you rouse her, Alchemist?”

“It might some time. Basilisk curses are not as easy to counteract as you might think.”

“Do it. We have less than five minutes to spare before it finds us.”

Wordlessly, the Alchemist put down his pack and began to gather poultices and vials, sticks of spark and cinnamon as he laid it upon the clean grass. “Two,” he muttered, grabbing a vial, a carving knife, and wormwood. Briefly peering up to the tree, he shook his head. He stared again at the unconscious face of his friend for a few moments and then closed his eyes. “Again?”

Zosime slowly moved forward, slicing a scar across the ground every few meters in an arc, stepping further forward until the brush was indistinguishable from the tangle of trees between the party and their quarry. As she slowly backed up, she turned her head to the alchemist, “Did you bring liquid fire with you today?”

“That’d be convenient about now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes or no?”

“No. I wasn’t planning to burn down the ENTIRE Swiss Alps today.”

“Anything useful?”

“Do you want me to focus on Beata or not?”

Both the Spartan and the Alchemist locked eyes, the former less than a meter away as she slashed across the ground one final time. “Be quick. I need her eyes open to deal with this beast.”

“It’s been two minutes, Spartan.”

“Two minutes?” the Spartan asked, blinking at the Alchemist, “Surely we have-“

With a thunderous roar, the Basilisk broke through the trees, crossing the farthest line and wreaking havoc as its trail bubbled with acrid vile ooze. The air smelled of sewage rotting in the sun as the ground behind the beast slowly dissolved in its wake. Trees behind it, formerly full of life, slumped as their trunks melted into organic slop.

“Gods above, is this really a Basilisk?” the Spartan asked aloud, pulling a disc out of her breastplate and jerking it to the side. Within moments it expanded outwards and her trusty aegis curled tightly against her forearm.

“Less talk, more distracting,” Isaac said, his eyes laser focused on grating the wormwood in his hands. Rocks shot in every direction as the beast slammed its beak hard into the ground beside Zosime, knocking her back as she struggled to keep her balance. The crater crackled with the same drenching poison as its trail as the beast leaped again, its wings wide and barbed as it swept to take full advantage of the Spartan’s unsure footing.

Still, the Spartan did not fall, even as she was pushed closer and closer to where the Alchemist was preparing to rouse the Sharpshooter. The Spartan sidestepped, again and again, her footing clumsy yet firmly near or on one of the lines she had so delicately cut into the ground minutes before. Further, pushed back until she was barely a foot away from her prone companion.

Isaac’s fingers shook, his whole body shivering as he shook the glass container repeatedly, sweat dripping into his unkempt beard as the concoction was finally finished. “Push the אָרוּר beast back!” he yelled, his voice strained.

“Understood, Alchemist.”

Zosime leaped forward, his spear thrust before her as it plunged deep into the leather-like hide beneath the layer of feathers it wore. With a startled howl, the Basilisk shook, its entire body puffing up as the spear was held deeply in place. Eyes now trained completely on the Spartan, the great beast swiped at her, just as she pushed the beast further back.

Pulling her spear out, the Spartan circled the Basilisk, slicing at its haunches as small dribbles of blood sprayed with each scratch. Yet as she did so, she took a step into what had been its wake. Cursing loudly, Zosime slid sideways, right into the swing of its snake-headed tail, sending her flying sideways into the dirt by the tree where the Sharpshooter had fallen. Stumbling to her feet, the Spartan wiped the acidic muck from her boots just as she heard three shots crack through the air of the clearing.

“Beata!”

“I’m here, sorry about that,” the Sharpshooter said, bracing herself with her rifle as she used it as leverage to get up. The Basilisk seemed barely fazed, the wounds rendered invisible as it shook its feathers.

Gulping down a vial of red, warm fluid, the Alchemist frenetically began to go through his ingredients, occasionally lobbing small, lit grenades as the creature was again distracted by the Spartan’s slicing movements with her spear. More shots fired as Beata’s bullets slammed home into the thick skull of the beast.

A tossed vial broke on the Basilisk’s skin, sinking into the feathers much to the immediate chagrin of the oversized rooster. “That should stop its שְׁטוּיוֹת,” Isaac said, breathless as he staggered down to one knee.

“It’s what?” Beata asked, turning her head for a moment.

Eyes widening, the Alchemist dived forward, tackling the Sharpshooter to the ground just as the Basilisk swept its tail right where the two of them were standing. The two of them bolted in opposite directions the moment the tail passed, the Alchemist toward his supplies and the Sharpshooter toward the Basilisk. Just as the Basilisk’s beak slammed into Zosime’s shield, shoving her down and back, heels dug into the dirt, Beata surged forward, pulling out a rusted, yet glinting sharp dagger from her breast pocket. Silently, she dove for its ankle, plunging the knife deep into beast’s tendon. “Get Tetanus you oversized dinner plate!”

Crowing loudly, the giant monstrous rooster struggled to turn on its other heel, only to find the leg cut nearly in half by the sudden appearance of the Spartan’s xyphon. A loud crack echoed the forest as the turn by the Basilisk was too much for its injury and the entire leg south of its mid-shin twisted and snapped clean off.

The Basilisk slammed into the ground hard, its face landing in its own acid. Letting out a panicked rattle, it shoved its remaining foot clumsily toward the ground. One of its claws raked the dirt around it, pushing its face out of the acid, but it was far too late for it to avoid the worst of it. One of its eyes detached and fell back into the muck as much of the skin oozed off and back into the dirt. Screeching, the beast stumbled forward, blood squirting from the hole that once held its eye.

With a swing of its giant claw, the Basilisk pounded itself harshly against the ground. Rocks, gravel, and loose clumps of earth exploded from the ground as it slid, missing any of the party completely as it plowed a path ahead of it.

“Now, Spartan!” Isaac shouted, lobbing another grenade into the gaping wound on its head.

The Spartan leapt, spear retrieved and leveled, and punctured the prone beast’s throat. Again, and again, Zosime stabbed as the Basilisk shuddered with each thrust. Stab. Slice. Sputter.

Soon the great beast only twitched and let out a tiny, hissing death rattle and breathed its last.

“That,” Beata panted, slumping against the tree she had fallen out of minutes before, ”could’ve gone better. Thanks for the save, Isaac.”

Isaac said nothing as he stared at the corpse of the Basilisk. Minutes passed as they all caught their breath, Beata’s eyes trailing from Isaac to the Spartan, and back to the Alchemist.

“Isaac?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“We won, didn’t we? Let’s use the beacon and get out of here.”

“He’s right, Sharpshooter,” Zosime said, plucking at the monster’s feathers, “if it matched the description in Isaac’s ledger, then it would’ve transformed back into a giant horned lizard in death.” The Spartan eyed the Basilisk as she prodded it with the tip of her spear.

“Yeah, so?”

“The ledger…was wrong? It’s never wrong,” Isaac said, head swinging around as his eyes scanned the clearing. Stumbling through the now uneven grounds, he sat down next to his original position and shook the ledger free of the Earth. “Basilisk of the Alps. Alps.”

“What are you looking for, Isaac?”

Isaac said nothing as his fingers traced every inch of the book. Eyes shot back and forth along the lines, reading the description again, breathing hitching as he looked at his finger.

“…Isaac?”

“Someone added this to my book,” he said grimly as he held out his ink covered finger. “Had to have been just before we left. This entry wasn’t here yesterday.”

“What? Who in Satan’s black, curly beard would do that?”

“Beata, Isaac,” Zosime said, her eyes widen and hawkish, “There’s no one around.”

“That’s a good thing, ain’t it?” the Sharpshooter asked, head tilted as her eyes widened. “Zosime, what’s wrong?”

“Sharpshooter, I need you to listen to me. No one else is here. We heard no cries for help, we found no one stumbling out of the forest, there is no soul save us to be found.”

Isaac stood up quickly, grabbing as many of his supplies as he could as he went upright. “We need to go, Spartan. Activate the beacon.”

“What’s going on? Why won’t you two be straight with me? Telling me nothing ain’t getting us anywhere,” the Sharpshooter said, her voice strained as she fiddled with her rifle.

The Spartan nodded as she pinched behind her ear and looked around.

Nothing.

“Oh no,” Isaac said, dropping his gear again and gathering what was left of his explosives.

“The beacon’s not…?”

“This was a trap, Beata,” Zosime said quietly, looking at the others grimly. “The beacon won’t activate because the signal is being blocked. We aren’t out of this yet.”

“Zosime, catch,” Isaac said as he tossed the Spartan a green tinged vial. “Beata, you too,” he said, repeating his action.

Both women caught their respective vials and drank. Beata let out a small grunt as she got the last of it down as the Spartan threw the glass tincture to the ground, shattering it. The Spartan and the Sharpshooter both looked to each other, both blanching as the sun, which had been high in the sky, was suddenly gone.

“Here they come,” the Spartan whispered, as the sound of dozens of clawed feet from all directions thundered in chaotic discordant stampede.

Stab. Slash. Slice. Bash.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Slice.

Boom. Slice. Wound.

Bash. Wound. Slash.

Bang. Carve. Wound.

Boom. Boom.

Thrust. Wound. Stab.

Bang. “How many-”

Boom. Slice. Wound. Wound.

Slice. Bash. Stab.

“How, how-” Slice. Wound.

“לעזאזל איתך!” Slice. Wound. Wound.

Slice. Stab. Wound. Bash.

Bang. Bang. “No end, No-”

“Sing a Kaddish for-“ Slice. Slice. Wound.

Bash. Bash. Stab. “No!”

“We can get-“ Bang. Bang. Wound.

Bleed.

“Stay here Beata, don’t-“ Stab. Bash. Wound.

“I can reach him, I can-“ Slice. Wound. Wound. Wound.

Bleed.

“Beata!” Stab. Bash. Slash. Thrust. Bash. Wound. Wound. Bash. Thrust.
Silence. Bleed.

Stumbling over the last smaller Basilisk corpse, the Spartan leveraged her spear to hoist the beast’s body off its quarries. Zosime touched her ear again.

Everything was now as it was before the carnage. The Basilisk bodies, which moments before had been piled high behind her, vanished. The ground, undisturbed and untainted.

The Sharpshooter and the Alchemist, unmoving.

The blue portal that had heralded their arrival glowed neon as it appeared, shuddering in the returning sunlight. The Spartan grimaced at its aura, taking her companions and walking into the light.

------------------------------------

“…Dear God,” the Director-General said, eyes shaking as the Spartan walked through the portal.

“The Gods can’t hear us anymore, Director,” the Spartan said, softly placing her friends onto the ground. “Their songs are silent. Injustice has prevailed.”

Elizabeth gulped, lips twitching helplessly as she sunk down into her chair.

“Director. I will give my report tomorrow evening.”

Blinking, Elizabeth’s mouth gaped, voice unfound.

“And, Director? The Alchemist. Isaac. He,” she paused. “He wanted a Kaddish. Where would I find it?”

“The Library,” the Director-General finally said, shaking her head, “the Library should have it.”

The Spartan said nothing as she walked, hands shaking. Piece by piece her weaponry clattered to the ground behind her as she strode ahead and out of the room.

“Alone again, poor Zosime,” Elizabeth said, small and quiet. She sat there, frozen in her seat, her gaze unflinching at the mission log. Two fatalities. Her hands found her face wet and cold, the calm azure glow that radiated from the walls feeling much more haunting as she sat, unable to do a thing to staunch the flow nor bearing of events. Failure.

This was a failure.

Inspiration: awritersrecluse.proboards.com/post/359938/thread

[James]

Irish Courage

The skeleton stared up at both of us. Hunched over, the body was still as tall as the tower behind it, and I found it hard to peel my eyes away from the card on the table. I regretted faking this particular reading now. The little, old woman across from me had turned from pale to sheet white. Pulling another card from the deck and placing it next to the skeleton, the thought crossed my mind that even if this was a genuine reading, there was no guarantee that death would not have visited the table either. She didn’t look that far away from an eternal night’s sleep. At least by faking the whole process, I didn’t have to feel bad about lying to my customer.

“Well, this is promising, dear,” I said, in a voice that sounded nothing like how a twenty-something year old bloke from Thanet should sound like. Simon called it ‘my Madam voice’ and would sometimes impersonate it when we were out in public. I hated it. It was just a performance, a part of my job; no one mocked him for wearing a suit to work. The old woman’s eyes locked onto mine. There was hope shining behind them. “Now, usually, the Skeleton, well that means death. Not for everyone, though, and you’ve got a lovely mix here. The Sweeping Maid signifies organisation and spring. Because of spring cleaning, you see. And this strapping lad here, what a looker, well, he’s a stand in for virility. So what that means, dear, is as long as you stay organised and you have some fight in your ticker, well the Skeleton won’t be coming for you.”

All of a sudden, the old woman was hugging and blessing me, telling me that she always knew I was a good boy. It was worth it for the uncharacteristically large tip left on my table as she danced off into the night. I smiled after her. The way I saw it, either the lie was right and all was well in the world, or it was horribly wrong and the old woman wouldn’t be around to rue the false hope. Pocketing the tip, I yelled out to Janet that I was done for the day, pulled off the ridiculous floral shirt I was forced to wear each day, slipped on a simple, black tee and disappeared into the coastal night.

Our apartment was one of many that sat atop the cliffs that flanked Ramsgate’s mariner. The glass panes of the windows constantly rattled from the sea breeze. After so many years, I now judged hair products on their ability to withstand the wind that whipped at me with every walk home. If I could reach the door to our building with most of my blond fringe still upright, then it passed inspection. Tonight, the wax stood strong and I made it back indoors, the summer night still British enough to chill me as I padded upstairs and stepped into my home.

Simon was leaning on the kitchen counter, his phone in his hand. He looked up briefly, flashing a cursory smile, the kind a person offers at a stranger who says good morning, and then looked back down at the phone. “I thought you were going to be late. Dan’s swinging by in ten minutes to pick us up.”

I bit back a sigh. Of course, Dan was coming. It was a Friday night. We’d bundle ourselves into the back of the old, croaking Ford and head down to Franks’ or Bar 101 like we did every week. If we were feeling particularly adventurous, we’d possibly head as far west as Canterbury, a whole thirty minutes away. The nightlife was just as repetitive, though, the same songs looped over week after week, the same people bumping up against each other, the same garbled conversations yelled out around tables and bars. I couldn’t deny it could be fun. Under the bright lights, the world’s existence only stretching as far as the dance floor, your heart fusing with the beat of the music, it was exhilarating to let yourself go, to throw your body into something wild and primitive. It was like a drug, a heady taste of freedom and the crash the following morning, a wasted Saturday drifting away like the boats leaving the mariner, and like a drug, nothing could match that first hit.

“How about we just stay home tonight, have a quiet one?” I said, knowing the answer already. I almost felt embarrassed asking the question, the warmth in my cheeks forcing out any of the lingering cold. Simon looked up at me, pulling that face I hated, the one which made me feel like I was an inconvenient pet. “Or we could grab some pizza and head down to the beach?”

“Come on, we stayed at home last week. What’s up with you lately? Feels like you bitch about going out every week. You know you love it once you’re there.”

Sometimes I loved it, but more often than not I pretended, faking it to avoid this very conversation. It was killing me, week after week, as boring as the porridge Simon ate for breakfast without fail for the last four years. Maybe, it would have been better to shout, to release the pressure building up inside me, to finally have this fight that had been bubbling slowly for the last year, but I was afraid of where the shrapnel might land. I shrugged. “You go. I don’t feel like it.” Simon didn’t both to say anything to me as I walked passed him to our bedroom and by the time I’d step back into the kitchen to find something to eat, he was gone.

Pressing my head against the cool surface of the fridge, I tried to pull myself together, sinews stretching to keep my emotions in check. More than anything, it was tiring. It wasn’t a massive explosion, tearing our relationship apart. The constant sniping and trickling resentment were more like pot shots into the hull, slowly filling the boat with water. The sea would claim it eventually. Over the slurried remains of a leftover lasagne, I struggled against the anxious detective inside me, eager to examine every decision that led to this moment, me alone in a dark apartment, shovelling a slop of barely reheated meat and pasta into my mouth.

I worried about everything. As a child, I’d fret about my little sister choking on pieces of hard food. My parents shook their heads as they watched me replace her carrots with my peas. At school, I panicked my way through speeches, homework and introductions. I could never ask someone out. I worried too much about them saying no. Then Simon came along, who never worried, who taught me how to feel the warm touch of the sun on my skin, who rested against me as we spent hours reading on the beach, who helped me drift through life without worrying about the threat of looming, dark clouds.

The problem was we were still drifting. We had been together for years and the anxiety had crept back in from the shadows. I was wasting my life here, in this dying seaside town, reading the fortunes of its inhabitants. Their futures were all the same: stasis. It was the only thing Ramsgate could offer. You would live here, day after day, and do the same thing you always did, until one day you died or escaped. From the day I first noticed the boarded up shops on the High Street, I always thought I would escape. There was a world out there, an adventure. Simon and I would see it all. We never did. Ramsgate sank its claw into us and we were frozen. Worst of all, he was fine with it. He didn’t care. While I yearned for purpose, Simon cared only for the next Friday, the next weekend.

Every so often, staring vacantly out to sea or a peeling wall, I thought about leaving. Leaving Ramsgate, leaving Simon, the distinction didn’t seem that important anymore. I would play out the conversations in my head. We’d sit down on a bench overlooking the beach. I’d say I need more. Then anxiety would slow me, grit in the gears of my mind. There would be arguments. It would all be over and there could be no going back. What if I was wrong? What if there was no adventure? What if Ramsgate was like everywhere else? The questions buffeted me like the wind. I saw Simon’s stupid face, could imagine the hurt in his eyes, and the idea I could do that to him would tear me inside. The anxiety would bubble and rise, threatening to overfill. I could feel it even now. Standing up, I raced to the bathroom. The cool water splashed against my face. Sure enough, a minute later, Simon texted me. He was sorry. We could have a quiet night next week.

Two things were wrong with my living room by the time I walked back into it. There was a door, old and made of oak, where no door had ever stood before. It was in the process of closing, revealing some discarded factory floor behind it. More distressing were the two men sat on my creaking, old, leather couch. One was like an ogre, bald and brutish, his pale arms and even the thick, meaty neck covered in a twisting pattern of ink. The other man was already small, and next to his companion, he looked like a beardless dwarf. His face was round, his cheeks rosy, and glasses covered his beady, little eyes. My brain could barely tolerate the sight of the two men sitting together, one looking like an accountant, the other an extra for an East London crime show. It was like seeing a lion prowling the ice of Antarctica.

“Ah, Nathan, we have a little problem,” the possible accountant said, getting to his feet. His friend stared blankly at the wall. “About you lying about my fortune. Now, why would you do that?”

***

As clear as crystal, I still remember the first time I read the cards. I’d never told anyone the truth about it. In my line of work, cartomancers want a grand tale of awakening but I had been a dumb kid, barely old enough to be left unsupervised. I’d wander into my father’s study and plucked his playing cards from his desk. He played poker, always insisted on using his own card and everyone went along with it because he was the only honest bloke in the game. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I shuffled as only a child could. I methodically split the deck, making sure that there was never a pattern of suit and numbers. With the cards in front of me, I waved my hand a bit, and thought very hard that the magic in the room with me could fill the cards, could make them change colour and pictures. Five black cards in a row would mean yes; five reds would mean no. Then, I asked my question: were we having pizza for dinner? I turned over five black cards and the pizza that night tasted even better than usual.

It was only later that I discovered cartomancy, like most forms of magic, was a dying art. A teacher saw me messing around with my cards, and on learning what I was doing, he asked to meet my parents. While other kids were allowed to miss a lesson a week to learn a musical instrument, I learnt how to read the cards. My instructor was a woman who looked as if she had lived through both World Wars. While the musically-inclined listened to how the violin sat within an orchestra, I was told it was important to remember that I was neither the instrument nor the musician. A cartomancer was a conductor. It was their job to direct the magic, to urge the magic to reveal the truth of the future, but never to force my own ideas on the fortune I was sharing. Mrs Worrester lent me her cards and then made me design my own deck, forcing me to choose certain known cards over others.

“Your deck is the orchestra you decide to build, the magic decides how to play it,” she said. “It is an expression of you, but it is at the magic’s mercy, not yours.” I was certain in my boldness. I wanted the broadest cards; I didn’t want to reveal narrow truths, I wanted to tell the world the future.

The Emporium on the beachfront hired me right out of school. The rocky sea matched my mood; I wasn’t telling grand prophecies to important people, instead, I shared the fortunes of old women and nervous teenagers. It was a job, though. Relevance would come later. That’s what I told myself. Soon, Simon came into my life, calmed the troubled waters and I felt at ease. Ambition dwindled and in the clear light that provided, I first noticed the side-effects. It was like the magic clung to my skin after each session. Urges would grow inside me to open a certain cupboard or to walk a specific route. The bubbling anxiety, the one always lurking just beneath the surface, reared up again. Lying in bed at night, I considered if I was directing the magic or the magic directing me.

Faking cartomancy was almost as much of an art as really doing it. It involved reading people instead of the cards. The first step was to strike up a conversation, see what was on their mind, what they really wanted from the session. Then the fine balancing act began. You had to tell them not just what they wanted to hear, but what they could actually believe. Out of necessity, I learnt who was an optimist and who was not. The key was to find the happy medium where the pundit could walk out of the store and feel like they had learnt a truth, a nice one, something that validated their life. I honestly didn’t know or even care if lying to help people was moral or not, and I still did the occasional real read as well. I found the side-effects lessened if I rationed the magic out.

The truth was there were two types of people in the world. Most people wanted to know their future. It was an idle curiosity, a passing fancy, and that could be incredibly dangerous. These people were happy in their lives, content to drift with the current, and an unexpected fortune could demolish that blissful state. So, when they sat down in front of me, and I saw this all etched across their face, I drew the cards and spun a story they wanted to hear. They left my room as stable as they entered it. There were some people, though, who needed to know their future. They stood at a crossroads in their life, and the dogs of fear or desperation circled them, waiting for them to break. I could offer them a lifeline, an insight into their future, a fortune that they could use to alleviate the stress. Not even once have I faked a reading for this group of people. Or, at least, that was what I thought.

Both the beady-eyed accountant and the bald, tattooed brute had entered my room today. Neither of them looked as if they really needed to hear their future.

***

“I, I didn’t lie,” I stammered, taking a step back toward the hallway. “I’m sorry if you got that impression but…”

The accountant wandered over to the set of light switches, flicking the living room’s bulb on and bathing us in light. Somehow, that calmed me. Maybe I’d seen too many movies, but I felt that if he or his friend was going to attack me, they would have chosen to do that in the dark. Even with the sudden arrival of illumination, the big man on the couch did not shift, did not change his gaze from an apparently very interesting bit of plastering on the wall. The accountant, though, took another step toward me.

“Look, Nathan. Let’s not play games here. I know you lied to me. You know you lied to me. I ain’t that bothered about it really. You had your own reasons, I’m sure. That’s fine. One hundred percent, not a problem, you do you, kid. But if you’re going to insist on lying about the lying, well, then you are not going to endear yourself to me. And let me assure you, Nathan, I am not the type of person you want someone taking an attitude to you. So let’s start over again. I’m Elliot Spencer. Charmed.”

Any relief I found in the comfort of a well-lit living room vanished. As long as you kept a passing relationship with current events, Elliot Spencer was a name instantly recognisable, even if his face was a secret. Crimewatch, the 10 O’Clock News, documentaries that were criticised for glamorising violence and crime, Elliot was the reoccurring character, a constant presence hiding behind more pedestrian figures. ‘The King of London’ one programme had crowned him and I had lied to his face. Twice. “How can you know the fortune was fake?”

“Now, we’re making progress,” Elliot said, a thin, cold smile stretching across his face. “I know you lied to me, because you gave two different predictions.” Elliot pointed first to himself and then to his friend, still staring at the wall, perched on the couch.

“Of course, I did.”

“The problem with that, Nathan,” Elliot started, however the words seemed to catch in his throat and petered away, his eyes going blank. He stared at me, but he didn’t see me. No life flickered behind his glasses. It was like he had died in a heartbeat, only kept upright by momentum.

The man on the couch, though, had moved. He turned his head, a smile on his ugly face. A broken nose dominated it. “Is how can the same man have two different fortunes?” The big man wandered over to Elliot, clapping him on the shoulder. Elliot’s body took the blow but his eyes didn’t move.

“See, this was a little test. Or maybe it was an interview? Whatever it was, you failed. But I’m willing to give you a second chance. Do you want it?”

I stared at the men in front of me, trying to understand. Contemplating the idea I’d been drugged, or this was all a dream, I rubbed at my eyes. The big man had started speaking but Elliot finished the sentence. The beady eyed accountant then fell silent, his words coming out of the thug to his right. The transfer was flawless, not even a syllable lost in translation. Oh. My brain caught up a moment later. I saw the mistake I had made. Two bodies, two different visits to my room, two different fortunes, but there was only one man. You can’t tell a person they’re going to have to rely on pluck and graft, and then later tell them they’re going to enjoy an unexpected windfall. They would only get suspicious.

“Do you have a preference to who you talk to? It might make this conversation move a little quicker than a glacier,” Elliot said, talking as the tattooed thug.

“I prefer you as that guy.” I nodded at the moonlighting accountant.

“Most people do. Why, I almost look like I could be teaching your little ones Shakespeare or the Bible. What’s threatening about that? I can walk into any building in London and not draw a single speck of attention. Now, that’s a privilege, son. Never forget that. But sometimes, you need a bit of muscle. A man such as yourself, I’m sure you agree. The problem with this line of work is how do you trust that said muscle isn’t going to wrap itself around your throat one day? Well, I took care of that.”

I nodded. I understood completely. My muscles relaxed, the tension slipping just an inch. I could relate to the need to be more than one person, to appear as different things to different audiences. It was the reason for my Madam voice. Women’s trust in my skills scaled directly with how camp I sounded. Whereas most men didn’t want their fortune told by a gay man in a funny shirt. They took comfort in the fact they were talking to someone who sounded like he had come around to fix their boiler. My line of work required me to play characters just as much as Elliot’s did. He just took it to another extreme.

“So, a second chance?” I said. “You’re not here to kill me.”

Elliot laughed. It wasn’t the manic laugh of a supervillain, more like a man down the pub with his mates. “Christ, my reputation precedes me. Look, if you accept my terms, I won’t harm a waxed hair on your head. But someone told me that you’re the best cartomancer in the country. And I could do with a little foresight in my profession. So are you ready for a little test, Nathan?”

“I suppose I don’t have a choice?”

“You are truly an oracle, son.”

“Alright,” I said, taking a deep breath. My heartbeat had returned to something resembling normal. I’d lasted this long with the most wanted man in Britain. If I played his game, I was going to survive. “What’s the test?”

“I need to know you’re the best. So you’re going to read both our futures with only three cards, show me some proper quality.”

Frozen in my own living room, my eyes flicked between both of Elliot’s bodies. Refusing wasn’t an option and neither was running. It had been years since I last read my own future. It was easy enough to push ideas of free will and determination into a dark corner when I looked into the future of the average punter. The question of whether Mrs So-and-So was following an entrenched path wasn’t something the normal person spent hours considering. As soon as I read my own fortune, though, the question muscled its way to the forefront of my mind. Was I setting my life in concrete? Or was it already written in stone? How could magic know what was going to happen unless it had already occurred? There was a reason Mrs Worrester suggested studying physics at university; she said it would ease my mind. I’d never found the time.

All those questions swirled around my head as I stared at Elliot. “I mean, I can’t… I’ll do your fortune, sure. But you don’t need me to read my own.”

“Au contraire,” Elliot said, moving to sit back down on the couch. He moved first with his accountant body, and then with the thug, until the ageing piece of furniture creaked under his combined weight. “Your future is just as important as mine. Consider it another marker. Insurance. If both of them come true, I know you’re the real deal.”

Resigned to my fate, quite literally, I eased my deck of cards from my trousers pocket and sat down in the old armchair across from Elliot. Joint predictions were not unheard of. They tended to be a gimmicky thing, something young couples did to cement their relationship. The occasional local sport team would venture to my room for a read. Shuffling the cards, I contemplated my line of attack. Unlike Margate F.C, Elliot and I didn’t have a fixed point, like a match, that could be concentrated on. Neither was there some hope for a common future that a couple might have. I placed my deck on the coffee table and imagined the magic in the air, concentrating on the idea that I could pull it down from overhead and push it into the cards themselves, a conductor leading his musicians to the appropriate arrangement.

“This is what the prediction is relating to for you,” I said to Elliot as I turned over the top card. A man stood in a kitchen, pots and pans flanking him, something boiling on an ancient stove. Elliot was laughing before I’d even explained what it meant. “The Cook. It usually doesn’t have anything to actually do with food, more like creating or producing something. I’m guessing you’ve got an idea of what this might mean?”

“Oh, let’s just say I’m having trouble with a certain kind of cook.”

My fingers tapped at the top of the desk. Every fibre of my being wanted to force myself into the cards, to tell the magic exactly what it had to pull to the top of the pile. Mrs Worrester’s words floated through my head, though. Cartomancy simply didn’t work like that. I lifted the card from the top and stared at it, my stomach dropping to my feet. A man and a woman, professionals ready for work, holding hands outside a house with a picket white fence. “The Suited Lovers. That’s the card for me.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It’s a relationship card,” I said, finding it hard to get the words past the lump developing in my throat. Simon’s face stared back at me from the shadow. The love, the arguments, the fear, everything bounced around to grab my attention. “It signifies stable relationships, the place in between burning young love and the familiarity of a life shared together.”

“Right you are,” Elliot smiled. I got the impression he was pleased with this card, as if it meant I had skin in the game. “Let’s hear this prediction then.”

I turned the third card over with a shaking hand. There was no point in delaying inevitable. I couldn’t run from this moment, even if I wanted to. Elliot and I both drew closer to the coffee table, peering at the final reveal. There was a priestly man, standing on a green field in flowing white robes. He had shockingly red hair, as if fire itself had claimed his scalp for a home. Shamrocks sat in the four corners of the card and a moon hovered over each of the priest’s shoulders. Whatever was left of my insides churned and swirled. I opened my mouth to explain what was in front of me, but my voice was locked away.

Elliot plucked the card from the table, holding it between yellowing fingernails. “Now this is a card I know well. The Unpredictable Irishman. Story of my life, this fellow here. A bit of a pain, but success afterwards, right?” I nodded, because that was all I could do. It was a simple view of the card, but simple is often enough. The Unpredictable Irishman meant there were going to be rough times ahead, something unfortunate, but in the end, you’d come out better for it. “Well, that’s a good enough prediction for me. If you turn out to be right, I’ll be seeing you again, Nathan. You should come to London. A man of your alleged talents is wasted here by the seaside.”

Elliot, both of him, was gone in the blink of an eye. The strange door slammed shut and joined its master in vanishing. The only remanent of his presence was the Unpredictable Irishman floating down to land on the table. I stared at it. A cog began to turn inside my head, one setting off another, and soon my brain was functioning again. Imagining Simon walking into the living room, I saw him march to the table and pick the card off of the surface. “So it’s just like Harry Potter then,” he laughed inside my head, and the sound broke my heart. “You’re going to suffer, but you’re going to be happy about it.”

Excluding the time I sat in my father’s study, wondering if I’d be eating pizza for dinner, I never understood why people wanted to hear their fortune. Maybe that was why I was so dismissive of them, so content to lie to them. I didn’t want my fortune told. Sitting in my empty apartment, though, staring at the Unpredictable Irishman, I realised with a heavy weight on my shoulder that I was someone who needed it. I was at a crossroads in my life. The red-headed priest looked at me, his eyes locked on mine, almost as if he was about to shrug his shoulders and say ‘come on, kid, it’s time for you to do this’. It was going to be painful; I was going to suffer. But I needed to know where Simon and I were going, to know if we were going to escape this stasis together or if it was a job for me alone. Whatever the answer, the confidence in knowing I was going to be the better for it kept the anxiety locked away in a steel box.

I sat in the armchair, waiting for Simon to come home. We needed to talk.

Inspiration was this story here: awritersrecluse.proboards.com/post/379647/thread

[J.O.N ((Dragonwing))]

War Wounds

Inspired by "Glasgow Show"
My round five entry of the 2014 AWR Cup
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4664/round-5-blurb-injin-dragon

A heavy fog rolled in from the river Clyde and twisted itself amongst the streets of Glasgow. It brought with it the smell of frost and the sounds of muffled noises in the dark of the night. For the Glaswegians it heralded the end of autumn and the beginning of a cold and harsh winter. Windows were shuttered and families took to huddling around their television sets too watch reruns of Doctor Who.

Not all of the cities denizens avoided the wet cold, and on a night like this the underbelly of Glasgow came alive. From dark alleys and slums of the city; its criminals, prostitutes and politicians came out to scurry about in the protective blanket of the fog. The city police were too uninterested in patrolling the streets; instead they took their time catching up on paper work and bean counting their monthly bribes.

Andrew McDonald didn’t have any paper work to file and he was far to unimportant to bribe if even he were to accept them. Instead while his co-workers huddled in the back-room smoking, drinking and playing poker he was sat at the front desk. He’d brewed himself a cup of tea and was reading over a book. He paid little attention to either of them. Instead his mind was on the recent email he had gotten. His older sister was back in town, after nine years overseas in the military.

He was wondering where they should meet up when the temperature of the foyer dropped dramatically and a slight breeze carried the mist inside. Looking up he saw a small girl push the door open and stumble in.

“Is everything alright darlin’?”

The girl didn’t seem to hear him. Hunched forward she laboured towards him, her steps barely a shuffle. Out of the fog and in the blaring white light of the building, he could see her strange clothes. She wore a black dress that seemed too large for her, wrapped around her like a blanket and left to trail along the ground behind her. Wrapped around her head was material of similar design, torn and used to hide her hair.

She looked like the Muslim women Andrew sometimes saw around the city. Except the clothes were tattered and left a trail of mud behind her.

“Miss? Do you need help?” He repeated, his voice concerned.

Had she been attacked?

She didn’t stop walking towards him though, he wasn’t even sure she recognised that he was there. He began to stand up when she looked up at him.

Her face white as ice, black eyes soulless and rimmed red from tears. His chair clattered to the floor behind him as he began to rush from behind the counter. Before he could reach the door to the lobby the girls makeshift dress slipped. As the torn cloth pooled at her feet, it revealed the vest underneath.

Wires were tangled haphazardly around cylinders strapped to the vest. The girl let out a sob as she pulled a wire that connected to one of the cylinders. Andrew had already began to dive for the door leading to the back-room when his world went white with pain and silence.

…

Helen stood uncomfortably by the nurses desk. Her fingers drummed on the hardwood surface of the desk and her green eyes danced around the room watching the nurses hurry from room to room. A low burble of many conversations filled the building with the occasional beep of machinery or the loud echoing call of the Tannoy system. It was ordered chaos just like the military bases she was so used to. Each person with a job to do, and each one with a place in the hierarchy.

It left her uneasy. It was too similar. Not too long ago she was a part of that system. It gave her a frame to work in, guidance to help direct herself each day. Now she was an outsider, left to stumble about confused in the frenzy.

Then there was the smell.

The stench of disinfectant that wafted from every surface. It reminded her of the other times she had visited hospitals. There was less blood, or moans of the dying. Yet her mind seemed fine filling those in. Echoes on the edges of her conciousness.

“Ma’am?”

The inquisitive voice roused Helen from her thoughts and she snapped her attention to the young woman in the nurses outfit who had sat down in front of her.

“Were you here to see a patient, ma’am?”

Shaking her head to clear it of the illusions, Helen glanced at the nurse and gave a tired smile.

“I ah, yeah. Andrew McDonald, I’m his sister.”

“Could I see a form of I.D ma’am?” The woman asked, tapping away at the computer, bringing up her brothers records.

Fishing around in her coats inner pockets, Helen withdraw a military identification card.

“Would this do?”

Please don’t thank me. She thought.

“Thank you ma’am, and thank you for your service as well.” The nurse responded, layering on an extra serving of sweet when she noticed that it was a military I.D.

Muttering a response, Helen quickly stuffed the card away without look at it. As the nurse pointed out the room, she hurried off. Helen doubted they would be so quick to thank her if they knew what she did.

Andrew’s room was further down the corridor and as she passed by the other room she couldn’t help but glance in to the rooms of the other patients. She knew that she should see the crisp white rooms and beds of the hospital, but in her mind she saw the dust, blood and faces of her men. Contorted in agony and screaming silently. Holding her hand to her head, she glanced to the floor and focused on counting doors until she reached her brothers room.

Pausing for a brief second to collect herself, she brought her hand away from her face and rapped it against the door. Almost immediately she heard brothers voice call out.

“Come in!”

Wrapped in blood stained bandages from the chest up, Andrew lay back in his bed. His face was almost entirely consumed in the dressings and what wasn’t covered showed the deep purple and red of heavy bruising. His eyes were alight with happiness though and he managed to crack a smile with a split lip.

“Not how I wanted us to meet, huh sis?” He joked with a wheezing breath.

“No… No I guess not.” Agreeing as she entered the room. Glancing over his body her shoulders slumped. She had seen what bombs had done to bodies before, the wounds they left, and now her little brother shared them.

Emotions battled in her chest; anger, heartbreak, and guilt.

“Apparently I got lucky, the counter absorbed most of the explosion and shrapnel. It’s likely I’ll walk with just a slight limp. The other lads are fine too. The bomb was poorly made… The girl, Emily, didn’t make it though...”

As Andrew talked, Helen walked around the bed. Sitting down in the chair beside it she reached out and hesitantly placed her hand on the blanket covering his arm. Careful not to put too much pressure on it. She kept her arm on him for a few moments, glad to feel his physical presence. Andrew seemed content to let her sit beside him in silence, the faint noise of the hospital filtering through the walls.

“Helen...”

His voice was soft, tired. But there was something hard in it, a resolve. Glancing at him, she caught his good eye staring at her, vibrant green as hers.

“They say the girl’s dad made her do it. That they were radicalised or some shite. I knew that family… We knew them. They weren’t even fucking Muslim!” His voice strained itself too hard and he began coughing and wheezing. Hurrying, Helen poured him a glass of water and brought it to his lips and allowed him a moment to catch himself.

“What are you suggesting?” She asked, the hairs on the back of her neck pricked up and she felt a shiver down spine.

“I knew what I felt before that bomb went off. It was a magic, like yours. It was wrong though, it felt bad.”

Helen sat back in her chair. Andrews confession left her uneasy. Ever since arriving in the city, she felt like she had been waiting for something like this to happen.

Why though?

“You want me to look into this?” She finally asked.

“I’m sorry sis, but I can’t let this go. Something evil is in the city, our city. Mums not here and one of us has to do something.”

“Andy,” Helen struggled to keep eye contact with him, Instead she glanced down at the glass in her hands. “I’m not the same woman I was when I left here. I don’t know if I can do anything here.”

“I.. I see. I get if you don’t won’t to get involved sis. But I need you, this city needs you.”

Shaking her head she already knew she was going to give in. She could never refuse her little brother.

“I’ll see about it.”

“Thanks.”

Andrew sat back and began to talk about the things Helen had missed while she was away. Neither of them willing to think more about the conversation until the nurse pocked her head in and informed Helen it was time to leave.

“Please, I know I’m forcing you to get involved. But still be safe sis. Mum would be quite annoyed if you got hurt too.”

Helen flashed him a half hearted smile before leaving the room.

She had only been back home for two days and already she had fallen in to her role as her little brothers protector. Pulling her car out on to the street, Helen thought about heading back to her apartment. Yet the confession from Andrew had left her mind in a mess. She had too many questions stopping her from sleeping. Instead she found herself sitting in a pub nursing a drink.

If what Andrew said was true and the bombings had been at the hands of something magical, why?

How?

A young Scottish girl, with no connection to Islam suddenly decides to blow up a police station dressed in a poor attempt at a Muslim dress. Her father found dead in his house with random quotes from the Quran written in his blood on the walls of their house. And all of this happening soon after she arrived back in the city.

Downing a mouthful, Helen slammed her glass on the counter, gaining the attention of the bartender. She ran her hands through her hair and let her head rest, staring into her mug.

She had hopped for peace, for quite, when she returned home. Instead it was like she had brought the chaos of Afghanistan in to her house and let it run wild. She brought something back from that hell hole, something malicious was loose in her city because of her. She had to do something about it.

“Tough day Ma’am?” The bartender asked, offering to take her empty glass. Handing it over, Helen grunted in reply.

“I noticed you like the Celtic’s, they’ve been doing quite well in the League lately.” He droned on, referencing her green and white scarf.

“Just get me another drink.”

At some point in the night she found herself leaving the pub, unable to recall if she had been kicked out or left of her own will. The chill air of the night sobered her enough at least to figure she couldn’t drive back to her place.

The street she was on wasn’t far from her building and knew she could make it back in only a few minutes by cutting through the back alley behind the pub. She hadn’t expected it to be so dark though. The lone light that should have lit the area was out and she found herself bumbling along the pavement trying to not run into the walls around it.

There was a sound behind her and she half turned, half tripped when she looked to see what it was. In an instant she was on her back and she thought she had fallen over. Her head rang. An immense weight on top of her and the tell tale glint of metal swept the idea away.

Her hand grabbed at where she thought her assailants arm was. As drunk as she was, her mind had acted on instinct. Hot breath poured over her face, it was heavy with the stench of rotten meat. No matter how hard she pushed and twisted she couldn’t break free from under her attacker, their knife mere inches from her throat.

It was impossible to fight back, they were too strong.

She was too drunk.

In desperation she focused her thoughts on her hands. Picturing the bright light of the hospital. Searing and burning, cutting into the eyes of anyone looking at it. Feeling the pressure build, she let it out and the alleyway was suddenly lit up like a flash bang had gone off.

Helen hoped it would be enough to distract the assailant. To give her time to get out from under them. Instead it revealed nothing but an empty alley. Only garbage, graffiti and herself, laying on her back, gasping for breath.

...

The morning air was as bitingly cold as it was yesterday. Helen wasn’t sure if she was shaking from the chill, or if her body was protesting the lack of sleep. She still felt sick from her hangover. All of it made worse by being on edge since the attack the night before.

That had been no normal thug. That thing had been born from the otherworldly. Why it vanished when she used her light, Helen couldn’t figure out and it was like a thorn in her mind, digging in and frustrating her. There was a connection between all these events and she was missing it. All she knew was that it seemed to involve her.

Approaching the crime scene around the bombed out police station she saw that it had already been taken over by The Met. To see them outside of London was proof that the attack was being treated as terrorist related. A serious looking man in a kevlar vest with Police blazoned across it stared her down behind sunglasses as she approached.

It’s overcast, idiot. Helen thought to herself.

“This is a crime scene citizen, please move along.” The man stated with a dose smarm. He refused to break from his straight legged and backed pose.

“Keep that up and you’ll feint,” Helen lazily responded, pulling her military id from her coat once again. “The blood gets trapped in your legs if you don’t bend them slightly.”

The man hesitated before he responded, she could see the frown behind his large shades.

“I, please state your reason for being here!” More force was put behind his words, but they still wavered.

Must be a newbie.

“I’m Major Helen Mcdonald here as Special Investigator, I have authority from CTC.” She presented her ID while maintaining eye contact.

“What’s this here about a Circle?” He puzzled, glancing down at the card.

“Need to know bases. All you need to know is that I get to pull rank here.”

“Uh yes, yes ma’am!” He stuttered giving a sloppy salute and managing to stand even straighter.

“At ease, your not one of my men. Just let me through and make sure I’m not interrupted.”

He threw a second salute, caught himself and left his hand hovering in front of his face before he gave a nod and stood aside. Shaking her head, she slid past him in to the blasted out front of the building.

As soon as she entered the building, she was met with an oppressive force. Like thick smog it clung to her and made it difficult to breath. Glass crunched under her feet as she pushed herself further in. There was no doubt that magic had played a part. It permeated through the air, as if the dust and smoke from the explosion hadn’t left.

It wasn’t hard to see where the girl had detonated the bomb. Black scorch marks were carved into the concrete of the floor. Carpet burnt away. If she could recreate the moment of the explosion. Peer back and just glance at that single moment, she might be able to grasp the nature of the magic used. Maybe even track it back to the person who cast it.

Standing still in the centre of the room. Helen reached out with hand as if to touch the girl like she stood before her. Like with the light, she forged her mind to imagine a mirror. A reflection of the past. Tendrils of her magic twisted and felt around for a crack, or a link to the event of that night. If magic had been used she would find that link.

It was subtle but she felt it. Something in the fabric of reality twisted and she grasped it. Drawing it to her was hard though. It twisted and fought as if she was grasping an eel. The harder she tightened her grip the more it wiggled free. It never fought hard enough o escape though, like it was trying to get her to work harder.

It felt wrong.

It shouldn’t be fighting like this.

Pouring her magic in to holding it she gritted her teeth and wrenched the thread towards her. It gave way and Helen almost tripped backwards, not realising she had been physically fighting it.

Now like water it poured in to the mirror. A torrent that swept Helen along with it. Suffocating her and pulling her under in to an inky darkness. Looking up she could see herself far away, as if she was peering at herself through mirror itself. Her body stood still and death like, no colour, just grey and black.

The darkness closed in around her, filling her throat and lungs. She tried to breath but her lungs clenched in pain and she felt herself begin to drown. Panic began to set in, her hands clawing around her, trying to escape to the surface. As quickly as it had come, it was gone. Replaced by the sensation of nothing.

She was just floating in an all encompassing void.

“Captain, you have failed in your duties.”

Helen spun herself in the void, eyes trying to find what spoke. The voice was distorted and muffled, like it was speaking underwater. It still sounded like her commander; rough and demanding. She couldn’t see him though. The voice echoing around her.

“Do you think your men will take kindly to this? Hiding in your home town like a scared child?”

“No! I am not hiding! I was ordered to return home!” Helen tried to cry back. Yet, in her mind she knew it was true, she had never wanted to come home. She didn’t deserve to return here. This whole mess with bombing and her midnight attacker was proof of that.

“You were weak. I always knew that. You failed everyone.”

How many died due to her decisions. She had been sent to finish the war. To end it. All she accomplished in that blasted land was to become another weapon of horror and pain. She couldn’t even save her own soldiers. Their shattered faces were fresh in her mind. Bloodied and broken bodies left to scavengers in the dust.

Not just her men; children, women, and innocent men. Her actions had left just disaster in their wake. And now here she was, safe and warm in the free world.

How could she think she could escape her sins?

“Exactly, Captain. You are mine to torment...” The voice had changed, gone was the Commanders. It was just as familiar, yet different. It was hers. The voice that whispered in her mind and made sure she would never forget what she had done.

With it came visions. Fast. Harsh.

Bloodied corpse, piled high in the summer heat. Flies and rats making a feast of them.

A young child donning the suicide vest of her father and running at soldiers, only to be gunned down in the street.

The screech of falling shells as crying wounded were carried in to medical tents no better than butcher shops.

A young man choking on his own blood as she desperately tried to stop the bleeding.

Malicious sandstorms that stripped men of their clothes and flesh, leaving working corpses in their stead.

Finally, her face. Dull eyes staring at the dead man on the floor. Her bullet in his chest. Her friend, her fellow Marine.

“I’m sorry, but I had to!” She shouted weakly in to the barrage of memories. So many more followed. Each line she crossed as she gave more of her soul to the altar or war. Each scar that was carved in to her mind.

She had to escape. Telling herself to wake up, break away. She couldn’t though. It held her. This fragment of hers was stripping her of her will. More. It was stripping her of her magic.

Of course.

It was all her fault from the start. The magic behind all this was her own.

“Now you understand. You failed, so I’m taking this power from your pathetic hands.”

It was almost blissful to feel her magic drain from her body. It flowed from her veins like blood, leaving her cold and tired. Ropes of it twisted away from her where the void wounded them around itself, like donning a cloak.

It began to take form.

At the same time, the more it was drawn from her the quicker she saw the light of the mirror rush towards her. It was a freight train of white that smashed into her. It met her with the explosion of pain and sensory overload.

A rattling gasp and Helen found herself on her back in the bombed out building. She tried to stand but she felt like she was going to throw up, her very nerves were on fire. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something reach down to her. A hand.

It gripped her head and lifted it up to see the room.

The same red hair cut short and messy, the angular jawline. A body beaten in to shape. Even the same coat and green and white scarf.

A doppelganger.

Except the eyes. Looking in to that cold face, Helen could only see black orbs. A window to the very void itself.

The cold hand let her go and Helen was left to watch as the entity stepped back towards the doorway. It paused and raised its hand and gave a signal. The policeman from before entered the room. Behind him, Helen saw red-gold light of dusk filter in. An entire day gone. All was quite as the two figures watched her for a brief moment.

“Don’t worry Helen, you may have failed. But I will not.”

Groaning in pain, Helen forced her arm under her back and pushed herself to a sitting position. Feeling was beginning to return to her limbs and she was able to push her mind to not focus on the searing pain. A headache raged in her head though and she had trouble seeing anything but her twin and the man beside her.

What had she done? What was this thing?

“Not point fighting now, I have no need for you to live now. I am free.”

And that was it. Before Helen could even stand, the thing turned and disappeared in to the night. All that was left for the policeman. Already he was walking towards her, his gun at the ready. He moved in a strange twitching manner, like a puppet on strings. Gone were his sunglasses, letting her see his black eyes filled with nothing.

Was there a point to fighting now? The thought hung in her mind. It would be so easy, to just give up here. How many more mistakes would she make before you realised that the world was better off without her.

No matter how she tried to let go, the green eyes of her brother filled her mind.

“No.” Her voice cracked past a parched throat. No, she wouldn’t die here. Andrew needed her. She had failed many times in her life, but she never failed her brother.

Raising her hand at the approaching man, she focused. Searching every ounce of her wretched soul she puled every remaining drop of magic in her blood. Muscles screamed in protest and her skin felt like it was aflame. It was pain she had lived with before. Boot camp, active duty. The punches of childhood bullies. This pain had no chance of matching the suffering of her life.

The gun was raised to her head and the trigger finger twitched.

The roar of the gun was met by Helens shout of defiance.

In the muzzle flash, Helen saw for the brief moment the warped face of the man. Confusion, anger. Betrayal. The same face of her lieutenant. Another face for her nightmares.

His body was then lifted by the force of her attack and catapulted back in to the doorway behind him. His spine met the edge with a sickening crunch before the force continued to carry him outside. Dumping it in a heap on the ground.

Helen coughed and felt cold. Hesitantly she lowered a hand and felt a growing wet patch on her coat. Looking down she saw a bullet hole just below her ribs. She didn’t try to get up, instead she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialled the emergency number. Before she could speak up the darkness took her once more and she slipped in to unconsciousness.

[Inkdrinker]

The Miracle of Lucas Belfry

To whom it may concern,

I, Lucas Belfry, humble servant of the Twin Gods, by chance, fate, or, as I believe, divine providence, have come into the possession of a holy relic beyond my station. The Scepter of Saint Elyan, Sun’s Champion, is, as I write this, wrapped in finest velvet upon my dining room table. The humor of this situation is not lost on me, but the velvet is in place not only to keep the Scepter safe from anything as mundane as dust, but also to shield this believer’s old eyes from something so bright and beautiful. It shines, oh how it shines. The holy light is unparalleled in its strength and delicacy, everything it touches is transformed by golden splendor. Why, I hazard, there is more power contained within a single sliver of this Scepter than in all the sunstone in the Grand Cavern.

I understand you may be skeptical and am fully prepared for such an eventuality. I invite you to send a representative to appraise my claims and when they return I guarantee they will be fully satisfied.

The messenger who bears this letter knows the way.

Faithfully,
Lucas Belfry

***

The winding pathway that led to the lighthouse wasn’t lit at all. With only her lantern to guide her, Amelia took careful steps up the slippery slope. She could see evidence of former handrails, but they had long since rusted into oblivion. The stalactites in this area never stopped dripping.

Amelia paused her ascent for a moment to unfasten her hood. In the long hours of her trek, the thin white fabric had completely soaked through. It was ceremonial in make and purpose, not intended for travel, but it was the best she had. She let the saturated garment down to rest over her shoulders, then pressed on.

Amelia’s thick brown hair was wet from root to tip by the time she reached the lighthouse. Her boots squished and squashed with every step and every layer of her robes was heavy with water. Her lantern held out just long enough to reach the door, then sputtered out without a sound.

Alone in the true darkness that exists out of cities, Amelia pounded her gloved fist on the metal door. It rang out like an underwater bell with every impact. Whatever dwelled in such a place was slow to answer, leaving Amelia to shiver and curse. She raised her hand to knock again but before she could she heard a click and stopped. The door clicked again and then scraped, unwound, jingled. After a loud creak, Amelia could feel warm air drawing her forward, but the world remained dark.

“Hello,” said something in front of her, its voice low and dry.

“Greetings,” said Amelia to the creature she could not see,” I have come here as a representative of the Church of--”

“Yes, I know,” said the something, “I’m the one who sent for you.”

“You are Lucas Belfry?”

“No, but I’m the one who sent the letter. Come inside, I’ll explain.”

Seeing no other immediate option, Amelia complied.

To her horror, the darkness extended into every room. Every nook and cranny of the lighthouse was inescapably, smotheringly black.

Amelia felt something cool and clammy wrap itself around her hand and tug softly.

“This way, we can talk in the kitchen,” said the low, dry voice which had yet to introduce itself.

Amelia followed where it took her, but could not ignore a growing disquiet in her stomach. Something was wrong here and it was making her nauseous.

“Here, have a seat,” said the voice, guiding her down onto what she hoped was--and indeed felt like--a rustic dining chair. “My apologies, I don’t have anything substantial to offer you at the moment, I’m sure it was a long journey. And a wet one too, by the looks of it. You could dry your clothes over the fire, if you’d like.”

Amelia could smell smoke to her right, feel the warm breath of a hearth, hear the crackle of flames. And yet there was no light.

“Just what exactly is going on here?” she said.

“Ah,” said the voice with some reluctance, “yes. I did promise to explain. First of all, my name is Rytt. I guess I probably should have led with that. Living in such an isolated place makes it easy to forget one’s manners.” Rytt chuckled at that. “And, before you ask, I am not oblivious to the fact that it is pitch black in here. Are you sure you don’t want to hang your clothes up? Or I could heat up some mock-apple brandy, that would warm you up.”

“I don’t drink,” said Amelia, her clothes clinging to her like a church upbringing. “You’d better start explaining. Where is Lucas Belfry?”

“Lucas Belfry” said Rytt, “is just upstairs, actually. Though I should warn you, before you go rushing after him, poor Lucas, bless his heart, has been dead for over a week.”

Amelia did not know what to say. She opened her mouth, closed it, bit her lip, then settled on a single syllable.

“What?”

“He wanted a proper burial, in the custom of his people. Obviously I, being--and this is rather embarrassing--quite ignorant of human ceremonies, could not afford him such a request. So, when he felt his final day approaching, he had me write a letter. Of course, he knew your church would not travel so far for a common man’s funeral, so he made me write something else, something that would get your attention. You have my utmost apologies for the deception, but he felt there was no other way, and who am I to deny a dead man’s final wish?”

Amelia gritted her teeth and let the anger in her blood warm her from the inside.

“You mean to tell me,” she said, “that I came all this way,” she paused, steadying herself, “for nothing? The Scepter of Saint Elyan was just bait?”

“Well,” said Rytt, “I wouldn’t exactly say that. There must have been some truth to all that fantastic make-believe Lucas made me write, because on the day he died, all the lights went out. We keep a surplus of sunstone, you understand. The lighthouse must be lit at all times, or else a traveller might wander into the Umbral Ocean without even realizing it. I tried every pebble, it’s all dead. I moved on to the candles next, but it seems even fire has abandoned this place. It still burns just the same, but when Lucas died, the light died with him.”

“Take me to him.”

“As you wish.”

Rytt took Amelia’s hand once again and pulled her to her feet. He guided her slowly away from the fire’s heat, towards a narrow, rough-hewn staircase. The irregularity of the stone steps proved difficult with only a stranger’s touch to guide her, but Amelia made no complaint. Her nose weaved a complete tapestry of domesticity, from tea leaves to tallow soap, as they spiraled past floor after floor.

“He wanted to die in a room with a view,” said Rytt, as he lead Amelia into what she could only assume was some sort of bedroom. “Not that there’s much of a view anymore. At least, not to human eyes.”

Amelia shivered as sea air drifted in from an open window and caressed her wet clothing, making them feel like a mantle of frost. The odor of death was strong and sweet like spoiled spore-honey. She didn’t need Rytt’s help to find its origin.

“I opted not to try embalming him. As I said, I don’t know the specifics of your ritual and I wouldn’t want to disturb something so sacred.”

“You could have at least hung some garlic or saltroot or something,” said Amelia, patting the blankets and bed-linens until she found the corpse entombed within. She took a deep breath, then held it as she ran her fingers over the cold flesh that had been Lucas Belfry, making a touch-map of his body to verify his humanity. The soft slope of his nose and gentle curve of his lips were enough to silence any doubts.

“Again,” said Rytt, “I did not know if that would upset the ceremony.”

“Well,” said Amelia, “thank you for your concern, but now you know. While you’re getting some--and please do get some--I need some oil. The finer the better, obviously.”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

Alone in the dark with a corpse. Amelia thought she might be sick. Nowhere on her long journey did she ever entertain that this might be what was waiting for her. Who was Lucas Belfry, anyway? What had lead him to live out here, so far from his own kind? Was it by circumstance or by choice? Questions without answers swirled around her until she was too dizzy to stand and was forced to share a stranger’s deathbed. She sat on the edge by his feet and focused on her breathing. In, out, in, out. Death reek, all black, world spinning.

The sound of footsteps snapped Amelia back to reality.

“Truffle oil. I hope it will serve.”

“That’s fine,” said Amelia, rising, “not exactly traditional, but it’ll do. Do you want to say anything, before I release his soul from his body?”

“Me?” said Rytt, “but I am iamo.”

“Yes,” said Amelia, “and? You’re the only one here who knew him. You did know him, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, I knew him. But I don’t think I need to say anything. Lucas always preferred to speak for himself.”

Amelia nodded and took the bottle that was pressed into her hand. She knelt down and clumsily painted a trail of truffle oil from the top of Lucas’ forehead to the bridge of his nose with her thumb. Then she stood, closed her eyes, and recited the Prayer of Departure. When she opened her eyes again she thought she was dreaming.

The anointing oil on Lucas’ forehead glowed like the memory of sunshine. Rich gold folding over mellow orange and dazzling white. It illuminated the room, invigorating every tired hue, bringing new life to scarlet sheets and exotic wooden dressers. A stream of nebulous light, revolving endlessly around itself, projected upwards from Lucas’s forehead, until it disappeared into the ceiling of the room.

Amelia and Rytt chased it up the stairs, until they reached the topmost catwalk around the dark core of the lighthouse, the great dead sunstone lantern. To their amazement, as the beam of light pierced the sunstone, it flickered back to life.

Amelia turned away from the blinding mass, though she could feel the heat of it against her back. She surveyed the vista before her: the treacherous reaches of the somber coastline, the undulating shadows that made up the Umbral Ocean itself, a flight of seabats overhead. She could not help but smile.

***

For inspiration, I used a location mentioned here:
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4721/4-alpha-kwan-ink

And I guess iamo, another element I returned to, were mentioned most notably here, if you care about that sort of thing: awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4704/2-alpha-taed-inkdrinker

Really, just about any of my stories from that competition are about as relevant to this one as any other.

[The Counter Cultist(Sawyer)]

The following story takes characters from the following stories
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4793/match-7(Pete's Post)
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4946/round-2-lighthouse-sawyer-sam
In addition, the world is influenced by the world in this story
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4787/match-5(Again, Pete's post)

Date Night in Quiet Mountain


“...and now we turn to the ongoing story in the Fairy Garden. Earlier today the body of young Elthiss Blackwater was found on the shore of the Fore River. Sources have tell us that Elthiss is believed to be yet another victim of the serial killer targeting young Fae in the Garden. While Elthiss’ family refuses to comment, Channel 5 did receive a written statement from the desk of Silver Knight Commander Evan Peterson. Peterson, a veteran of Desert Storm, writes “We ask that all citizens of the Fairy Garden remain calm. Trust in the police to do their jobs and bring these heinous criminals to justice.” So far there has been no sign that the police have reached out to the Knight’s for he-”

Angel turned the TV off. She didn’t need to hear anymore about that. She had heard enough at work this morning. Had heard enough when the police had asked her about the piano lesson she had given Elthiss last night. Had heard enough from the various residents of the Fairy Garden she interacted with on a daily basis. Heard enough about the deaths of young Fae like herself. Heard enough cries from mournful mothers and fathers-no she wouldn’t get caught in that depressive trap again. She and Cole had a date tonight.

Of course she could just feign illness because of ordeals today. She was sure Cole would buy it. Because, truth be told, the last thing she wanted was to go to a club. The field of goosebumps that was her flesh right now was testament to that. Angel wasn’t a fan of being in full loud rooms. She would’ve preferred spending an evening inside. Besides, if the TV station had managed to remind her of one thing it was that people were dying. Celebrating didn’t feel right. But Cole had this inspiring speech ready about how they should be celebrating. That the dead would want them to. That they were doing it so the killers wouldn't win. Still, Angel could have always said no.

“Could you have?”

“Hello darkness my old friend,” Angel sang to herself. But the little voice had a point. Angel had a complex. She just couldn't let any of her friends down. If she let them down then they might leave. She didn't want to be alone. So she immediately pushed any other doubtful thoughts out of her mind, suppressing it like everything else. She could always let it loose later. She wasn’t about to lose herself in a maze of self doubt and let her friend down. Besides, reservations about being in a crowd aside she really wanted to meet this friend of Cole’s. So, satisfied, she finished messing with her hair and went to check on Cole. After all, it was probably going to be a fun night.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When most people thought of nightclubs, they thought of loud music and lots of dancing. Quiet Mountain’s Paradise Lost fit that bill on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights. But tonight? Tonight was about chill, acoustic indie jams while you enjoyed a plate of curry and a cup of coffee. Of all the things Knight-Corporal Rose Creed had missed about her old town, second to her best friend had been this place and it’s usual atmosphere. Soft music on the speakers(or being played live) amongst the hushed whispers of its clientele.

Rose knew exactly what they were whispering about. Despite technically being in Old Town, the club was close enough to the Fairy Garden that a large enough portion of the patrons were Fae. Rose knew about the murders that had been plaguing the city. Been briefed about them this morning. She wanted to do something to help them. But so far she had been told that they could do nothing. It frustrated her, knowing she could help cure Quiet Mountain. Cure it of its killers, its cults, and all its other problems. But the bureaucracy would not allow it.

“Well look at what we have here,” Rose frowned, annoyed at the interuption of her train of thought. She turned her head towards the voice. Then let a big goofy smile replace the frown. Standing there, in gray Silver Knight fatigues that matched her own, was Cole Pricefield. Her very best friend.

And so, all her worries and troubles vanished. And for a moment everything was all right.

She intercepted the hug that came as soon as her eyes fell on his, and did her best to squeeze him right back. The hug lasted for a few moments, before Cole sat down in the seat to her left. She saw someone else sit down in the seat across. Just out of the corner of her eye.

She gave the strange figure her full attention. It was an elf. Young, black haired and very pale blue eyes. She was wearing a knee length black skirt and a very smart white dress shirt and black vest combo. Her eyes weren’t exactly on Rose, but Rose could definitely tell she was looking at her while trying to look like she wasn’t. It was kind of cute.

“Rose,” Cole said, “this is Angel Harris. My lovely roommate and the other reason we’re gathering together this evening.” Rose reached out a hand and met Angel’s own for a quick handshake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Rose said, “your outfit is very pretty by the way.” This earned her a little blush, which Rose giggled a little at. It was kinda cute, seeing those skinny cheeks and pointy ears flush like that.

“T-thank you,” Angel said, “And likewise. Cole’s told me a lot about you.” Rose shot Cole a knowing glance. He had one of those troll like grins all over his face. She wasn’t sure if it was from Angel blushing, or her telling Rose he had told her everything about Rose.

“Only good things I hope?” She said, winking at her old friend. She had missed Cole so much. It was too bad the Peterson Academy had closed. She could’ve stayed here instead of going to London and Boston.

“I’d like to say yes Rose,” Cole said, “but we all know that you’ve done plenty of mean things to me.” Rose and Cole laughed. And so they flagged a server and ordered their meal.

To Rose, the evening progressed well. She and Cole reconnected, talking about their respective boot camp stories. Rose also bored him with the things she had learned about magical theory at London’s Argyle Academy. Angel stayed mostly quiet. Usually only speaking when directly asked a question. Rose was curious about her though. Really wanted to dig deep. So she dropped subtle hints that Cole try his luck hitting on a really cute guy at the bar, promising him a free drink if he succeeded in getting a phone number before it was time to leave. After he left, Rose turned her full attention to Angel. The poor girl was desperately watching Cole left. Maybe scared to be left alone. Not that she had any need to be. Rose didn’t bite. Much.

“Soooo,” Angel looked to her as she spoke. God those eyes. Why did whatever god that made them have to give elves those big innocent wonderfully colored eyes?

“How did you and Cole meet?” Angel flushed again, and Rose’s smile turned devious. That meant the story was juicy.

“I was at a party, dragged there by a girlfriend.” Rose watched intently as she spoke, keeping an eye out for any ticks. The girl seemed a little fragile and she didn’t want to pry to much.

“Anyway, she wasn’t a smart girlfriend. Forgot she had also invited the girl she was cheating on me with. That girl gave her an earful, but I just kinda sat there. I remember going outside, and then…” There was a lengthy pause, while Angel lifted her hand over the candle at the table’s center. Rose’s eyes widened as she watched it dance a little, before Angel removed her hand.

“I sort of lost control for a minute. Girlfriend had convinced me to leave my focus at home. It was Cole that calmed me down and kept me from burning the block down with tiki torch fire.” Well, that definitely sounded like Cole. As long as Rose could remember he had always had this cute little hero complex. Anyone that was in need he would do his best to help.

“Anyway, we sort of struck up a friendship after that. Eventually when I moved out of my parents the next year he offered his second bedroom to me. And now we’re here.” An awkward silence passed between the two of them. Finally Rose broke it.

“So, if you want to ask me anything go ahead. It only seems fair.” There was another silence, but Angel eventually did speak up.

“Cole said you were a mage,” of course Cole had told her that. Cole was famous for not keeping his mouth shut.

“How did you Awaken?” Rose sighed, and brought her hand out to the same candle. Absent mindedly she repeated Angel’s action of making the flame dance.

“I was sixteen. My dad had gotten trapped under his car when his jack failed. I tried lifting it and calling for help but it was no use. Eventually I just prayed for the car to move, and boom. Hands glowing, car flipped over by seemingly nothing. My also Talented dad just staring flabbergasted.”

“Oh.” Rose felt a little bad after Angel’s response. It was pretty clear something bad had happened on her awakening. She wasn’t sure if she should pry into the matter at all. Eventually she settled on a compromise.

“Hey, listen.” She said, “I just want you to know that you can talk to me if you need to. I know we just met, but you’re a friend of Cole’s. Not only does he really care about you, but he trusts you. Which means I do to. On both counts.” Angel’s eyes met hers again, and Rose swore she saw the hint of a smile appear. And so she changed the subject, asking Angel a bit about her Talents, making sure to avoid the subject of the awakening. Cole eventually returned victorious. And so Rose bought him one of those fruity drinks he loved so much. And as the night went on, Rose managed to forget the troubles of the city, of the clubs clientele. Sure that she would not worry again until morning.
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If Cole Pricefield had learned one life lesson his twenty six years on Earth, it was that life kicked you in the balls. And when it did? Always in threes. Always. Today for example. This morning, finding out that the Fae killer had struck again, this time killing someone he had known personally. Around noon, discovering that his on again, off again boyfriend wanted to be off agan. But, when he had found out that Rose was going to be coming back to Quiet Mountain, he had rejoiced, and decided that he may not mind a third kick. When Angel had told him that she was going to sing at Paradise Lost as the opening act of a year long weekly new artist showcase? He basically decided that not matter what he definitely wouldn’t mind the kick.

Then, in the form of Angel being kidnapped, and he and Rose being overpowered trying to save her, life delivered the most massive kick to the balls that it had ever given Cole.

It was the being overpowered part that made it especially bad. He was a Silver Knight for fucks sake. Even without his sidearm he should’ve been able to handle a few Maine yokels. But obviously not. He could only hope that the Knight-Commander didn’t hear about this. He wasn’t sure if he could take the embarrassment. That would probably be an even worse kick in the balls.

“Well I’ll be boys. I ask you to bring me a Fae to kill and you bring me two race traitors to go with it.”

Cole brought his attention back to the asshole standing before it. Imagine your typical young white human supremacist douchebag. Then multiply the douche by about ten. You had this guy. Cole wouldn’t have been surprised to find that he drove a truck and his idea of protesting was waving a tiki torch around. Angel whimpered to his left, but Cole simply kept a look of quiet disdain. Douche walked towards them, pulling a machete from his back. Cole’s eyes widened as he stopped in front of Angel and slowly rubbed the tip against her cheek.

“This one’s actually pretty. We may need to have a little fun with her before. I’ve never seen an elf naked before.”

“Get the fuck away from her you piece of shit.” Cole allowed a smug grin to come to his face. Leave it to Rose to take the words from his mouth. He followed the leader as he went to Angel’s other side and knelt down, right in front of Rose.

“Who the hell you think is going to stop me?” Cole figured the guy had a point. They were both bound after all. And yeah, Rose could cast spells without a focus, but it was dangerous. Not a lot of options.

“We’re Silver Knights, we can get out of anything.” Cole stuck out his chest a little bit as Angel said that. She did have a point. There were a lot of stories about Knight’s solving complex situations just with their guile and brains.

“Didn’t get out of my men capturing you.” And just like that, the burst of pride was deflated. And Cole simply lowered his shoulders and chest.

“You damn Knight’s are all the same, protecting these job stealing fairies. The way I see it we’re doing a service right now. The less fairies and race traitors in the world the better.”

“...fewer.”

Cole wasn’t sure why he said anything. It had been profoundly stupid to do so. He would probably go the rest of his life without finding out why. The rest of his very, very, short life.

“Excuse you?” Cole met Douche’s eyes as he walked towards him. He could see the hate in them. Swiftly he tried to decide between staying quiet and speaking up again.

How did the old phrase go? In for a pound?

“You mean fewer. If you had used the singular it would be le-AH!” He was cut off by Douche lunging forward and planting the Machete right in his shoulder. Angel screamed next to him, Rose started mouthing off about they were all dead. Cole just sat there. Wondering why he had to have such a big fucking mouth. The leader walked away and said a few words to his crew. Namely that Cole was first on the chopping block and that he wanted a volunteer.

Cole didn’t think of himself as being religious. But right now, as the crowd of crazed maniacs argued amongst themselves, he prayed to every god he could think of. Prayed for some kind of miracle that would get at least Angel and Rose out of this mess.

That was when the lights went off.

Chaos erupted. The crowd of maniacs all began muttering something about not liking surprises. It was the leader shouting above the rest that brought silence to the room.

“Shut up you pansy’s,” he said from somewhere in the dark room!, “Tanner! Go to the office and check the fuse box!”

Tanner took exception to this. What failed was more arguing between the leader and this Tanner. Eventually the leader just told Tanner that it was do it or be killed with Cole and friends. As the younger guys voice trailed away, Cole couldn’t shake a particular feeling. The feeling that he was being watched.

The feeling that there was someone or something else in here with them..

------------------------------------------

As Tanner entered the dark office, he began to believe he was going to die. He had seen every horror movie ever. And this was decidedly how people died. This was going to be his penance for deciding to go fully overboard with Jonah and actually kill the fairies. He was going to die.

But, a quick flashing of his light across the room proved it was empty. So he crossed over to the circuit breaker box on the wall. Opening it he checked it. One of the breakers was all the way to the left. Tanner wasn’t the most handy guy in the world but for a moment he thought that wasn’t quite right. He thought he remembered his old man telling him that a breaker only went so far when it turned itself off. A sound broke him of his concentration and he moved the light to the far corner where it had come from.

Only to see a tiny little rat chewing on something. A soda can looked to be the source of the noise. Tanner sighed and turned back to the box. He flipped the breaker back and the lights came back. He heard Jonah yell something. Probably whining about how he had finally hit the lights. Tanner just thought about how he had plowed one of their compatriots(and Jonah’s little girlfriend) last night. With a smug smile he closed the box, and turned around.

And then he died..

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The screams were almost the straw to break the camel’s back. Angel listened to them as they came from the office. They were awful. Whatever was happening to the killer that had went in there, it was bad. There were also many crashes amongst the screams and yelling. Like he was simply being tossed around the room

Then, with a crash, he came out of the windows. Definitely having been thrown. Angel stared at the body. It was still for a minute. But then he slowly started to lift his head up. Only for a gunshot to ring out, and it to explode. Angel yelped at the shot, and looked towards the office for the source.

Standing there was a man in a black leather jacket. A hood was pulled up over his head like the killers, but he wore some kind of bandana or mask to cover his lower face. Angel could not see the eyes. In one hand he held a still smoking gun. His other hand hovered over another holster. Angel watched as he vaulted over the now vacant window opening, and just stood there. She looked towards the leader of the maniacs. He looked quite furious.

“Change of plans boys,” he snarled. “This little fucker has a bigger death wish than the loudmouth. Oblige him.”

“I don’t know Jonah,” one of the other killers said, pulling a gun from near his rear. Angel kinda wished she could applaud this one for being smart. “Tanner looks pretty messed up, we sho-” Another gunshot from another of the killers cut him off. What happened, next, Angel could barely believe.

The guy in black dodged the shot. Somehow. He raised the gun and fired one shot, downing the shooter. His other hand came up with the second gun in hand. Another shot and the smart killer was down. One of the other killers pulled out a submachine gun and just began firing. The man in black ran away from the oncoming stream of fire and fired two shots. Boom, machine gun killer down. She watched as the man stopped. Her heart raced as she saw him take aim at Jonah.

Only for another shot to ring out and for him to fall. Angel looked for the source, to see the smart killer still standing. He began walking to the fallen body of the man. As he got closer he put another round in the chest. No response. And so Angel’s heart fell. So much for their savior.

“Good going Keith,” came the leader Jonah’s mocking voice. “Do me a favor and carve a trophy off of him. Tongue, ear, finger, head. I don’t really care.” Keith holstered his gun and drew a knife. Angel watched as he walked over to the still limp body and kneeled beside it examine it. She felt like crying again.

Then, fast as a viper, the man stuck his arm out towards Keith’s throat. Angel gasped. As Keith fell to the side to drown in a pool of his own blood, the Man in Black stood up. Angel swore she saw a glow underneath the hood. A red glow. And then, chaos again.

Jonah lost it, screaming at all of his people to give the stranger everything they had. A woman to his left raised a gun. Only for the Man in Black to throw his knife right into her eye. Jonah yelled as she fell. Obviously a favorite. Good.

A second managed to get a gun out and put a bullet in the man. And then another, and another, and another. There was no act this. Time, the seemingly unkillable Man in Black just kept walking towards the shooter. Who was only slowing him down. And obviously making him angry. Angel watched as the Man in Black’s wrist began to glow. She assumed it was a focus at first, but the appearance of a sword in his hand said otherwise. He used it to simply stab the shooter, and then pushed him to the ground.

And then there were four. Each pulled a machete and charged forward. Each was cut down in a matter of minutes. Two received slashes across the throat, one lost his head. The other received a second knife in the eye. And thus only Jonah remained.

The two stared each other down for a bit, circling the room. Jonah had retrieved his machete from Cole’s shoulder after the woman had fallen. The man in black still had his sword. A moment of silence passed.

Finally, Jonah charged like his men, screaming bloody murder. The man and black dodged his strike easily. He then followed with a horizontal slice of his own. Angel didn;t think she saw contact. But then Jonah fell, dropping his machete and clutching his stomach. Almost like he was trying to keep his guts in. The Man in Black stood over him, sword still in hand and held to Jonah’s throat.

“Mercy,” Angel looked back to the Man in Black, waiting for a response. He seemed to contemplate it for a moment.

“...no.” The voice was very heavily modulated, but Angel could still understand what he was saying. “No mercy.” And with that, as Jonah begged, the Man in Black took his head.

There was silence, as the Man dropped his weapon and it disappeared. He walked near the three of them. From here, Angel could finally see his eyes. At first, they almost seemed red, but then became a brilliant shade of blue like her own.

She heard sirens in the distance. And the Man in Black departed soon afterwords.


-------------------------------------

“So, you think these are our killers?”

Rose didn’t answer the Knight-Commander right away. She just kept her eyes on Angel. One of the paramedics was looking over her. Rose tried to imagine how she was processing this. To be quite honest she was sure how she was going to process this. It wasn’t every day you saw a person take almost two dozen bullets point blank.

“With all due respect sir, I don’t think that should really be our main fucking concern anymore.” God bless Cole, speaking his and her minds. Because he was right. There was something else out there.

“Sounds to me like this guy did us a favor if I’m being honest.” Rose finally broke her view off Rose to actually look at the Knight Commander. Evan Peterson had a good reputation amongst those that served under him in Boston. It was why the Council had given him Quiet Mountain. To help raise the morale in a failing branch. Right now, Rose wondered if that was the only thing he cared about. His reputation.

“I know,” he said, “I should be more worried.” It was almost as if he was a mind reader. Rose kept eyeing him curiously, waiting for what he was going to say next.

“Look, whoever the monster in a man’s body is, he still saved your lives tonight. We have no leads on him. For right now, he cleared out at least one band of murderers, and saved two of my best knights and their Fae friend. That’s earned a begrudging thank you from me. And you two should do the same. Now take your friend home and get some sleep. I’ve got a car for you.” With that, the Knight Commander turned around and walked back towards the building. Rose watched as he went.

“You think that guy was just some normal dude who just used a shield for the bullets?” She didn’t answer Cole. Because she didn’t want to. Cole had raised a good point about shields. But somehow she knew that wasn’t the case. Sighing he turned her attention away from the building to the pier and river behind them. And the skyline of downtown beyond. Quiet Mountain was sick with killers, cultists, and other such baddies. And now she could only worry that one more had just come in.

“Come on,” she finally said, “let’s get you and Angel home and we can focus on this tomorrow.”

And so the date night ended. With one hell of a bang.

[Sekot]

Joe

So I decided that I’d try to be nicer this time around with the judging as I am the sole judge. Unfortunately, you are making that difficult. There’s very little that consists of an actual story here. I find myself wandering from sentence to sentence, meandering much like the prose. There’s a mix of exposition dumps and rapid, jarring scene changes that impact little on the overall story. You stop describing a scene to then dump the effect coal has on Hazard (I won’t get into your naming convention here), and then immediately switch back. I am left wondering if there might have been a better time or way to describe the economic influences on our little town then in mid scene.

The entire first paragraph can go. Completely unnecessary. Your sentences lack flow, there’s a cadence but its not consistent. There are way too many commas, too little substance within the sentences themselves. Things are chopped. Things move quick. I lose track of where I’m reading. I’m bored. Like, what is the point? What are you trying to tell me here? Who is this Will, because you certainly haven’t given me enough to base any opinion on him whatsoever except as a wooden set piece.

Also, you failed to utilize the prompt correctly. You basically decided to write for a past prompt. I can’t really tell which part of the two stories under Nymph you took your ideas from, so you somehow circumvented the intentional obtuseness of the given prompt by seeking out an entirely different prompt to write for, rather than picking a story and writing from that.



James

Its going to be difficult for me to say what I’d like to say here. What you have here is a great foundation. Something that I think really work as the beginning of something that could be a really amazing story. In the beginning, I feel excited. In the end, I feel blue balled. You do an excellent job of capturing those few moments that might feel superfluous. Comments on Nathan’s hair, his anxiety over the gel, these are details that could be easily omitted but add a great deal to the character themself. Unfortunately, I feel that this is the same type of character you write repeatedly. He’s a little bit bland, has just enough character to be relatable, but overall just kind of a cardboard cutout.

Where’s his voice? The narration is good, it flows and all, but it itself lacks character in the diction. I would like to see more developed contractions, subtle word changes that add flavor and really let me know how this man thinks. As it is, he thinks a little too much like a book. He doesn’t pop. The things he’s dealing with, his personal anxieties I get, but the character I do not.

You start off strong, but by the end I’m kind of confused. You tell me everything I need to know, and I get it. But why should I care? There’s ambiguity here but I think you could play that up a bit more. Was Elliot an actual person? Was he actually there or just a figment of Nathan’s imagination, his anxieties made manifest to trick himself into breaking up with Simon? I imagine this may be elaborated on if we continue down the theme of the competition, and it would be unlike you to make that implicit, but as a standalone these are the questions I have that I think are good ones to have.

Good use of prompt. I could continue on but I’d like to avoid the micro analysis and editing and just leave you with: Good job overall.


Allya

Overall there isn’t much feedback I feel I can give here. I think this is a well written story. I wouldn’t say I found it to be particularly exciting, not much seems to really happen even though there’s a lot of words on the page. Normally I would mark this against a person, but I think your ability to write well is strong enough to keep me wanting to read more. If I were to suggest some changes, it would be similar to what I told James, there just needs to be more of a character presence within the story, or more things need to happen in the story itself.

Good use of prompt. Overall quality work.


Injin

Bash bash bash bashbashbashbash Sharpshooter Sharpshooter Sharpshooter Sharpshooter.

I...struggled. You’re getting better Injin. But...while the dialogue isn’t bad it still holds an awkward quality to it. None of the characters really feel distinct in their speech, when you have just long sections of full dialogue my eyes kinda glaze over and it all just blends together in adequate mush. That’s really the word I’m going to use to describe this: adequate. The action sequence just lasts too long, there’s really not much there beyond it though, and so I’m left with kind of a bland story that neither depresses or amazes me. There’s way too much repetition, I get it, there’s someone named Sharpshooter, Alchemist and Spartan. But that’s all I know about them.

You start off really strong, I love the descriptions about the outfits and that gave me a lot of hope for your construction of these various personalities, but it kinda stops there. You’re clever, Injin, and that shows but I need more from you.


Inkdrinker

There isn’t much to comment on as the piece is pretty short. That said, I think you’ve done a great job at capturing a voice and writing to that. There’s a good quality here to the writing that makes it easy to read. You also do the thing with world building that I like where you don’t go into too much exposition about what particular items or things are. For example spore honey or touch mapping. There’s a confidence to the presentation that I enjoy.

Good use of prompt, just wish I had more to read.


Sawyer

You have to be careful about being too on-the-nose. It took me right out of the story when you mention racists wielding tiki torches. You also have two stories going on here, one in a bar and one kidnapping scene. I think you had strong characterization that could have happened solely in the tense sequence with the racists, and we could have forgone the otherwise bland dinner scene. It's basically one long introduction that isn’t necessary to the actual point of your story. Or we could have forgone the racists entirely and just focused on the meeting of the three characters and been perfectly fine with some edits.

I like your characters, I think you did a good job with descriptions without being tedious. Good use of prompt.


Jason

I had to come back to yours. I didn’t hate it but I’m not sure I liked it either. While I don’t usually comment on these things I feel I have to here: please edit. There are enough spelling and grammar mistakes to tell me that you didn’t go back through and read what you wrote. It makes me not want to spend time reading your work. I also feel like I’ve said this before, but either this needed to be shorter or it needed to be longer. There’s a lot here, but its either unrelated to the climax or not expounded enough to make it super relevant and necessary. The whole hospital scene can kinda just go. It makes little to no difference to the end section where the story begins to matter.

Overall decent. Needs more work.