Iron Author VI - All Out War

[Tormsskull]

Welcome to Iron Author VI, the writing competition that pits author against author in a do-or-die type elimination match. Many thanks to Fat Daddy who originated the Iron Author contest here on the GitP forums, and also thanks to averagejoe who took up the reins after Fat Daddy.

Historically, Iron Author's format has been to pit one author against one other author, in a series of rounds. While this format has worked pretty well it is vulnerable to dropouts. If an author had not been able to post a story, his opponent automatically advanced to the next round.

The format also did not allow the judges to necessarily advance the best stories, as two very good authors may have been pitted against each other, and only one could advance.

Therefore, for Iron Author VI we are going to try something a little bit different. Instead of pitting one author against one other author, each round is going to pit all active authors against one another. For Round 1, each judge will vote to Advance four authors to the next round. The four authors who receive the most Advance votes from the judges will move on to the Round 2 (I will break ties if required).

In Round 2, each judge will vote to Advance two authors, and those two authors with the most Advance votes will go on to the final round where they will be pitted against each other to determine the winner of Iron Author VI.

In order to facilitate this type of a contest, the prompts that are given are going to be specifically vague. That is, they are going to be very short, perhaps only a word, or a phrase, and may also include a picture of some type that is very generic. The reason for this is we don't want to have all of the stories in the first round be about the same thing, that would get very tedious for the judges.

So, as an example, the prompts for Round 1 might be "Revenge", and the picture of a flower. Each author will then write a story that uses both of the prompts to whatever degree the author chooses too.

The nitty gritty details:

1) We will accept any number of entrants, however only four will advance to Round 2, and only two will advance to Round 3.

2) The contest will consist of 3 rounds. Round 1 will feature all participants, Round 2 will feature the four Advanced authors from Round 1, and Round 3 will feature the two Advanced authors from Round 2. The winner of Round 3 will be crowned Iron Author VI Champion.

3) The stories to be Advanced are determined by a panel of judges.

4) In case of a judge or judges not posting judgments in a timely manner, I will adjudicate and determine the winner.

5) The stories will be limited to 5,000 words, and while there is no required minimum number of words, it is advisable to have at least 1,000.

6) The entries will be stories(i.e. prose). Feel free to include any other genres in the story you desire (screenplay, poetry, etc) but the 'meat' should be prose.

7) The deadline for each round will be posted using Eastern Standard Time (which, according to this: Website (http://wwp.greenwichmeantime.com/) is GMT - 05:00.) Therefore, if the deadline was Friday, January 11th, then entries will be accepted up until 11:59 PM EST on Friday, January the 11th. I will periodically bump the thread with reminders when I can, but if you have ANY questions regarding the due time, be sure to ask BEFORE the last day.

7a) If you post your story early then you may edit it at any time before the deadline. If you edit it after the deadline then it will be disqualified.

8) No late entries will be accepted. If you don't post or fail to post by the deadline, you will be disqualified.

9) If you are disqualified for a rule 8 violation, you will be prohibited from entering the next Iron Author Contest. That being said, if you feel you have a valid reason for not submitting a story or withdrawing please send me a PM and I will adjudicate on a case by case basis.

10)The judgments are final. What the judges decide is how it is.

11) The entries will only include content suitable for the Playground. The Giant is nice enough to share his Playground with us and we will respect his rules while playing here.

12) I will rule on anything I have forgotten or needs clarification which is brought to my attention.

13) The contestants will have 1 week from the bracket posting to get their entries posted. Please place your entry in a spoiler.

14) Judges will have 2 weeks after the entrant's deadline to post their judgments for Round 1 only, as there may be many entrants. For Round 2 and Round 3, judges will have 1 week to post their judgments.

15) Judges should not begin evaluating entries until after the deadline, as authors may edit their entries up until that point.

16) Judges should post their judgments in a spoiler along with any comments they wish to leave for the author.


Ok, so who's up for it? Looking for 8+ authors and 3+ judges. Assuming enough entrants by then, I'm looking to officially start this competition January 18th.

Authors:

Yoshi927
Surfing Halforc
rubakhin
bayar
Elvaris
Amotis
Thanatos5150
Methodical Meat
rogerkent451
Thamir
Gezina
Ravyn
hyperfreak497
Felixaar
truemane


Judges:

Onasuma
Nameless
Eita
PGCoD


Round 1 has begun! The entries are due on Saturday the 26th due to the boards being down and such *grumble* Prompts:

Word: Greed

Picture:

http://i124.photobucket.com/albums/p15/Tormsskull/Colorful_Glass_Vase.jpg

[Bayar]

I am preety much interested to write a story...umm...can it be any type (SF for example) if it is based on the prompts given ?

[Surfing HalfOrc]

When will the prompts be posted? Do you have to sign up blind, or can you wait for the prompts?

[Tormsskull]

I am preety much interested to write a story...umm...can it be any type (SF for example) if it is based on the prompts given ?

Yes, it can be any type. You can incorporate the prompts however you see fit. You could take a look at any previous Iron Author competitions to get an idea how some of the authors were able to put the prompts to work for them.



When will the prompts be posted? Do you have to sign up blind, or can you wait for the prompts?


Yes, you have to go in blind, so to speak. The prompts are posted after all entrants are accounted for. But your story does not have to be a slave to the prompts. How you choose to utilize the prompts is up to you. Each judge takes how you include the prompts in their judgment, so while the prompt should at least be a part of your story, the story doesn't have to revolve around the prompt.

Basically, when the judge is evaluating the story, if it feels like the author forced the prompt into the story, they'd judge that a negative. If the prompt feels like a natural part of the story, then the they'd judge that a positive.

[Nameless]

Hmmm... maybe I should try out for this one...

[yoshi927]

I'll give it a shot, I guess...

[Tormsskull]

Also, please clearly indicate if you are signing up. I don't want to accidently sign you up if you are just posting to speculate. I'm adding those who sign up to the first post.

Also, we will need judges as well, so if you're interested in signing up as a judge that is always an option.

[onasuma]

Id like to be a judge if i may.

[Surfing HalfOrc]

All right. I'm officially "In." As a writer this time around. I'll consider "Judge" for later competitions.

[rubakhin]

I'm in.

*twiddles thumbs, fills prerequisite word count*

[averagejoe]

I don't know if it's a good idea, but I'm in. I wasn't going to do this, but I've been having trouble writing lately, and I could use something. I just can't seem to stay away.

[Nameless]

I tend to write long stories, or at least start long stories...

I would like to judge if I may...

[Simius]

I think it might be good to mention that, if someone is signing up to be a judge, he will be required to back up his decision with proper arguments and constructive criticism. Just saying "X and Y advance because I liked his story better" will not get you any friend among the participants (except perhaps for X and Y) :smallwink: .

\/ yup, listen to Average Joe. He knows what he's talking about.

[averagejoe]

I think it might be good to mention that, if someone is signing up to be a judge, he will be required to back up his decision with proper arguments and constructive criticism. Just saying "X and Y advance because I liked his story better" will not get you any friend among the participants (except perhaps for X and Y) :smallwink: .

Nah, that doesn't help either, because X and Y won't know why they got to advance.

Also, judges, judging takes a lot of work, especially in the first round. If you're going to sign up, you better be sure you can handle it.

[Bayar]

I am in. hopefully, the prompts will be....insertable :smallbiggrin:

[Elvaris]

Sign me up.

[hyperfreak497]

You kids and your contests. That I'm not allowed to participate in. Friggin' rules.

Meh, I guess I could judge so you can get this show on the road. I'd advise PMing truemane. He's easily the best judge I've seen in this here contest.

As an aside, my RL friend might be joining the boards in order to participate in this contest. Would this be conflict of interest or some-such nonsense?

[PhoeKun]

I was pondering whether or not to enter this crazy contest, and then I remembered that I am a useless screw up who was banned from entering this one.

So never mind, then. You kids have fun.

[Amotis]

I'm in. LALALALLALALALAA.

[Eita]

I'm in as a writer, or, preferably, a judge.

[Thanatos 51-50]

I Shall volunteer to write.

I need to get this rust off my brain.

[purple gelatinous cube o' Doom]

You know, I actually do have time to write for a change, and am tempted since I haven't in a while. But, I think I'll be a judge for once, and wait to write again until the next one.

[averagejoe]

You know what, I thought about it some more, and me entering into this is a really bad idea. Disreguard my interest in joining. I will keep lurking around, though.

[MethodicalMeat]

<Dashes in, waving his pencil and paper around.> Not to late to Join, am I?

[truemane]

Meh, I guess I could judge so you can get this show on the road. I'd advise PMing truemane. He's easily the best judge I've seen in this here contest.


Well, thank you for that. It is appreciated. I wouldn't mind competing this time around, actually. But as I was saying to Amotis these contests tend to suffer from a lack of judges more than anything else.

I'll think on it. Give it a day or two and see how the situation shapes up.

I will either Judge or Compete, though. For certain.

I love Iron Author. Justifies my overpriced education!

[rogerkent451]

I wish to enter this here competition. It be why I joined these boards!

I'm a very new writer and need inspiration for my stories.

P.S. I'm the "RL friend" hyperfreak referred to above.

[Thamir]

May I enter?

[InaVegt]

Sign me up for competition, I need to work on something else than my novel sometimes too.

[Nameless]

When we start, if you see that my oppinion of a story is delayed, this is due to internet problems I am haveing at the moment, I will comment, but it might be the next day, so can you please bear (isn't that the animal?) with me.

[hyperfreak497]

I will comment, but it might be the next day, so can you please bear (isn't that the animal?) with me.

A) The animal and the verb are spelled the same way, and B) the rules state that you have two weeks to get your judgements in the first round, and one week for each round thereafter. Last contest, judgements sometimes came in as late as three weeks after the contest closed, so no worries about "the next day".

However, "the next day" doesn't seem like adequate time to get quality judgements in. Consider using the full week allotted to you.

P.S. To Torm:
I didn't make it clear enough in my above post, so allow me to re-state. I wish to become a judge.

That will be all.

[Ravyn]

All right, this sounds like a challenge. I'm in.

[Tormsskull]

At the suggestion of truemane and the permissal of averagejoe, I've decided to remove Rule 9, so anyone who was prohibited from participating in this contest due to a DQ in IA 5 can feel free to enter.

Other than that, we seem to have a high level of interest so far, both as participants and judges, which is great!

[hyperfreak497]

Cross me out as a judge. I'm in!

[Felixaar]

Very Well Then! Ye'll see no mercy from me!

Just Kidding. There will be much mercy.

Im in, as a writer, btw. Just finished my novel, so this will be something to keep me stimulated through the editing process.

[truemane]

Hm. Okay. The judging stable seems to be suffuciently filled out, both in terms of quantity and quality. So I would like to formally announce my intention to enter the Iron Author IV contest.

As a competitor, of course.

[hyperfreak497]

So, what're we looking at for a starting date?

[Felixaar]

first post said eighteenth which was... yesterday. so, um, help?

[Tormsskull]

The boards have been going down and up horribly bad for the past couple of days. I'll post the prompts here very quickly assuming they don't go back down on me again.

Ok, prompts are up if you can see them with the boards.

[Eita]

Someone, PM me when I should start judging. The boards may go down or something again and if it isn't green I don't usually check it.

[Felixaar]

Hmm, interesting prompts...

Well then to work I go!

(btw, do we post entries on this topic, or...?)

[truemane]

Hmm, interesting prompts...

Well then to work I go!

(btw, do we post entries on this topic, or...?)

Traditionally you would post your entry in [SPOILER] tags.

[hyperfreak497]

Six days? And rogerkent and I both have midyear exams this week? :eek:

Friggin' dammit. :annoyed:

[Surfing HalfOrc]

Six days? And rogerkent and I both have midyear exams this week? :eek:

Friggin' dammit. :annoyed:

And I'm in Colorado Springs for the weekend. Think my family might be annoyed with me if I locked myself away to write?

I'll start writing Tuesday. Hopefully my mind will work something out concerning a blue vase and the word "greed." I think I have something already, though.

Note to self: wererat mines.

[Amotis]

It may just be me (cause I just noticed the prompts being up tonight) but I would greatly appreciate a pm when the prompts are up. I was happy to do it this time (just in case people haven't seen it yet) but as you can see I was pretty late seeing them myself and can't promise punctuality in the future too. So someone who's the first to spot it (or Torm), if ya wouldn't mind, a pm would be a very nice gesture.

Now to writing. Or interpretive dance.

[Eita]

I'd pass ya.

[Tormsskull]

So someone who's the first to spot it (or Torm), if ya wouldn't mind, a pm would be a very nice gesture.


Ok, sorry about that. I was just barely able to get the prompts posted before the boards went down again :smallfrown:.

For the next round I'll make sure to send a PM around when the prompts are posted.

[Felixaar]

Here we go.

I still miss you

It was a cool winded day when I first saw you. I was walking down the street – I can’t really remember why, everything else in life seemed to lose its importance then. I’m not really sure what even caught my attention as I walked past the antique store. For some reason I just felt compelled to turn my head, and there you were.
Long, slightly curled dark brown hair wound its way around and down past your perfect, heart-shaped feminine face. Intelligent blue eyes shone out, focused on their task – carefully dusting a beautifully shaped deep blue vase. As you placed it back on the store window-shelf, your attractive body shifted under a simple cotton dress.
I couldn’t help myself – I turned to the door, the word “Antiques” painted over the top half in a simple arch, and pushed it open to enter. As I walked through the threshold, a small bell above me, set off by the door, tinkled, and your head turned instinctively towards the sound. I found myself unable to react as you straightened up, an inviting smile resting lightly on your lips. It only took you a few seconds to walk the few metres between us, but I felt I could have been watching you move for hours.
“Can I help you with anything?” you asked, your voice humming out like the song of sweet bluebirds.
I couldn’t talk. I opened my mouth and no words came out. I closed my mouth. I opened it again. No words. You giggled, and I laughed, and soon felt more at ease – you always had that way, that comforting way to make me overcome any nervousness.
I started talking, you joined me in talking, and I can’t remember when we stopped.

* * *

We went out on our first date two weeks later. We were both so giddy with excitement – I’ll never forget you as the most intricate, interesting and amazing person I’ve ever met, and though I didn’t know it then, you felt the same way about me.
I don’t remember a lot of what went on that night. I remember opening a bottle of champagne and nearly hitting the waiter in the face when the cork went flying off. We both found it hilarious, though I think he was less accepting of the comedy.
I remember that after the main course we decided to skip the expensive desert and headed down to the ice cream parlour. I remember that we went to see a movie which turned out to be terrible, though luckily it was never a commentary on the date. I remember that we sat on your porch for atleast half an hour, finished with the course of the date but not wanting to end it just yet.
But most of all I remember that just before you walked into your house, we had a quick first kiss that seemed to last forever, but not nearly long enough. I will always remember that kiss… I will always remember.

* * *

Two years later, I asked you to marry me. I was so sure that this was all I ever wanted, and I was right – and you agreed. I bent down on one knee, and opened the small black velvet box, a simple silver ring settled in the midst, one I had purchased from that same antique shop where we first met.
It wasn’t worth much, but I knew you would like it – we were never the type for expensive things, and I think you enjoyed it more than you would have a million dollar jewel.
And you said you would, and I was so incredibly happy that I was worried I was going to explode on the spot. Joy flowed through my entire body with so much force that I though I might faint, and for all that I know I could have – I can’t really remember what happened after that.

* * *

Just a few months later – neither of us could wait – we stood in front of our gathered friends and family, not to mention the priest, staring so deeply into each other’s eyes that we barely noticed anyone else was there. We were surrounding by your favourite flowers, long red roses, some might say the colour of blood, but I thought they were the colour of love.
“I do,” I said, my eyes never leaving yours.
“I do,” you said, and my heart exploded with so much joy that I felt I could leap into the air, but it was almost all I could do to stay on my feet.
We bent down into a deep kiss, both of us happier than we had ever been before in our lives, and the crowd around us rang out in applause, which shocked us both slightly – having been so intent on the ceremony we had practically forgotten they were there.

* * *

For twenty years we lived together, happily living in small house in a small town in the country. The beauty that had drawn me to you from the start never left your face, or maybe it was just me who always saw it. We had two beautiful children and so many innumerable good times together… who’d have thought such a wonderful life could be torn to pieces in just a few seconds.
The kids had both left home by then, and we were on our anniversary, driving along the high way when it happened. A semi-trailer, driving on the wrong side of the road for a reason we never got to learn, crashed head on into our small car.
I still remember that horrible screeching sound as metal collided against metal, and the flash as the two vehicles collided. Everything went black for me, and what could have been hours later, I opened my eyes.
You had died, that beautiful smile still resting on your lifeless face. I couldn’t react. I couldn’t ever cry. I couldn’t do anything but stare at you. I held onto your arm as if by holding on I could delay the truth of what happened, that maybe the time would go back and I could steer us out of the way, or something… or anything…
I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t live with it. I couldn’t do anything. I blacked out again.

* * *

I still miss you. I haven’t forgotten you, and I never will. I never loved again… I spend every moment think of you. The other day I was cleaning out some old boxes and found that same blue vase that you had been dusting that day. I cleaned it, and bought some long red roses, and set them up on the table. I think I spent the rest of the day staring at it – I don’t really remember.
Today I wandered down to the beach, and now I’m sitting on the sands, watching the waves come in and out. The waves were the same deep blue as your intelligent eyes. The waves continued. They were here long before we were, and they’ll be here long after we’re gone…
I just wanted more time with you. Scratch that, I wanted all time with you. And with this… thing, the doctor says I have, I guess I will eventually. I don’t know. I wasn’t listening much when he explained it.
I still struggle with that. Am I wrong to miss you? It’s been so long; shouldn’t I be over it now? Am I just being greedy, or is it justified?
I don’t know.
All I know is this…
I still miss you.


Enjoy!

[truemane]

Hey Tormy?

What time on Saturday are they due? Noon-ish? Early evening?

Inquiring minds want to know.

[hyperfreak497]

Regrettably, it is looking as though rogerkent and I will not be getting stories in by the deadline. There's a possibility we could make it, but that possibility is slim.

I kept forgetting to ask this: why have you set the deadline at only one week? In IA5, authors were given two weeks to write.

[Thanatos 51-50]

I really, really hate to do this, but alot on my plate, plus a subject I'm horrible on (Greed? I'm the most philanthropic guy I know! I can't comprehend it) is forcing me to bow out.
Sorry all.

Guess its making your lives easier, judges.

[MethodicalMeat]

Alright, finished in time! <shakes fist at math>

Typical Dwarven Greed--Word Count 3716


“At last, we've arrived.” I say with no small amount of relief as the caravan rolls to a halt on the dusty wagon trail. I climb out carefully, gathering my robes to prevent them from snagging on the rough wooden frame of the cart, and land on my feet, my doeskin boots making nary a mark in the baked earth.

I turn and offer my hand to my companion, though he waves my hand away with a grunt as he hefts himself from the cart and lands with a rather greater impact, considering the short fellow's density. I enjoy the company of dwarves (or the archaic “dverger”, as my companion prefers), and have found that they make excellent body guards, as a generality. They are gruff and intimidating around strangers (especially dangerous sorts), and yet always willing to tell a few boisterous war stories around a campfire. And of course, they're tough as nails, and surly to boot. All in all, Einar was a worthy guardian, and a pleasant conversationalist. Most of the time, at any rate.

He snorts and shakes his head, grumbling about the weather as he grabs his pack and some of the heavier belongings we share on these trips. A tent, some food, a few sticks of firewood if its scarce where we camp and other essentials, mostly. My log-book dominates my burden as always. It's a rather large book, though without it, the journey would be meaningless. It's a long hike, and a rough one, far from the beaten path we left. We travel over hilly terrain, covered in brown grasses and hardy shrubs with a sickly looking tree, every once in a great while.

Einar mutters and grumbles angrily the entire trek, though I'm used to it. I know he's just being surly out of habit, he actually enjoys a good hike through somewhere he's never been, and his sharp eyes take in everything, constantly darting this way and that. The trip takes longer than it might have, considering I'm here to learn and study. I make stops every now and then to draw a sketch of something, or make a note about some odd flora or fauna. Einar is silent during these breaks, taking the time to sit down and take a swig of his gods-awful whiskey. He once offered me a sip when we first began traveling together, and young fool that I was, I accepted. I couldn't eat for half day, with my throat burning as it was. The dverger, in a bout of deep, speculative creativity, named the vile concoction “fire whiskey”.


It takes nearly six hours of walking, but finally, the village comes into view. It's a marvel of savage engineering and design, with two, great buildings constructed of a wooden skeleton with stitched hides stretched between each “rib”. A single, uncut lion hide is used as a sort of curtain-door on the front of each building, dyed a brilliant green on one, and a deep red on the other. Between the two buildings are all manner of less permanent dwellings, tents and holes in the ground with hides stretched over a simple frame to keep the elements out. The second thing that catches my eyes is the large gathering of gnolls on the edge of the village, each one carrying a one-handed spear with a bone tip. Attached to their weapons are all manner of trinkets and charms. Bits of fur, teeth, or odd bits held on by wire or twine. When they see us crest the rise, a whooping cry goes up, echoing out into the plains, they hold their spears aloft and dissolve into mad, hyena-like cackles as we walk down into the depression in the plains. My companion is immediately on edge, his scarred hands wrapped around his (thankfully) still sheathed short swords. I reassure him, telling him that they are only greeting us. He settles a bit, but doesn't remove his hands.

I stop a good fifty feet from the group and lift my hands up, giving Einar a slight kick to get him to let go of his swords and show them that we mean no harm. He grudgingly releases his weapons and imitates me. The gnolls suddenly fall silent and watch us intently, their faces split in wide, toothy grins that would unnerve me quite badly, were it not for their rapidly wagging tails.

One gnoll steps forward, most likely the leader, or a spokesman for said leader, judging not only by his action, but also by the green streaks running through his coarse fur, easily setting him apart from the rabble behind him. He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed deeply as he mulled over what to say, no doubt. Then, his face split into a wide smile, and he pulled off the green-dyed sash he wore around his waist and held it up, offering it to me, “Welcome to village, human. I clan chief, Bahkur'raka.”

I bow my head to him, taking the offered sash as Einar hands me the package we've brought, a small wooden chest which I am to present to the leader, unopened, “Thank you, chief Bahkur'raka, I am honored by you and your clan's welcome.”

He takes the chest and sets it down gingerly, turning to a gnoll beside him and pointing at the wooden container as he lets out an odd series of yelps and cackles. The gnoll nods, grinning eagerly as he kneels and unlatches his, his tail whipping rapidly as he reaches inside.

Standing up, he draws from the wooden chest a blue pot, made of inexpensive clay, with a rather lack-luster glaze. Honestly, I expected nothing better of my superiors, and will have to give these noble creatures a proper gift at some date in the future.

They seem pleased enough though, and most of them go whooping and screeching after the pot-bearer as he makes for the large, green “doored” building.


Bahkur'raka grins at me and motions toward a a place near the center of the area, a flat circles of dirt, clear of housing and marked only by a burned out fire-pit. The tall creature lopes to the circle and Einar and myself hasten to catch up with him. The chieften turns and squats down on his haunches, gesturing for us to sit.

“As I say before, most welcome visitors. Your gift will hold a place of great import in our tribe. I only hope and pray that gift of gnolls will suffice until we may give you greater knowledge, in return for your humbling generosity.” He says haltingly, working hard at pronouncing the words that must be quite unfamiliar to his bestial tongue.

“I am honored by your gift, and will treasure it always.” After a thorough cleaning. “I am Primate Midas, of the Church of Seven Lights, and this is my companion and bodyguard, Einar, a dverger of the far north.” I say slowly, so as not to confuse him with rapid speech.

Einar grunts, his only acknowledgment of the conversation, then customarily falls silent once more, his eyes darting around practiced suspicion.

He laughs, a shrill, cackling noise of which I am no doubt going to become quite accustomed to in the weeks to come, “No need to speak with slowness for me, I know your speech well, but my muzzle ill-forms your strange words. Though I wonder, why would your holy men name themselves after apes?”

I cannot help but laugh aloud as well, apes indeed! Though I am well pleased that the man-beast took no offense at my slowed speech, one must be careful around such savage creatures, and a lesser one of his race may have struck me down on the spot for such assumed mockery.

“It does not mean the same thing, Chieftain. It is merely a designation of high rank within my order. The precise history of the word eludes me, but I shall make a note of discovering its source when I return to the cathedral.”

“And perhaps you will tell me, should you decide to return?” He asks, tilting his head in a very canine fashion and staring unblinkingly at me for a moment.

Unlikely.

“But of course, my gracious host.” I smile back, making sure to hold his gaze, without appearing too dominant. No sense in upsetting him.

“Very good!” He beams, standing up and offering me his hand, which I politely decline in favor of being able to eat with that appendage later, “You must be weary from your journey, I will take you to your lodgings.”

He sets off immediately, his long legs eating the distance up with apparent disregard to my companions short stature (and my old bones!). He leads us, to my surprise, to the large building, with the crimson skin over it and lifts it aside, gesturing for us to enter. We do so, after catching up and are rather surprised to find it completely devoid of inhabitants!

“Why does no one dwell here?” I ask, frowning with slight concern, paranoia rearing its sudden and ugly head.

“This is for visitors, my people do not sleep here, preferring to sleep outside, under the sky, save when it rains.” He cackles again, throwing back his head in exaggerated hilarity at my evidently ridiculous question.

Still making an odd giggling noise, albeit much quieter, he ushers us both inside, pointing to hammocks made from, what else, but animal skins. Not a feather-bed with goose-down pillows, but clean, at the very least, which is more than I can say for some of the beds I've slept on on the way here.

He spins on his heal and lopes to the exit, the turns back to us for a moment, “You will be woken early tomorrow, as you are invited to watch, or perhaps even, participate in a contest of strength and skill.”

Then, he is gone, with nothing but the rustling of the crimson-stained lion skin to mark his passing.

“Well then, unpacking time, I suppose?” Einar says with his usual gruffness and un-shoulders his burden, letting his pack fall to the floor.

“Yes, and then, rest.” I reply, similarly removing my pack and gingerly placing my book upon a small table provided by our hosts, “I am most curious about this odd contest they wish to show us. No doubt a barbaric display of young gnolls whacking each other with clubs.”

“Aye.” Comes the clipped response of a dverger more than ready to get some sleep after such a painful trek. Can't say I blame him.

As promised, the chieften awoke my companion and I at dawn, just as the sun was peering over the horizon, which must have been quite early, considering that the horizon consisted of flat grasslands as far as the eye could see.

“Awake! The day wastes!” he cackled, rousing us suddenly with a rougher-than-necessary shake of our shoulders.

Einar came awake red-faced and sputtering, nearly taking off our host's head with a vicious swipe of the hand-axe he always slept clutching tight to his breast. The gnoll ducked and hopped back, still grinning at us. Apparently, near-death didn't put him off so much as a wasted morning.

With much grumbling (and a muttered apology) my companion and I pulled ourselves from our hammocks and followed the chieften, who I daresay was almost skipping with pent-up energy, out into the shadowy dawn light.


The entire tribe was gathered around the circle, the fire-pit had apparently been removed, and a white ring had been painted in the dirt. The hyena-men were gathered around it, whooping with rampant excitement.

Our host stops and throws up his arms, screeching something in his strange language. They all fall silent and turn to stare at him as he walks forward to still speaking, though quieter now. When he reaches the throng, it parts with fluid swiftness for him, allowing him to make his way to the center of the circle. He stands expectantly for a moment, watching his gathered tribe, until a small gnoll, a child, come scurrying forth, bearing on its back a bundle of staves wrapped in leather. He deposits them on the floor, rather unceremoniously, and retreats into the press of hairy bodies.

He smiles and holds up a single weapon, hefting it above his head and pointing it at the rising sun. “I speak for the benefit of our guests, what we do now is a contest of skill and courage to mark the finest warrior in the village. I discussed with the elder the night before you and your short-man arrived, whether the gods would allow an outsider to compete with us. After much deliberation and casting of the oracle bones, we have determined that one of you is to join us in our ritual.”

I smile and look to my companion, whispering softly. “Why not try Einar? Surely you can defeat a rabble of young beasts...”

He snorts and shakes his head, “I'm payed to beat the tar out of people that want to stick your squishy body, and occasionally to carry your things, I don't play games for you.”

“I would mention, should you find yourselves hesitant to fight, the trophies of battle. First, a painted feather to ornament yourself, and then, a lion hide, cured and dyed, for whatever you might find it useful. Last, a magnificent artifact of human design, hand-picked by our holy man. Even I do not know what awaits the Victor.”

An artifact? What could these creatures possibly have? No telling what they might have plundered from an unwary merchant, or even a holy mission...

“I'll pay you half-again the original contract.”

“Heh, deal.” He smirked, stomping forward towards the circle. I could almost imagine the way his beady little eyes must be shining with typical dwarven greed.

A collection of younger gnolls step forward, each taking a stave from the dirt and standing in a circle around the chieften, ushering Einar into the formation as well.

They all stare at one another for a moment, then each one looks at the bottom of their chosen stave. Einar, taking the hint, checks his as well, and furrows his brow in frustration. Whatever is on the bottom is beyond his grasp, possibly something in their own language, though I was certain they had no writing among them. The chieften leans over and peers down at my companions stave, then slaps him on the back and barks as a youth steps forward. The chief, and all the rest shuffle backwards, slipping into the gathered crowd.

Gnoll and dwarf square off, staring at each other intently. The hyena-faced creature laughs and begins what I can only assume is a bout of fanciful boasting. Einar just grins, he know how to handle improvised weapons, being something of a barfly for most of his life. The gnoll suddenly leaps into action and charges, padded weapon held aloft.

Einar just grins.


The fight is over quickly, and the result rather predictable. The poor creature never stood a chance. Einar laughs and removes his padded stick from the stricken gnoll's head as he turns and ambles back toward the outside of the circle. The gnoll makes a groaning sound and the chieften whoops, barking out to distinct syllables. Two youths emerge from the crowd and step forward into the circle, taking up stance at either end, just as before.

I heave a heavy, covert sigh as I seat myself into a more-or-less comfortable position on the packed earth, “This promises to be dull.”


And dull it is, though our hosts seem to be enjoying themselves quite a bit, judging from the Ungodly racket they're making. The fights last for far too long, and as the sun rises into the air, it begins to become painfully warm. I may have to doff my robes in favor of nothing more than that silly sash if this keeps up!

Finally though, the first rounds are all over. The winners stand in a line, and the losers meander off to reconcile this year's failure, some go into the crowd, and some wander away for more private reflection. Or, maybe they're just going to kill some hapless animal in a fit of rage. Never can tell with beast-men.

Bahkur'raka presents each of the victors with the promised feather, dyed green and ruffled oddly for decoration of their weapons or some such.

He raises his arms and shrieks then, quickly dividing the remaining people up into four-man groups and repeating the whole process of the first round, albeit with a bit more chaos involved.


My anticipation grows as the fighting progresses. I'm even standing now, my eyes trained on the battle as my mind whirls with possibility.

What could they possibly posses? What artifact could it be? A holy book, a magic sword, the bone of a saint? All these questions running through my mind, each one more insistant than the last. I'm beginning to worry as well, what if Einar can't win, and these brutes keep the prize in question? I suppose if it's a truly valuable relic, we can always bring the Inquisitors in and take it from them, but that would require bloodshed, and I do not want the blood of these creatures on my brow.

I shake my head and look up in time to see Einar make a powerful overhead swing and send his last opponent reeling, stumbling out of the circle and into the grasping arms of his clan-mates.

Einar just grins.


Finally, after two more of these four-way battles, the final encounter is here. After gifting three lion pelts to the victors, the chief grins and backs away from them, holding his arms out at shoulder height, gesturing for his clan to move back and give the three combatants room to finish this.

The sun is setting. Funny, I hadn't even noticed it dipping from the sky until now.

My breath suddenly catches in my throat, they've begun. The men, well, a dwarf and two gnolls, all stare at one another. He two gnolls are finally of interest to me. The only thing standing between myself, and whatever secret treasure the filthy brutes stole. One is truly prodigious, standing at least two heads above even his tallest peer, his stick, apparently having been snapped in two by some brutal blow to a luckless opponent, is held in either hand like a pair of small clubs. The other gnoll is average sized, with the same reddish-brown fur and gleaming yellow eyes as the rest of them, but he carries himself with grace you see in few people, and fewer beasts.

The two gnolls look at each other and nod, silently agreeing to work together to finish off the outsider before they get down to the real fight. The big one is in mid-cackle when from seemingly nowhere, Einar's weapon strikes his directly in the forehead and topples him like a tree under the axe. He lands with a shuddering thud and lays still, knocked out cold.

The other gnoll just gapes, and stares at his fallen comrade for a second. That's all my companion needed. He's on his opponent in a flash, ramming his shoulder into the poor creature's groin and sending him bowling over, clutching his damaged anatomy. The dwarf's weapon is at his opponent's throat, jabbing him rather meanly with the padded tip. The gnoll yelps and scrambles backward, his tail between his legs as he stands up and turns to run, aided in his flight by a sharp jab to the rump.

Einar just grins.


The sun is set, and now only flickering torches and a bonfire light the scene of triumph, Einar standing amongst a riot of hairy bodies, laughing and shouting as they all inebriate themselves on some foul alcohol the gnolls make for celebrations such as this.

The corpse of some plains animal is roasting over the fire, filling the air with the sickly-sweet scent of charred meat. Very fitting, considering the company I'm in.

Suddenly, a silence takes them all, rippling through them swiftly, leaving only the crackling of the fire to fill the noiseless void.

The shrieking of a of voice sharpened by age fills the air and the crowd parts, moving away from the dwarf and creating a path for a stooped gnoll wearing only a tattered loincloth and leaning on a knobby staff as he hobbles forward, a bundle clutched under one arm. I sit up and take notice.

“Here is the trophy.” My host grins, his yellow eyes shining with delight.

Mine are no doubt shining as well, in breathless anticipation.

The gnoll makes his excruciatingly slow way through the clearing amongst the bodies, making straight for Einar, whose beady little eyes twinkle with typical dwarven greed. I crack my knuckles impatiently as the hunched creature at last makes it to the dwarf and offers him the bundle with a slight dip of his head.

Einar takes it, dipping his head in return, smiling with maddening patience as the old gnoll hobbles back to his dwelling, the building with the purple hide, apparently.

After the holy-man (I'm quite certain that is who the old gnoll was) is safely back in the safety of the grand structure, then gnolls all around my companion begin whispering amongst themselves, eyes shining with excitement. One of the gnoll next to Einar, the large one from the contest, sporting a swollen lump on his forehead, grins and pokes the skin-wrapped object, miming for Einar to open it up. Einar does so, slower than is completely necessary, with his back turning to me! The nerve of that wretched midget!

The crowd erupts in a whooping cheer, cackling and guzzling their drinks as they begin to slap the dwarf on the back (and sometimes on the back of the head, to which he replies with a swift kick to the shin, all in good fun, of course).

Einar just grins, and holds aloft, for all to see (especially me), a blue, ceramic pot.

[Tormsskull]

Hey Tormy?


Awww. Only my momma calls me Tormy. :smalltongue:



7) The deadline for each round will be posted using Eastern Standard Time (which, according to this: Website is GMT - 05:00.) Therefore, if the deadline was Friday, January 11th, then entries will be accepted up until 11:59 PM EST on Friday, January the 11th. I will periodically bump the thread with reminders when I can, but if you have ANY questions regarding the due time, be sure to ask BEFORE the last day.


Saturday 11:59 PM EST. I.E., as long as you get it in sometime on the day of Saturday before it turns to Sunday according to Eastern Standard Time, you are ok.

[yoshi927]

The plaza around the temple had an elegant, high-class feeling about it. In the center of the plaza, a statue of the Skull Lord raised a warning hand to any defacers of the temple. Murals of great victories adorned the buildings of the plaza. There stood the legendary General Ripper, demanding surrender from the Sage King of the east. Next to him, the third Skull Lord directed hordes of revenants in a key battle in the civil war from a century ago. Across, Caster and Rider were outnumbered but dispatching their opponents in a businesslike manner.
Guard Captain Hatsu among others was on duty at the Third Gate, one of ten roads that lead into the outer temple complex. Few people use that gate except during ceremonies. The First Gate offers a quicker, if more narrow, going. Only two people had passed through the Third Gate during Hatsu’s shift. He was currently keeping his eye on the second, a youngster who had the accent of the Eastern Nations. That child had been around for a few hours now. He had said he was here to sketch the temple, but he hadn’t picked up his sketchbook for the past half hour and was now fiddling with a puzzle box. Hatsu moved over to confront him.
“Shouldn’t you be getting home, kid? Why are you still here if you’ve finished the sketch? It’s looking like rain.”
“Ah, well... my father said he would meet me here when he was done with work, but he seems to be running late.”
The kid stood up to talk, putting down his puzzle box down next to the sketchbook.
“As a guardsman, I can’t feel comfortable about people loitering here this late at night. We’ll spare a man to take you home. If your father shows up, I’ll tell him personally what happened. Okay?”
The kid frowned, but bent to pick up his sketchbook. In that instant, it happened. Hatsu barely saw the flash of steel as the knife was drawn. His hand went to his sword- but too late. The kid had a knife at his throat.
“It’s not kid,” said the kid, grinning ear to ear, “it’s Sougou.”

---

The Eighth Gate was not as ornate as some of the central gates, but it still boasted an impressive array of gargoyles. These were fearful creatures only concieved of in the mind of the artist. They ranged from a tiger with a third eye to some sort of demonic creature with tentacles flailing. Rookie was no longer perturbed by these statues, after a few months serving at the Gate. However, the monk sitting back against the guardhouse was obviously impressed. Next to him leaned a long staff that he carried to walk. Rookie had observed a slight limp when the monk walked up the road a few minutes ago. The monk wore an embroidered robe, typical dress of the eastern nations. Rookie prided himself on observation.
“Rookie, Ren, come out there with me. I got a bad feeling about this guy.”
Captain Chun loosened his sword in its scabbard with his right hand, his left pulling at his hair. That was a nervous habit of the Captain’s. Ren, a mute who had been accepted into the guard two years ago, folded the hand he had been playing and went to follow the captain. Rookie followed as well.
Chun walked up to the stranger, flanked by Ren and Rookie.
“Excuse me, sir. This gate is going to close in a few minutes. The storm clouds look pretty bad, shouldn’t you get back home?”
The monk had a devilish smile. It was all over in a minute. Rookie was on the ground. His consciousnous slipped away...
“That took longer than I had expected. Hope that I didn’t keep Sougou waiting. Who knows what that kid’ll do...”
The monk frowned and walked through the gate, leaning heavily on his staff. The other guards ran out to engage the intruder, but he was already far into the main plaza. Lieutenant Smasher led four men in pursuit and left the remaining one to help Commander Chun and the others.

---

“We have no hidden treasures. I can swear this on my name.”
The venerable Sage King wore a heavily embroidered purple robe, and his beard fell down to his feet. He was stroking that beard as he talked. Next to him knelt his page, a child from the noble Washi family.
“I did not come all this way to hear a lie, old man.”
The Skull Lord clutched his staff as if to break it. His face was hidden by the Skull Mask that indicated his station. In stark contrast to the old Sage King, the Skull Lord was a tall, powerfully built man.
“Skull Lord. I knew your father. He and I were the architects of our alliance. I certainly would not want to do my friend’s son any wrong. However!”
The Sage King rose slowly from his throne, supporting himself on one of the arms. His page made to help him, but was waved away.
“These foolish demands for treasure must stop! You would do well to forget about imaginary wealth. Leave now.”
The page heard the sound of air displaced. The Skull Lord held a crossbow. The Sage King was on the floor. The Skull Lord turned to him.
“Boy...”

---

Sougou shuddered.
“S-sir?”
Hatsu was making an effort of will to keep himself from shivering, knowing that any movement might impale him on the knife.
“Shut up. If you talk out of turn, I’ll kill you.”
Hatsu felt a drip of blood slither down his neck. He would have nodded profusely, had he dared.
“Sougou, let the man be.”
A monk had entered through the Eigth Gate. He clubbed Hatsu over the head with his staff, shaking his head as if to say “kids these days”.
“He’s a filthy enemy, sir.”
Sougou flicked the knife back up his sleeve. All of the sadistic, frigthtening behavior from before had faded before this monk. Sougou now seemed merely a dutiful subordinate.

---

A few minutes later, three other men made their way through the Fourth Gate, blood splattered on their garments.
“Didn’t I tell you never to move as a group?”
The monk stood up on his staff. He had been leaning on a statue. That was on account of his bad leg, thought Jive.
“Sorry, captain. We en’t all one man armies like you and the kid here.”
Jive fingered the brim of his hat. He had bought one of the top hats that were fashionable in this kingdom right now. Purely to blend in, he said.
“It isn’t captain. It’s Tajima. Alright, folks, we’re inside the temple complex. Hostiles will get here in a minute-” Lieutenant Smasher’s men made an uproar as they charged through the eight gate- “so prepare to engage. Phantom, save your energy.”
Jive was quicker with a blade than he liked to admit. He swept aside the first man easily, and clubbed him with the flat. Sougou put a knife in the good Lieutenant, and Tajima accounted for the other two while that was happening.
“Good work.”
Tajima grimaced as he stepped on his bad leg. He’d taken a cut to the shoulder. Nothing serious, it seemed.
“Alright, gents. There’ll be more in a bit, so in thirty seconds, we’re headed for the Inner Temple. Make your final checks, if you would.”
Sougou, ever restless, began to clean and sharpen his knife. Jive started pacing, pausing every few goes to check if he had some piece of equipment. Fletcher, the archer in this company, was making a last-second check of his arrows. The only one with anything to do, really, was the wizard they had brought in, by the name of Phantom. He was checking over the concealment spells he had made, and drilling himself in the ancient tongue he used. Wizards are always talking in ancient tongues. In fact, even the other wizard in the rebel group, not currently present, never understood what Phantom was saying, and vice versa. It all makes man wonder whether or not they make it up as they go along.
It is truly amazing how long thirty seconds can last under the right circumstances. Jive began to toy with the idea that some god of time had trapped them inside this interval forever. But the end did indeed come.
Phantom said his words, and they were all concealed from other eyes. Tajima gave the signal to move in.
The first obstacle was a guard, there to keep a registry of people who had come through the gate to the Inner Temple. It proved no challenge, as he had no way of detecting them. Frankly, Jive thought, they could’ve snuck through without an enchantment. This guard was bored and half-asleep.
Next proved a bit more of a challenge. There was a magic barrier on the Great Stair. If they passed through, their spells would dissipate and they would be plain to every eye. Of course, ten or eleven guards also stood at this juncture. Tajira signaled Phantom, who let loose with his sleeping spell. The guards were snoring away within seconds. Tajima signalled to go.
They went through that barrier unchallenged, although their concealment was now down. Tajima asked Phantom on the way up, but apparently there were similar magic barriers every few feet, and there would be no point re-casting the concealment. And so it was that they came to the final guard post. Tajima gave the signal to lay low. Phantom had a trick up his sleeve yet again, it seemed. Jive watched expectantly, but all Phantom did was throw out a frog. A guard prodded it with his sword, confused. Jive was also confused, until the frog started getting bigger. The guard’s eyes widened. The frog had swelled to the size of a small elephant. Guards were now stabbing it with their swords, to no effect. In the confusion, Fletcher was able to shoot down three or four guards before even being noticed. By the time they saw Fletcher, Jive and Tajira were among them. The two were too badly outnumbered to win, but along with fire and lightning from Phantom, holding the guards off was an easy task. Meanwhile, Sougou made a break for the Upper Sanctum.

---

The sanctum was a large room, with small holes in the top that light filtered through. It had an intricate pattern of tiles on the floor, and mosaics of skeletons coated the walls. Sougou’s target was on a higher platform, only accessible by ladder. Barring his way stood three men. Normally, Sougou would have liked those odds. However, he knew that these three men were powerful wizards, also necromancers of some repute.
“Don’t know how you got this far, kid, but this is where you stop.”
The foremost of the men grinned. He flicked a hand off to the side, and the skeletons on the walls suddenly came to life, and lumbered towards Sougou.
This was a tough spot. But Sougou had no intention of fighting the skeletons. He dodged relentlessly.
“Not bad, is he? How long do you think he can keep it up?”
The leading wizard took a few coins out of his pocket, and jingled them in his hand. Another one got in on the action, but the third saw something disconcerting about the kid’s movements. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but...
“Oh, crap.”
Every dodge Sougou made carried him closer to the second landing, and his target. The wizard who had noticed prepared to blast him off the ladder with lightning. Sougou mounted the ladder. The wizard began his spell...
“Watch out, there, man!”
The leader wizard fired a shield past the wizard who was preparing to shoot. Fletcher had almost got him with an arrow. However, the arrow distracted the wizard just long enough.
“Stand down, and clear out your friends over there!”
Sougou held the Holy Urn above his head. Inside dwelled the souls of the great Skull Lords, and it was a divine symbol granted by Death himself to the necromancer’s country. The two wizards who had not noticed him going for it were shocked.
“If you don’t do as I say... I’ll break it. Three. Two.”
Sougou grinned. The wizards quickly dropped the spell and the skeletons faded into the floor. Fletcher gave a thumbs-up to Sougou, and rounded up the guardian wizards, binding them with ropes that Phantom and the other wizard had prepared.
Sougou took off for the Great Stair.

---

Tajima was in a tough spot. His leg was starting to act up, and he was slowing down. Phantom had already narrowly saved him twice. He dispatched two more soldiers with blows from his staff. Jive seemed to be holding his own, barely. Fletcher had gone up and into the Upper Sanctum. Phantom signalled that he was running low on energy, and Tajima nodded, catching a blow on his staff and sweeping the soldier aside. The battle seemed to be nearing an end.
Jive came to Tajima’s side, already considerably slowed. He cut down a man on the way, and barely managed to block an attack from the side.
“Stop.”
Sougou was at the door, holding aloft the Holy Urn. The soldiers stopped.
Tajima, making a visible effort, rose up to his full height. He walked up next to Sougou, through a throng of soldiers trying to figure out what had just happened.
“Gentlemen, bring out the Skull Lord. He’ll want to talk about this, I daresay.”
Jive collapsed, too tired to do anything else. Victory, eh? He didn’t feel less bone-tired for it.


There it is.

[Eita]

God dammit. I kept pressing space bar when I opened the spoiler and boy are those long. I'll start actually reading them tomorrow.

[Bayar]

****...could not get any ideas on how to use a blue vase and greed...ah well...next time !

[Szilard]

Steal the Blue Vase I tell you! Don't quit Bayar!

[Ravyn]

First week of school, writer's block.... this is going to end badly. Ah, well, here it is.


Awakening

The Howin house had sat atop the hill as a guardian, watching over the community, but now it slept. Windows that had once been bright and alert were now obscured by drooping curtains. It had grown a thick head of moss in its slumber, and a beard of ivy that threatened to completely obscure it; the lawn was not of grass but of pine, remnants of the last major windstorm.

Why it was abandoned, none knew. It had been the beginning and the end for seven generations; six of those generations had their lives summed up in marble amid the creepers in back. Their lives had been its pageantry, and were now its dreams, and twelve years ago, when the Howins vanished and their home slipped into slumber, so too did the village below.

There are no stories here now. Children grow up and move away, and the residents grow older. We are fading. And I cannot help but feel that somehow, the house is connected.

Wake the house.

Were you to ask me where this injunction came from, I would not be able to tell you, but I know it is there. Perhaps it was Lisbet, my generation’s older sister, telling her ghost stories about empty, echoing halls. Perhaps it was old man Robbins, caretaker of the grounds in his youth, with his conviction that house and town were intertwined. It might even have been my best friend, Tas, daring me to catch the house’s eye on midnight runs to see if it would awaken for the witching hour. Or the fact that I have been to college and seen what the world outside actually looks like, and I want to know why it does not exist here. Either way, it is my duty to come here, not a dare but a pilgrimage.

I would come on the road, but it would expect me. Given the blackberries between my home and their house, jeans would be appropriate, but they feel somehow disrespectful. There is a ceremony to my approach, illogical but necessary. I wear cotton under wool, boots instead of sneakers; I carry a scarf but not a backpack. Unnecessary adherence to times past? Yes. The disappearance of the Howins was within my lifetime. But the house seems too old, somehow, or too elevated for me to come as a child of my era.

Last time I came here was five years ago, on a dare with Tas; we came through a narrow track between the brambles, and out through the shadow of one of the pines. Today I follow these paths again and emerge on the branch-strewn lawn, then step carefully between the needles, careful not to startle the slumbering house. Every crunch of twigs under my feet and every rustle of needles sullies the silence like heresies in a temple or muddy footsteps on new snow.

The cedar porch creaks a warning as I move onto the first step. I pause, tentatively take another step forward, receive another warning creak. At this point, the light changes, the sun ducking behind a cloud as if refusing to associate itself with my insolence—or wishing not to see what comes of it.

I whisper an apology, or some equivalent thereof; the trees rustle a bit, and the sun returns. It is difficult to continue, now; the feeling of watching is getting stronger, and I can almost see intelligence in the reflection of light off the windows.

Unsurprisingly, the front door is locked. As are the first-floor windows and the back door. There are a few options, though, and the one I choose is a balcony which another of the pines has finally gotten up the nerve to reach up and overshadow. The climb is difficult, requiring me to wedge myself between two trunks for much of it; the branch is almost too slender for my weight, and I need to drop from it to get onto the balcony. Committed. No way back. So instead, I enter.

Oddly enough, the French doors leading inward are unlocked, so I step in. They open inward, and kick up a cloud of dust as they brush over the tips of the inch-deep carpet. The room itself is cluttered with remnants of older times; the prior occupant must have been a bit of a pack-rat. One canopy bed, veiled in dusty pink and lavender, dominates the room; the walls are hung with tapestries, possibly older even than this house. Much of the room is covered over with dust, dimming further the once-lustrous bric-a-brac—but there is one thing that draws my eye.

There is a dresser on the far side of the room, covered with a collection of matte-finish clay knickknacks. The center of the dresser is reserved for the vase. Tall and austere, robin’s egg blue with its only decoration a series of brighter blue ridges down the bowl, it towers over its kingdom of ceramic animals, miniature English houses and flea-deep dust. None of it has been touched since the departure of the Howins.

This is… odd. I would have expected someone to have looted the place by now. Chalk one up for the idea that the house has some sort of effect.

There’s something about the vase, too. Not as dusty. Brighter than anything in this room. I cross the room, a cloud of dust in my wake, and look at it. Normal, but… immaculate.

What happens next even I can’t quite explain; I reach down and touch the vase. I think I might have wondered if it would hold fingerprints, or something along those lines.

Becoming. Sitting at the center of a ring of stones, growing from a wheel, spinning, forming, as I formed around me forming. A family coming together within me. That which was theirs was mine.

In the beginning, there had been glory. Parties, celebrations. Bright dreams. Contentment in the stories which I had dreamed.

Two generations had passed, and I had wanted more; these parties were all the same. Empty socializing, hollow music. So I waited, and I watched, and I began to interfere. Giving them dreams of greater parties, steering them towards the imaginative ones in the town, pushing them towards prosperity and excitement. The third set of Howins had obliged, oh yes. And the fourth had tried. The fifth, though, had fallen back to mediocrity, the sixth more so.

Denying me the dreams I deserved. It angered me. So I took steps. Living in their dreams, pushing them towards the resolution I wanted.

They learned. And they did not approve. But they were human, and I would outlast them.

I had not expected them to respond by withdrawing. Insolence. So I leaned a bit harder. And harder still.

…and then they left. All at once in the middle of the night, leaving everything. It was hardly surprising, of course; if they had something of mine, I could communicate with them.

But then there was silence. None returning. None venturing to speak to me. I slept, and the village dozed off with me.

But now, a visitor….

I tear myself away from the vase, step back—myself again. The air of the room is different; it is no longer asleep, but observing. Waiting.

Dreams. A future. Practically another world. The town being bright again…

….and a maniac house trying to push me beyond my boundaries.

Was this even much of a choice?


The town hasn’t changed, but I live in hope as I return to campus in summer. Set myself up on the first day. Sun streaming through my window, sound echoing up from the sidewalks; pictures on the walls, books on the desk—and a single robin’s egg blue vase sitting on the dresser.

[rubakhin]

I'm praying that I haven't gone and written another story that you need to be Russian to understand. :smallsigh: But the only thing that can possibly explain it is: this is Petersburg as it is, and this is the people of Petersburg as they are. No one else lives like this but the Slavs, and even then only in Petersburg - but this is how things are there, in truth. It's an enchanted place.

In other words: Manic? This is RUSSIAAAA

Petersburg





Listen,
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.
And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand that starless ordeal.
Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.
And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'
Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

- Vladimir Mayakovsky
Petersburg, 1914



Mitya, Mitya! Don't despair. Look, let's bathe in the river, or the fountain. It's afternoon - the water must be warm, in the fountain, and still - like it's waiting just for us. Dust will settle on the surface and catch the light. And petals from the cherry blossoms.

Where? Well, this is Petersburg! Somewhere in Petersburg there is a fountain, by a line of cherry trees close enough for the wind to blow the petals into the water, because I wished it and I want it to come true.

Naked? Sure, let's go naked. I'll pull my dress down and show my breasts. Let's go without shoes, even, let's burn our bare feet on the grey stones that make up the square. I know that people will see. But I don't care. This form is not the true form, as Dostoevsky might have said. And if the cops come, we'll pay them off.

Let's lie right down in the middle of Nevsky Prospekt, with our eyes open, let's lie there spread-eagled and get swept up in the size. No cars will come, I think. And if cars, then one lone truck rattling off in the distance, mixing with the sound of the trackless tram. The scent of exhaust on the wind. It will remind us of our fathers, who were both mechanics with rough hands stained with grease, and of a happy childhood, where we used to play near the road, in the sand. Sand, with specks of mica in it. We saw diamonds.

We'll lie there, with the asphalt drying our damp hair, and the telephone wires will sway in the wind like cradles. The clouds above us will be massive. The swell of the sky will form above us, as soundlessly as infants in the stomach of their mothers.

Don't lie there, Mitya, with the grubby rim of your T-shirt pulled up, showing your brown stomach. You keep that vase pressed to your bare skin, holding it like a burden. Idly, you roll it back and forth over your stomach, and a bit of water left in the bottom sloshes - a trail of saliva from a dozen dying flowers.

The color of the glass mixes with the color of your skin. Purple: blue and brown.

And I want to touch you, because even in this heat the glass could be cold, and I don't know, and I want to. Does it cool you? Your fevered skin? Your fevered mind?

You want to clutch your pain to your chest, as jealously as if it were made of gold, and keep you and your world to yourself, to prove that you have suffered. You think now, don't you, that if you gave up your pain, it means that the woman you miss will have lost all meaning in your heart. And so all of it would have been for nothing, right?

Light from the window hits the vase and sends a patch of blue light scrambling across the floor.

Mitya, hold the vase up to the window. Turn it towards my outstretched hands. Look! It's like I'm holding a pool of water. And is the water anywhere really that color? Sure, far away, in Florida, in the Caribbean, in other distant and tropical gulfs. But the waters of the world all mix together, as dictated by the wind and the moon, ineffable currents, unknowable things. And they go somewhere, and wherever you see water, a droplet or two might have come from there, might have traveled all that way

to Petersburg.

To Petersburg.

Listen! Give me your hand. If you won't go, then let's stay here as the sunbeams from the window moves across the room, and the spot of light will travel from my palm to yours.

It'll be dark out soon. Sunset and the square become as gold as gold leaf, the statues become ikons, the faces become ikons, the clouds become wings, and the buildings are chariots. The streetlights are a string of pearls.

Later in the evening, before the sunset - you can depend on it like clockwork - those clouds in the sky will collapse in tears. Warm tears. Summer's tears, that refresh you before the night. Joy and tiredness. The first hint of evening will blow up, the first wind that's soothing and cool.
Then the rain.

And the people will stay out. Young women will laugh and shriek, and their boyfriends will open their jackets and take them in their arms, to protect them from the rain. There will be an old auntie with her hands on her hips, smiling down at the weight-guesser - the water in her old curls must've added a pound or two, or four. The boats will bump up against the docks, like dogs who nose the door when they're anxious to be let out. The rain will come, and wake the drunkards up, as tender as a kiss, and they remember to go home to their wives, to their mothers. There will be a bit of silence, and then, like at the end of the movie, breaking the spell, a bit of discussion, some friendly swearing, and boyish laughter, Russian laughter, from a couple of full-grown men. The crowds will keep on moving. Footsteps in the puddles.

Around suppertime. The laughter and the noise, the whole crowd, will pour into the nearest McDonald's and eat American food, and be smiled at by the workers - the only place in all of Russia where people on the job will smile. (Since Lenin, anyway: or so I've heard.) Everything will be a little bit Western, a little bit platinum. Like the billboards on the streets, above the neon, the places in Petersburg that envy even Times Square. There is a picture of a model (ingenues are back in style) with her glossy lips open in childlike surprise. And on her polished cheek, the water is drying. She looks like she was crying, too. Tears of happiness, just like the clouds.

Petersburg does not believe in tears. Not tears of sorrow, just of joy.

Don't think of lost love. Don't think of the flowers that were held in that vase. She exists somewhere, in Petersburg. Don't cry for her, who held flowers in that vase, flowers that are now dead and gone and have returned to the Earth, flowers that once felt the afternoon rain, that comes down like clockwork, in Petersburg. And I am by your side, and I want to know you, and I want to be with you. And I want to know if it's possible, to say to another human being every word that comes into my mind, in spite of its inelegance, or its vestments. No private thoughts for me. Is it possible for you to know every last word that's in my soul?

Think, Mitya. What good do you do, when only that vase can see your face? Vibrations. You are the plucked string

on which God can play.

The shape of your nose might strike someone - as the particular inspiration needed for a poem. Your cheek, flushed and healthy, might remind a man of youth and vigor, and keep him from the bottle. Your tears might move someone to kindness, your lost love might drive someone towards a love that's yet to be found - a love that would have slipped through their fingers.

Love rises and falls with your breath - like the waves.

After dinner. Satiated, of all but small talk, a cigarette lights up. Then one more. Then two. Three bright lights, like tiny lanterns in the darkness, behind which are the murmurs of conversation, and sometimes beloved faces, lit up by the passing cars.

Do you remember telling me about your first cigarette? Late at night, when your father was at the theater, you went out into the streets. And a woman - not an old woman - somewhere between the games of youth and motherhood - was out smoking. And you felt brave, because you were alone, as you seldom were, and because she was just at the right age to be as indulgent as a mother and a loose girl at once. You worked up the courage, and you bummed a cigarette from her - and found a lighter somehow, somewhere.

Upstairs again, you opened the window - and kept the blinds down, just in case a neighbor passed by - lit the cigarette and stuck it through the slats. You sat there at the chair, with your eye to the chink in the blinds, and the smoke mixing with the moon light, and the street light, and the signs.

You didn't cough, although you inhaled (you felt proud!) but your nose ran a little, and you wiped it with the back of your hand, which had picked up the scent of the tobacco. You caught the scent on your fingers. And it struck you, suddenly, that this was the scent that was always on your mother's hands, because before she died and went away from you she smoked. You remembered, although it had been forgotten for more than ten years, pressing your young face into her coat and inhaling that smell, you felt the snowdrops melting on the soft fuzz and the broken buttons. You understand for the first time that her winter jacket didn't keep out the cold.

And all of a sudden you missed your mother. And you kept your hands to your face, in the pose of a cemetery statue, until the scent faded. And if the woman hadn't been out, if she hadn't felt generous (as you always do), then maybe the memory might have been allowed to go away. If she hadn't been out on that night, when, almost for the first time, you were alone, you wouldn't have had your mother's hands there again, for one last time - just long enough for you to forgive her for dying.

Don't keep yourself from the people.

The people.

You told me once that in Russia - that in Petersburg alone - the people don't walk with their heads hung low, but with their faces pointed towards the sky.

I didn't see that until you pointed it out. And now, whenever I go out, I see the faces looking out at me. I wouldn't have seen that without you - I would have lived out the rest of my life without having realized.

I need you to see these things for me, and if you stay here with your old love and your old pain, which have both vanished into the ocean of Petersburg, then I will stay with you, because I need you by my side, these city streets.

Who else can see the people as you do? My Petersburg is stone buildings, swirls of dust, and heat. I know the aching dreams of Stalin, entombed in their overwrought Taj Mahals. I see the church buildings, with their cracks in the plaster, the plaintive, trusting eyes of the saints waiting patiently, patiently, for the era of cruelty to be made wholly past, and I can weep for God, because God is in the buildings here, in the gold, in the domes. And here and there, I can imagine that people are going back to compassion. But you are the one who knows that the people here walk with their faces tilted up. You know their sorrows, because you yourself have suffered, and you can give so much to them.

The people. A little Soviet - a little Soviet, sure. But then, why not? Although the world has moved on, already forgotten the events of October. Forgotten the high wigs, the excitement of European ideas, and the thunder of hoofbeats and poems. The past is the past, and at the end of every day, what was once Russia, is now erased. It returns to the dust. To the water: a day sets into the river, becomes a droplet among droplets.

Night falls on Leningrad. A white night.

Listen to the sea birds, Mitya.

What silence

falls upon the world.

I've heard something: perhaps from you. At the very last moment, before the sun slips down past the horizon, it flashes green, at sea level. I don't know what it looks like - what shade, what size. Have you seen it? Can this happen in Petersburg? No, don't say a word. Don't tell me if such a thing exists: although it must surely exist. I've kept myself from it, from all photographs and textbooks, because if this exists then I want to see it with my own eyes, without knowing what to expect.

Let's go. There'll be time for us to get down to the waterfront, if we run.

Let's go, Mitya. I want to see it. It could happen today, tomorrow again, or in a month - but I want to know if it'll happen in this evening, in this droplet. The chance will never come again.

The sun will set, as suns do in Leningrad in the summer, without setting. Do stars sometimes rise? One or two, late at night? All of a sudden, although I've seen these nights a thousand times before, I can't remember. I don't know if this is a memory or wishful thinking, but I think I can remember one or two, trembling in the breast of a pink sky. The light is waiting for you, and the stars, and it might come to pass (I don't know the way the universe works) that they will not exist without you there to see it.

May I propose a little dictum? I say that every act of solitude is greed! I want you to embrace the world. To live more.

Let's go, Mitya. I want to see if one or two might ignite, over the top of the building, in the combination of light and dark,

that exists only in Petersburg.


Sevastian Rubakhin
January 2008

[truemane]

Man, there better be a LOT of activity in the next half-hour or so, or else the furst round is going to look an AWFUL LOT like the second.

Anyway, for Round One, I'm writing outside my comfort zone.

WOUNDED.
1843 words


*STOLEN!*

[Amotis]

Ebb The Aeroplane (Let’s Turn Fire Into Wine)



Ebb The Aeroplane (Let’s Turn Fire Into Wine)


Travel is gorgeous when you‘re young enough to edge life into films. Hoping, or sometimes forcing, that yours will end up as a romantic comedy. And when you’ve got enough time on moving sidewalks, try to match up songs to moments and how the credits will roll. See, airports give you time to think. Think back to last weekend about Jessica, an old hometown friend, invites you to a gathering of old friends. And when your hesitation was reminiscent of midday hangovers in the back of used cars, the answer came out like the glare across the windshield.

Let me tell you something about the past. It’s fine and minute enough that you can be completely wrong about everything , from Jessica’s goodbye a few years ago to that pause exiting the taxi to look up at the terminal, and when you are (or think you are) it ruins your whole concept of self and present. Explain why you got here, right now. Show me your genetics. And what if you can’t? When that little hesitation, the soft click of closing your cell phone, crawls into your answers. Plays atheist to devil’s advocate. So it’s a little vacation. You’ve got some time off, you needed a break anyway. But what if that’s not it. What if you’re hoping, and here’s where it gets funny, that it’s not just a little vacation. Remember all those teenage ’what if’s?’ Were you a bit too quick to ask for that time off? Yeah, now your stuck. Regression towards flight 270.

But let’s look at it in a different light. Change comes in different styles. That call last weekend could be just what you needed. You’re at the airport now. No longer just apartment to work to apartment with life expectancy of twenty bucks worth of diet coke and gas, life is simply here. And you’re simply there. Of course, you’re not simply there forever. You’re gonna leave, that’s why you’re there. So if you’re gonna leave, you might as well take something with you. That’s exactly why you can’t stop wondering what’s gonna happen when you land. That’s why the flower cart caught your eye.

Show me napalm by any other name. And beauty with the question of lust. Kick the dust but don’t disturb the guy in front of you. Just turn up your music and try to drone out the engine noises, man's a castle. Show me revolutions flying business class and don't forget. Carry that hope in you. Don’t show that, not yet. Give it time, shower it with blue anxieties you thought you got over years ago and make sure she knows it when she sees it. Make it like the rose, not because it’s so perfect but because the rest of the garden’s on fire. Give it love mix tape love, give it a soft scene. Make it like…her. Sounds crazy, sounds unrealistic. Sounds like freedom.

Just ignore the guttural whooshes of the air outside. Forget about how fast you’re going and the frailty of it all. The captain doesn’t know, he’s sorry but he’s forgotten. Forgotten what this means to each and every one of his passengers. Flying without engines? Fires in the cabin? God, what a joke. This isn’t earth anymore, we’re touching the heavens. Doesn’t he know what that means? It means 16,000 and dropping means texture and youthful desire just got a whole lot more overdramatic. It mean love is forever. Take it in. The city is the flowing empty sky above you and you, yes you, are the vehicle of destruction, life, and everything and the ocean is your mother. The empty belligerence of life, fleeing and tumbling as you're pushed back in your seat, that screams and smiles like that girlfriend you had in high school. Look for the endless creeping cities of Atlantis that holds and love all that it takes with simple fleshy hands that reach out and kiss the morning surfers before they go to their desk jobs. Keep it in you. Clutch those flowers you bought for her just as you boarded the plane like the bathroom walls you always wanted to write in and finally did. Remember you remembering how much she likes tulips. And forget everything else as you clutch the bouquet to your chest and place them into the vase of the ocean, show it your hope. Let them all die, show me - no give me the truth and the texture. Give me young love, give me sacrifice. Give me her tears, your eyes, water’s way with words. Give it, give it all to me.

[Amotis]

WTF guys?

No, wait...what? How did this happen?

I sit down for four days to try to write a story, end up going in this frustrated angst spiral that leads me 2 hours to grunt out one of the most unsatisfactory pieces of crap that I've ever felt I've written, I'm embarrassed about it from Hell to back, I hate the fact that I actually hit enter on that post and yet I bloody posted it because of respect for this contest even though I currently HATE MY SELF. Because I signed up. Commitment, guys. This is the second time this has happened in such great numbers. WTF is the problem? Too little time? You don't like the prompts? What?

...I'm in a bad mood.

[Felixaar]

No kidding.

So, we got seven entries in, eh? Not bad (though the full fifteen would've been nice.)

[yoshi927]

Dang, is it usually like this? I thought people were just spending time messing with it till the last day, but, I mean, dang. I don't think we even got half of the entries in.

While I'm posting, how can you be embarrassed to hell and back? Is that, like, you're embarrassed enough to commit suicide? Or what? :smalltongue:

[Nameless]

I've got much to read, I must make some time.

[Eita]

Alright. Let's do this thing. This post shall be edited as I read more entries. If I don't finish them all tonight, I'll post reminders of the update. Oh, and due to the odd nature of this, I'm going to put point values instead of pass/fail and then find out pass/fail.


Here we go.

I still miss you

It was a cool winded day when I first saw you. I was walking down the street – I can’t really remember why, everything else in life seemed to lose its importance then. I’m not really sure what even caught my attention as I walked past the antique store. For some reason I just felt compelled to turn my head, and there you were.
Long, slightly curled dark brown hair wound its way around and down past your perfect, heart-shaped feminine face. Intelligent blue eyes shone out, focused on their task – carefully dusting a beautifully shaped deep blue vase. As you placed it back on the store window-shelf, your attractive body shifted under a simple cotton dress.
I couldn’t help myself – I turned to the door, the word “Antiques” painted over the top half in a simple arch, and pushed it open to enter. As I walked through the threshold, a small bell above me, set off by the door, tinkled, and your head turned instinctively towards the sound. I found myself unable to react as you straightened up, an inviting smile resting lightly on your lips. It only took you a few seconds to walk the few metres between us, but I felt I could have been watching you move for hours.
“Can I help you with anything?” you asked, your voice humming out like the song of sweet bluebirds.
I couldn’t talk. I opened my mouth and no words came out. I closed my mouth. I opened it again. No words. You giggled, and I laughed, and soon felt more at ease – you always had that way, that comforting way to make me overcome any nervousness.
I started talking, you joined me in talking, and I can’t remember when we stopped.

* * *

We went out on our first date two weeks later. We were both so giddy with excitement – I’ll never forget you as the most intricate, interesting and amazing person I’ve ever met, and though I didn’t know it then, you felt the same way about me.
I don’t remember a lot of what went on that night. I remember opening a bottle of champagne and nearly hitting the waiter in the face when the cork went flying off. We both found it hilarious, though I think he was less accepting of the comedy.
I remember that after the main course we decided to skip the expensive desert and headed down to the ice cream parlour. I remember that we went to see a movie which turned out to be terrible, though luckily it was never a commentary on the date. I remember that we sat on your porch for atleast half an hour, finished with the course of the date but not wanting to end it just yet.
But most of all I remember that just before you walked into your house, we had a quick first kiss that seemed to last forever, but not nearly long enough. I will always remember that kiss… I will always remember.

* * *

Two years later, I asked you to marry me. I was so sure that this was all I ever wanted, and I was right – and you agreed. I bent down on one knee, and opened the small black velvet box, a simple silver ring settled in the midst, one I had purchased from that same antique shop where we first met.
It wasn’t worth much, but I knew you would like it – we were never the type for expensive things, and I think you enjoyed it more than you would have a million dollar jewel.
And you said you would, and I was so incredibly happy that I was worried I was going to explode on the spot. Joy flowed through my entire body with so much force that I though I might faint, and for all that I know I could have – I can’t really remember what happened after that.

* * *

Just a few months later – neither of us could wait – we stood in front of our gathered friends and family, not to mention the priest, staring so deeply into each other’s eyes that we barely noticed anyone else was there. We were surrounding by your favourite flowers, long red roses, some might say the colour of blood, but I thought they were the colour of love.
“I do,” I said, my eyes never leaving yours.
“I do,” you said, and my heart exploded with so much joy that I felt I could leap into the air, but it was almost all I could do to stay on my feet.
We bent down into a deep kiss, both of us happier than we had ever been before in our lives, and the crowd around us rang out in applause, which shocked us both slightly – having been so intent on the ceremony we had practically forgotten they were there.

* * *

For twenty years we lived together, happily living in small house in a small town in the country. The beauty that had drawn me to you from the start never left your face, or maybe it was just me who always saw it. We had two beautiful children and so many innumerable good times together… who’d have thought such a wonderful life could be torn to pieces in just a few seconds.
The kids had both left home by then, and we were on our anniversary, driving along the high way when it happened. A semi-trailer, driving on the wrong side of the road for a reason we never got to learn, crashed head on into our small car.
I still remember that horrible screeching sound as metal collided against metal, and the flash as the two vehicles collided. Everything went black for me, and what could have been hours later, I opened my eyes.
You had died, that beautiful smile still resting on your lifeless face. I couldn’t react. I couldn’t ever cry. I couldn’t do anything but stare at you. I held onto your arm as if by holding on I could delay the truth of what happened, that maybe the time would go back and I could steer us out of the way, or something… or anything…
I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t live with it. I couldn’t do anything. I blacked out again.

* * *

I still miss you. I haven’t forgotten you, and I never will. I never loved again… I spend every moment think of you. The other day I was cleaning out some old boxes and found that same blue vase that you had been dusting that day. I cleaned it, and bought some long red roses, and set them up on the table. I think I spent the rest of the day staring at it – I don’t really remember.
Today I wandered down to the beach, and now I’m sitting on the sands, watching the waves come in and out. The waves were the same deep blue as your intelligent eyes. The waves continued. They were here long before we were, and they’ll be here long after we’re gone…
I just wanted more time with you. Scratch that, I wanted all time with you. And with this… thing, the doctor says I have, I guess I will eventually. I don’t know. I wasn’t listening much when he explained it.
I still struggle with that. Am I wrong to miss you? It’s been so long; shouldn’t I be over it now? Am I just being greedy, or is it justified?
I don’t know.
All I know is this…
I still miss you.


Enjoy!

First of all, it really spoke to the hopeless romantic in me. Excellent job with taking the prompt and doing something most others wouldn't think of (I figured most would be about a treasure hunter stealing a blue vase). The main character really felt like a character undergoing true sadness instead of the faux, 'woe is me!', that seems to crop up in sad stories. The story actually made me sad.

Now then, onto the negatives. Using 'metre' instead of meter is going to cost you. :smalltongue: Secondly, it really didn't explain anything about the people and instead just plopped in two random characters and didn't bother with character development at all. As I said, he felt like a real guy, but he didn't feel like someone I could relate to due to the ambiguity of it all.

Score: 8.5

Odds of Advancing: High

First one down.


Alright, finished in time! <shakes fist at math>

Typical Dwarven Greed--Word Count 3716


“At last, we've arrived.” I say with no small amount of relief as the caravan rolls to a halt on the dusty wagon trail. I climb out carefully, gathering my robes to prevent them from snagging on the rough wooden frame of the cart, and land on my feet, my doeskin boots making nary a mark in the baked earth.

I turn and offer my hand to my companion, though he waves my hand away with a grunt as he hefts himself from the cart and lands with a rather greater impact, considering the short fellow's density. I enjoy the company of dwarves (or the archaic “dverger”, as my companion prefers), and have found that they make excellent body guards, as a generality. They are gruff and intimidating around strangers (especially dangerous sorts), and yet always willing to tell a few boisterous war stories around a campfire. And of course, they're tough as nails, and surly to boot. All in all, Einar was a worthy guardian, and a pleasant conversationalist. Most of the time, at any rate.

He snorts and shakes his head, grumbling about the weather as he grabs his pack and some of the heavier belongings we share on these trips. A tent, some food, a few sticks of firewood if its scarce where we camp and other essentials, mostly. My log-book dominates my burden as always. It's a rather large book, though without it, the journey would be meaningless. It's a long hike, and a rough one, far from the beaten path we left. We travel over hilly terrain, covered in brown grasses and hardy shrubs with a sickly looking tree, every once in a great while.

Einar mutters and grumbles angrily the entire trek, though I'm used to it. I know he's just being surly out of habit, he actually enjoys a good hike through somewhere he's never been, and his sharp eyes take in everything, constantly darting this way and that. The trip takes longer than it might have, considering I'm here to learn and study. I make stops every now and then to draw a sketch of something, or make a note about some odd flora or fauna. Einar is silent during these breaks, taking the time to sit down and take a swig of his gods-awful whiskey. He once offered me a sip when we first began traveling together, and young fool that I was, I accepted. I couldn't eat for half day, with my throat burning as it was. The dverger, in a bout of deep, speculative creativity, named the vile concoction “fire whiskey”.


It takes nearly six hours of walking, but finally, the village comes into view. It's a marvel of savage engineering and design, with two, great buildings constructed of a wooden skeleton with stitched hides stretched between each “rib”. A single, uncut lion hide is used as a sort of curtain-door on the front of each building, dyed a brilliant green on one, and a deep red on the other. Between the two buildings are all manner of less permanent dwellings, tents and holes in the ground with hides stretched over a simple frame to keep the elements out. The second thing that catches my eyes is the large gathering of gnolls on the edge of the village, each one carrying a one-handed spear with a bone tip. Attached to their weapons are all manner of trinkets and charms. Bits of fur, teeth, or odd bits held on by wire or twine. When they see us crest the rise, a whooping cry goes up, echoing out into the plains, they hold their spears aloft and dissolve into mad, hyena-like cackles as we walk down into the depression in the plains. My companion is immediately on edge, his scarred hands wrapped around his (thankfully) still sheathed short swords. I reassure him, telling him that they are only greeting us. He settles a bit, but doesn't remove his hands.

I stop a good fifty feet from the group and lift my hands up, giving Einar a slight kick to get him to let go of his swords and show them that we mean no harm. He grudgingly releases his weapons and imitates me. The gnolls suddenly fall silent and watch us intently, their faces split in wide, toothy grins that would unnerve me quite badly, were it not for their rapidly wagging tails.

One gnoll steps forward, most likely the leader, or a spokesman for said leader, judging not only by his action, but also by the green streaks running through his coarse fur, easily setting him apart from the rabble behind him. He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed deeply as he mulled over what to say, no doubt. Then, his face split into a wide smile, and he pulled off the green-dyed sash he wore around his waist and held it up, offering it to me, “Welcome to village, human. I clan chief, Bahkur'raka.”

I bow my head to him, taking the offered sash as Einar hands me the package we've brought, a small wooden chest which I am to present to the leader, unopened, “Thank you, chief Bahkur'raka, I am honored by you and your clan's welcome.”

He takes the chest and sets it down gingerly, turning to a gnoll beside him and pointing at the wooden container as he lets out an odd series of yelps and cackles. The gnoll nods, grinning eagerly as he kneels and unlatches his, his tail whipping rapidly as he reaches inside.

Standing up, he draws from the wooden chest a blue pot, made of inexpensive clay, with a rather lack-luster glaze. Honestly, I expected nothing better of my superiors, and will have to give these noble creatures a proper gift at some date in the future.

They seem pleased enough though, and most of them go whooping and screeching after the pot-bearer as he makes for the large, green “doored” building.


Bahkur'raka grins at me and motions toward a a place near the center of the area, a flat circles of dirt, clear of housing and marked only by a burned out fire-pit. The tall creature lopes to the circle and Einar and myself hasten to catch up with him. The chieften turns and squats down on his haunches, gesturing for us to sit.

“As I say before, most welcome visitors. Your gift will hold a place of great import in our tribe. I only hope and pray that gift of gnolls will suffice until we may give you greater knowledge, in return for your humbling generosity.” He says haltingly, working hard at pronouncing the words that must be quite unfamiliar to his bestial tongue.

“I am honored by your gift, and will treasure it always.” After a thorough cleaning. “I am Primate Midas, of the Church of Seven Lights, and this is my companion and bodyguard, Einar, a dverger of the far north.” I say slowly, so as not to confuse him with rapid speech.

Einar grunts, his only acknowledgment of the conversation, then customarily falls silent once more, his eyes darting around practiced suspicion.

He laughs, a shrill, cackling noise of which I am no doubt going to become quite accustomed to in the weeks to come, “No need to speak with slowness for me, I know your speech well, but my muzzle ill-forms your strange words. Though I wonder, why would your holy men name themselves after apes?”

I cannot help but laugh aloud as well, apes indeed! Though I am well pleased that the man-beast took no offense at my slowed speech, one must be careful around such savage creatures, and a lesser one of his race may have struck me down on the spot for such assumed mockery.

“It does not mean the same thing, Chieftain. It is merely a designation of high rank within my order. The precise history of the word eludes me, but I shall make a note of discovering its source when I return to the cathedral.”

“And perhaps you will tell me, should you decide to return?” He asks, tilting his head in a very canine fashion and staring unblinkingly at me for a moment.

Unlikely.

“But of course, my gracious host.” I smile back, making sure to hold his gaze, without appearing too dominant. No sense in upsetting him.

“Very good!” He beams, standing up and offering me his hand, which I politely decline in favor of being able to eat with that appendage later, “You must be weary from your journey, I will take you to your lodgings.”

He sets off immediately, his long legs eating the distance up with apparent disregard to my companions short stature (and my old bones!). He leads us, to my surprise, to the large building, with the crimson skin over it and lifts it aside, gesturing for us to enter. We do so, after catching up and are rather surprised to find it completely devoid of inhabitants!

“Why does no one dwell here?” I ask, frowning with slight concern, paranoia rearing its sudden and ugly head.

“This is for visitors, my people do not sleep here, preferring to sleep outside, under the sky, save when it rains.” He cackles again, throwing back his head in exaggerated hilarity at my evidently ridiculous question.

Still making an odd giggling noise, albeit much quieter, he ushers us both inside, pointing to hammocks made from, what else, but animal skins. Not a feather-bed with goose-down pillows, but clean, at the very least, which is more than I can say for some of the beds I've slept on on the way here.

He spins on his heal and lopes to the exit, the turns back to us for a moment, “You will be woken early tomorrow, as you are invited to watch, or perhaps even, participate in a contest of strength and skill.”

Then, he is gone, with nothing but the rustling of the crimson-stained lion skin to mark his passing.

“Well then, unpacking time, I suppose?” Einar says with his usual gruffness and un-shoulders his burden, letting his pack fall to the floor.

“Yes, and then, rest.” I reply, similarly removing my pack and gingerly placing my book upon a small table provided by our hosts, “I am most curious about this odd contest they wish to show us. No doubt a barbaric display of young gnolls whacking each other with clubs.”

“Aye.” Comes the clipped response of a dverger more than ready to get some sleep after such a painful trek. Can't say I blame him.

As promised, the chieften awoke my companion and I at dawn, just as the sun was peering over the horizon, which must have been quite early, considering that the horizon consisted of flat grasslands as far as the eye could see.

“Awake! The day wastes!” he cackled, rousing us suddenly with a rougher-than-necessary shake of our shoulders.

Einar came awake red-faced and sputtering, nearly taking off our host's head with a vicious swipe of the hand-axe he always slept clutching tight to his breast. The gnoll ducked and hopped back, still grinning at us. Apparently, near-death didn't put him off so much as a wasted morning.

With much grumbling (and a muttered apology) my companion and I pulled ourselves from our hammocks and followed the chieften, who I daresay was almost skipping with pent-up energy, out into the shadowy dawn light.


The entire tribe was gathered around the circle, the fire-pit had apparently been removed, and a white ring had been painted in the dirt. The hyena-men were gathered around it, whooping with rampant excitement.

Our host stops and throws up his arms, screeching something in his strange language. They all fall silent and turn to stare at him as he walks forward to still speaking, though quieter now. When he reaches the throng, it parts with fluid swiftness for him, allowing him to make his way to the center of the circle. He stands expectantly for a moment, watching his gathered tribe, until a small gnoll, a child, come scurrying forth, bearing on its back a bundle of staves wrapped in leather. He deposits them on the floor, rather unceremoniously, and retreats into the press of hairy bodies.

He smiles and holds up a single weapon, hefting it above his head and pointing it at the rising sun. “I speak for the benefit of our guests, what we do now is a contest of skill and courage to mark the finest warrior in the village. I discussed with the elder the night before you and your short-man arrived, whether the gods would allow an outsider to compete with us. After much deliberation and casting of the oracle bones, we have determined that one of you is to join us in our ritual.”

I smile and look to my companion, whispering softly. “Why not try Einar? Surely you can defeat a rabble of young beasts...”

He snorts and shakes his head, “I'm payed to beat the tar out of people that want to stick your squishy body, and occasionally to carry your things, I don't play games for you.”

“I would mention, should you find yourselves hesitant to fight, the trophies of battle. First, a painted feather to ornament yourself, and then, a lion hide, cured and dyed, for whatever you might find it useful. Last, a magnificent artifact of human design, hand-picked by our holy man. Even I do not know what awaits the Victor.”

An artifact? What could these creatures possibly have? No telling what they might have plundered from an unwary merchant, or even a holy mission...

“I'll pay you half-again the original contract.”

“Heh, deal.” He smirked, stomping forward towards the circle. I could almost imagine the way his beady little eyes must be shining with typical dwarven greed.

A collection of younger gnolls step forward, each taking a stave from the dirt and standing in a circle around the chieften, ushering Einar into the formation as well.

They all stare at one another for a moment, then each one looks at the bottom of their chosen stave. Einar, taking the hint, checks his as well, and furrows his brow in frustration. Whatever is on the bottom is beyond his grasp, possibly something in their own language, though I was certain they had no writing among them. The chieften leans over and peers down at my companions stave, then slaps him on the back and barks as a youth steps forward. The chief, and all the rest shuffle backwards, slipping into the gathered crowd.

Gnoll and dwarf square off, staring at each other intently. The hyena-faced creature laughs and begins what I can only assume is a bout of fanciful boasting. Einar just grins, he know how to handle improvised weapons, being something of a barfly for most of his life. The gnoll suddenly leaps into action and charges, padded weapon held aloft.

Einar just grins.


The fight is over quickly, and the result rather predictable. The poor creature never stood a chance. Einar laughs and removes his padded stick from the stricken gnoll's head as he turns and ambles back toward the outside of the circle. The gnoll makes a groaning sound and the chieften whoops, barking out to distinct syllables. Two youths emerge from the crowd and step forward into the circle, taking up stance at either end, just as before.

I heave a heavy, covert sigh as I seat myself into a more-or-less comfortable position on the packed earth, “This promises to be dull.”


And dull it is, though our hosts seem to be enjoying themselves quite a bit, judging from the Ungodly racket they're making. The fights last for far too long, and as the sun rises into the air, it begins to become painfully warm. I may have to doff my robes in favor of nothing more than that silly sash if this keeps up!

Finally though, the first rounds are all over. The winners stand in a line, and the losers meander off to reconcile this year's failure, some go into the crowd, and some wander away for more private reflection. Or, maybe they're just going to kill some hapless animal in a fit of rage. Never can tell with beast-men.

Bahkur'raka presents each of the victors with the promised feather, dyed green and ruffled oddly for decoration of their weapons or some such.

He raises his arms and shrieks then, quickly dividing the remaining people up into four-man groups and repeating the whole process of the first round, albeit with a bit more chaos involved.


My anticipation grows as the fighting progresses. I'm even standing now, my eyes trained on the battle as my mind whirls with possibility.

What could they possibly posses? What artifact could it be? A holy book, a magic sword, the bone of a saint? All these questions running through my mind, each one more insistant than the last. I'm beginning to worry as well, what if Einar can't win, and these brutes keep the prize in question? I suppose if it's a truly valuable relic, we can always bring the Inquisitors in and take it from them, but that would require bloodshed, and I do not want the blood of these creatures on my brow.

I shake my head and look up in time to see Einar make a powerful overhead swing and send his last opponent reeling, stumbling out of the circle and into the grasping arms of his clan-mates.

Einar just grins.


Finally, after two more of these four-way battles, the final encounter is here. After gifting three lion pelts to the victors, the chief grins and backs away from them, holding his arms out at shoulder height, gesturing for his clan to move back and give the three combatants room to finish this.

The sun is setting. Funny, I hadn't even noticed it dipping from the sky until now.

My breath suddenly catches in my throat, they've begun. The men, well, a dwarf and two gnolls, all stare at one another. He two gnolls are finally of interest to me. The only thing standing between myself, and whatever secret treasure the filthy brutes stole. One is truly prodigious, standing at least two heads above even his tallest peer, his stick, apparently having been snapped in two by some brutal blow to a luckless opponent, is held in either hand like a pair of small clubs. The other gnoll is average sized, with the same reddish-brown fur and gleaming yellow eyes as the rest of them, but he carries himself with grace you see in few people, and fewer beasts.

The two gnolls look at each other and nod, silently agreeing to work together to finish off the outsider before they get down to the real fight. The big one is in mid-cackle when from seemingly nowhere, Einar's weapon strikes his directly in the forehead and topples him like a tree under the axe. He lands with a shuddering thud and lays still, knocked out cold.

The other gnoll just gapes, and stares at his fallen comrade for a second. That's all my companion needed. He's on his opponent in a flash, ramming his shoulder into the poor creature's groin and sending him bowling over, clutching his damaged anatomy. The dwarf's weapon is at his opponent's throat, jabbing him rather meanly with the padded tip. The gnoll yelps and scrambles backward, his tail between his legs as he stands up and turns to run, aided in his flight by a sharp jab to the rump.

Einar just grins.


The sun is set, and now only flickering torches and a bonfire light the scene of triumph, Einar standing amongst a riot of hairy bodies, laughing and shouting as they all inebriate themselves on some foul alcohol the gnolls make for celebrations such as this.

The corpse of some plains animal is roasting over the fire, filling the air with the sickly-sweet scent of charred meat. Very fitting, considering the company I'm in.

Suddenly, a silence takes them all, rippling through them swiftly, leaving only the crackling of the fire to fill the noiseless void.

The shrieking of a of voice sharpened by age fills the air and the crowd parts, moving away from the dwarf and creating a path for a stooped gnoll wearing only a tattered loincloth and leaning on a knobby staff as he hobbles forward, a bundle clutched under one arm. I sit up and take notice.

“Here is the trophy.” My host grins, his yellow eyes shining with delight.

Mine are no doubt shining as well, in breathless anticipation.

The gnoll makes his excruciatingly slow way through the clearing amongst the bodies, making straight for Einar, whose beady little eyes twinkle with typical dwarven greed. I crack my knuckles impatiently as the hunched creature at last makes it to the dwarf and offers him the bundle with a slight dip of his head.

Einar takes it, dipping his head in return, smiling with maddening patience as the old gnoll hobbles back to his dwelling, the building with the purple hide, apparently.

After the holy-man (I'm quite certain that is who the old gnoll was) is safely back in the safety of the grand structure, then gnolls all around my companion begin whispering amongst themselves, eyes shining with excitement. One of the gnoll next to Einar, the large one from the contest, sporting a swollen lump on his forehead, grins and pokes the skin-wrapped object, miming for Einar to open it up. Einar does so, slower than is completely necessary, with his back turning to me! The nerve of that wretched midget!

The crowd erupts in a whooping cheer, cackling and guzzling their drinks as they begin to slap the dwarf on the back (and sometimes on the back of the head, to which he replies with a swift kick to the shin, all in good fun, of course).

Einar just grins, and holds aloft, for all to see (especially me), a blue, ceramic pot.


This one left an odd taste in my mouth. The "Huh? Wha?" taste. The characters were never really fleshed out, Einar most of all. The only think we know about him is that he's strong and greedy. The human and kobolds are two-dimensional as well. Normally I wouldn't make a note of this, but you 3000 words. Three times more then most of the others and the one before you had more characterization.

You filled up 3000 words with grandiose descriptions and I believe you may have fallen into the Eragon Syndrome where you thought of a word and instead of going with it you looked it up in a thesaurus (yes, grandiose was the first word that came to me).

The fight scene, while crucial for the purposes of the story could have been trimmed down for story's sake. The humans are just seen as wanting something, being religious, and being ignorant of the origin of words (this being a problem since a kobold knew the meaning of it) and the kobolds just seen as wanting to kill, eat, or hurt (okay, then again, that's actually a pretty good description were it not for a fact that you had one know more then a holy man).

Less huge amounts of description about how a guy laughs, more about the actual character.

Score: 7.5

Odds of advancing: Pretty good

Two down, five to go.

[Felixaar]

Thanks Eita, the whole "not the predictable theives stealing vase" thing is what I was going for. And just for the matter, I live in Australia, where a metre is, infact, a metre. I do understand your comments about character developement though... good points. Thanks for the review :smallbiggrin:

[Tormsskull]

If my count is right, we have received 7 out of 15 entries. That makes me sad :(


Anyhow, judges have until February 8th to get their judgments in before we move onto the next round.

[Nameless]

Here we go.

I still miss you

It was a cool winded day when I first saw you. I was walking down the street – I can’t really remember why, everything else in life seemed to lose its importance then. I’m not really sure what even caught my attention as I walked past the antique store. For some reason I just felt compelled to turn my head, and there you were.
Long, slightly curled dark brown hair wound its way around and down past your perfect, heart-shaped feminine face. Intelligent blue eyes shone out, focused on their task – carefully dusting a beautifully shaped deep blue vase. As you placed it back on the store window-shelf, your attractive body shifted under a simple cotton dress.
I couldn’t help myself – I turned to the door, the word “Antiques” painted over the top half in a simple arch, and pushed it open to enter. As I walked through the threshold, a small bell above me, set off by the door, tinkled, and your head turned instinctively towards the sound. I found myself unable to react as you straightened up, an inviting smile resting lightly on your lips. It only took you a few seconds to walk the few metres between us, but I felt I could have been watching you move for hours.
“Can I help you with anything?” you asked, your voice humming out like the song of sweet bluebirds.
I couldn’t talk. I opened my mouth and no words came out. I closed my mouth. I opened it again. No words. You giggled, and I laughed, and soon felt more at ease – you always had that way, that comforting way to make me overcome any nervousness.
I started talking, you joined me in talking, and I can’t remember when we stopped.

* * *

We went out on our first date two weeks later. We were both so giddy with excitement – I’ll never forget you as the most intricate, interesting and amazing person I’ve ever met, and though I didn’t know it then, you felt the same way about me.
I don’t remember a lot of what went on that night. I remember opening a bottle of champagne and nearly hitting the waiter in the face when the cork went flying off. We both found it hilarious, though I think he was less accepting of the comedy.
I remember that after the main course we decided to skip the expensive desert and headed down to the ice cream parlour. I remember that we went to see a movie which turned out to be terrible, though luckily it was never a commentary on the date. I remember that we sat on your porch for atleast half an hour, finished with the course of the date but not wanting to end it just yet.
But most of all I remember that just before you walked into your house, we had a quick first kiss that seemed to last forever, but not nearly long enough. I will always remember that kiss… I will always remember.

* * *

Two years later, I asked you to marry me. I was so sure that this was all I ever wanted, and I was right – and you agreed. I bent down on one knee, and opened the small black velvet box, a simple silver ring settled in the midst, one I had purchased from that same antique shop where we first met.
It wasn’t worth much, but I knew you would like it – we were never the type for expensive things, and I think you enjoyed it more than you would have a million dollar jewel.
And you said you would, and I was so incredibly happy that I was worried I was going to explode on the spot. Joy flowed through my entire body with so much force that I though I might faint, and for all that I know I could have – I can’t really remember what happened after that.

* * *

Just a few months later – neither of us could wait – we stood in front of our gathered friends and family, not to mention the priest, staring so deeply into each other’s eyes that we barely noticed anyone else was there. We were surrounding by your favourite flowers, long red roses, some might say the colour of blood, but I thought they were the colour of love.
“I do,” I said, my eyes never leaving yours.
“I do,” you said, and my heart exploded with so much joy that I felt I could leap into the air, but it was almost all I could do to stay on my feet.
We bent down into a deep kiss, both of us happier than we had ever been before in our lives, and the crowd around us rang out in applause, which shocked us both slightly – having been so intent on the ceremony we had practically forgotten they were there.

* * *

For twenty years we lived together, happily living in small house in a small town in the country. The beauty that had drawn me to you from the start never left your face, or maybe it was just me who always saw it. We had two beautiful children and so many innumerable good times together… who’d have thought such a wonderful life could be torn to pieces in just a few seconds.
The kids had both left home by then, and we were on our anniversary, driving along the high way when it happened. A semi-trailer, driving on the wrong side of the road for a reason we never got to learn, crashed head on into our small car.
I still remember that horrible screeching sound as metal collided against metal, and the flash as the two vehicles collided. Everything went black for me, and what could have been hours later, I opened my eyes.
You had died, that beautiful smile still resting on your lifeless face. I couldn’t react. I couldn’t ever cry. I couldn’t do anything but stare at you. I held onto your arm as if by holding on I could delay the truth of what happened, that maybe the time would go back and I could steer us out of the way, or something… or anything…
I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t live with it. I couldn’t do anything. I blacked out again.

* * *

I still miss you. I haven’t forgotten you, and I never will. I never loved again… I spend every moment think of you. The other day I was cleaning out some old boxes and found that same blue vase that you had been dusting that day. I cleaned it, and bought some long red roses, and set them up on the table. I think I spent the rest of the day staring at it – I don’t really remember.
Today I wandered down to the beach, and now I’m sitting on the sands, watching the waves come in and out. The waves were the same deep blue as your intelligent eyes. The waves continued. They were here long before we were, and they’ll be here long after we’re gone…
I just wanted more time with you. Scratch that, I wanted all time with you. And with this… thing, the doctor says I have, I guess I will eventually. I don’t know. I wasn’t listening much when he explained it.
I still struggle with that. Am I wrong to miss you? It’s been so long; shouldn’t I be over it now? Am I just being greedy, or is it justified?
I don’t know.
All I know is this…
I still miss you.


Enjoy!
Let's do this shizzle! :smalltongue:

This is really out of my taste. There isn't much of a. story going on, it's as if you have managed to get a long sotry and shrunk it down to a few paragraphs. I personally find it almost like a long poem. You havent really described what the woman looks like and the same goes for most things.

However, you've layed it out well and I can see you've put a lot of thought into it, I really like how you've shown emotions and how at the end, you've changed it to present tense.

Overall, this is a great short sotry for someone who like's these kind of stories.

Chances of passing: Medium.

[onasuma]

Here we go.

I still miss you

It was a cool winded day when I first saw you. I was walking down the street – I can’t really remember why, everything else in life seemed to lose its importance then. I’m not really sure what even caught my attention as I walked past the antique store. For some reason I just felt compelled to turn my head, and there you were.
Long, slightly curled dark brown hair wound its way around and down past your perfect, heart-shaped feminine face. Intelligent blue eyes shone out, focused on their task – carefully dusting a beautifully shaped deep blue vase. As you placed it back on the store window-shelf, your attractive body shifted under a simple cotton dress.
I couldn’t help myself – I turned to the door, the word “Antiques” painted over the top half in a simple arch, and pushed it open to enter. As I walked through the threshold, a small bell above me, set off by the door, tinkled, and your head turned instinctively towards the sound. I found myself unable to react as you straightened up, an inviting smile resting lightly on your lips. It only took you a few seconds to walk the few metres between us, but I felt I could have been watching you move for hours.
“Can I help you with anything?” you asked, your voice humming out like the song of sweet bluebirds.
I couldn’t talk. I opened my mouth and no words came out. I closed my mouth. I opened it again. No words. You giggled, and I laughed, and soon felt more at ease – you always had that way, that comforting way to make me overcome any nervousness.
I started talking, you joined me in talking, and I can’t remember when we stopped.

* * *

We went out on our first date two weeks later. We were both so giddy with excitement – I’ll never forget you as the most intricate, interesting and amazing person I’ve ever met, and though I didn’t know it then, you felt the same way about me.
I don’t remember a lot of what went on that night. I remember opening a bottle of champagne and nearly hitting the waiter in the face when the cork went flying off. We both found it hilarious, though I think he was less accepting of the comedy.
I remember that after the main course we decided to skip the expensive desert and headed down to the ice cream parlour. I remember that we went to see a movie which turned out to be terrible, though luckily it was never a commentary on the date. I remember that we sat on your porch for atleast half an hour, finished with the course of the date but not wanting to end it just yet.
But most of all I remember that just before you walked into your house, we had a quick first kiss that seemed to last forever, but not nearly long enough. I will always remember that kiss… I will always remember.

* * *

Two years later, I asked you to marry me. I was so sure that this was all I ever wanted, and I was right – and you agreed. I bent down on one knee, and opened the small black velvet box, a simple silver ring settled in the midst, one I had purchased from that same antique shop where we first met.
It wasn’t worth much, but I knew you would like it – we were never the type for expensive things, and I think you enjoyed it more than you would have a million dollar jewel.
And you said you would, and I was so incredibly happy that I was worried I was going to explode on the spot. Joy flowed through my entire body with so much force that I though I might faint, and for all that I know I could have – I can’t really remember what happened after that.

* * *

Just a few months later – neither of us could wait – we stood in front of our gathered friends and family, not to mention the priest, staring so deeply into each other’s eyes that we barely noticed anyone else was there. We were surrounding by your favourite flowers, long red roses, some might say the colour of blood, but I thought they were the colour of love.
“I do,” I said, my eyes never leaving yours.
“I do,” you said, and my heart exploded with so much joy that I felt I could leap into the air, but it was almost all I could do to stay on my feet.
We bent down into a deep kiss, both of us happier than we had ever been before in our lives, and the crowd around us rang out in applause, which shocked us both slightly – having been so intent on the ceremony we had practically forgotten they were there.

* * *

For twenty years we lived together, happily living in small house in a small town in the country. The beauty that had drawn me to you from the start never left your face, or maybe it was just me who always saw it. We had two beautiful children and so many innumerable good times together… who’d have thought such a wonderful life could be torn to pieces in just a few seconds.
The kids had both left home by then, and we were on our anniversary, driving along the high way when it happened. A semi-trailer, driving on the wrong side of the road for a reason we never got to learn, crashed head on into our small car.
I still remember that horrible screeching sound as metal collided against metal, and the flash as the two vehicles collided. Everything went black for me, and what could have been hours later, I opened my eyes.
You had died, that beautiful smile still resting on your lifeless face. I couldn’t react. I couldn’t ever cry. I couldn’t do anything but stare at you. I held onto your arm as if by holding on I could delay the truth of what happened, that maybe the time would go back and I could steer us out of the way, or something… or anything…
I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t live with it. I couldn’t do anything. I blacked out again.

* * *

I still miss you. I haven’t forgotten you, and I never will. I never loved again… I spend every moment think of you. The other day I was cleaning out some old boxes and found that same blue vase that you had been dusting that day. I cleaned it, and bought some long red roses, and set them up on the table. I think I spent the rest of the day staring at it – I don’t really remember.
Today I wandered down to the beach, and now I’m sitting on the sands, watching the waves come in and out. The waves were the same deep blue as your intelligent eyes. The waves continued. They were here long before we were, and they’ll be here long after we’re gone…
I just wanted more time with you. Scratch that, I wanted all time with you. And with this… thing, the doctor says I have, I guess I will eventually. I don’t know. I wasn’t listening much when he explained it.
I still struggle with that. Am I wrong to miss you? It’s been so long; shouldn’t I be over it now? Am I just being greedy, or is it justified?
I don’t know.
All I know is this…
I still miss you.


Enjoy!

I quite enjoyed this one. A few minor errors, but nothing that took anything away from my enjoyment of the story.
I cant say it appealed to me at first, but the use of description helped me see past that. Personally, I felt the description was the best bit, but the characters needed to have thicker personalities or at least something to help me indetify with them. Also, a nice use of ciclism (or however you spell it).
Overall: Good piece, powerful description, yet needed something more to help the reader conect with the character.
Chance of advancing: Cant really say. Ive only read one...

[Eita]

"Typical Dwarven Greed" has been reviewed.

[MethodicalMeat]

@ Eita

Well, here's the thing. You sorta missed a lot of the point of the story. Einar isn't the greedy one here. It seems to me that you went with what Midus saw, and the whole point was that his views were largely skewed. Secondly, gnolls. I don't recall ever once calling them kobolds. And about the ending, it was supposed to leave the reader a little dumbfounded. And Eragon? I don't suppose you've also found a way to link my entire plot to Star Wars with magic as well?
Of course, I'm probably going to get jumped on for being rude to you, but you accused me of searching a thesaurus for words. I'm quite honestly insulted by that.

[Felixaar]

It begins!

[yoshi927]

Hey, in mine there's a flashback. I had it in italics in the original MS Word document, but I forgot that you need to use the [I] tags. Would it be okay to change that, or is it too late even for things like that?

[Tormsskull]

Hey, in mine there's a flashback. I had it in italics in the original MS Word document, but I forgot that you need to use the [I] tags. Would it be okay to change that, or is it too late even for things like that?

Please do not change it. Unfortunently the only way we can be assured that the entry its self did not change is by using the date posted (original or edited). If you edit your entry there is no way for the judges to know conclusively that you did not alter anything else in your entry.

[Nameless]

Alright, finished in time! <shakes fist at math>

Typical Dwarven Greed--Word Count 3716


“At last, we've arrived.” I say with no small amount of relief as the caravan rolls to a halt on the dusty wagon trail. I climb out carefully, gathering my robes to prevent them from snagging on the rough wooden frame of the cart, and land on my feet, my doeskin boots making nary a mark in the baked earth.

I turn and offer my hand to my companion, though he waves my hand away with a grunt as he hefts himself from the cart and lands with a rather greater impact, considering the short fellow's density. I enjoy the company of dwarves (or the archaic “dverger”, as my companion prefers), and have found that they make excellent body guards, as a generality. They are gruff and intimidating around strangers (especially dangerous sorts), and yet always willing to tell a few boisterous war stories around a campfire. And of course, they're tough as nails, and surly to boot. All in all, Einar was a worthy guardian, and a pleasant conversationalist. Most of the time, at any rate.

He snorts and shakes his head, grumbling about the weather as he grabs his pack and some of the heavier belongings we share on these trips. A tent, some food, a few sticks of firewood if its scarce where we camp and other essentials, mostly. My log-book dominates my burden as always. It's a rather large book, though without it, the journey would be meaningless. It's a long hike, and a rough one, far from the beaten path we left. We travel over hilly terrain, covered in brown grasses and hardy shrubs with a sickly looking tree, every once in a great while.

Einar mutters and grumbles angrily the entire trek, though I'm used to it. I know he's just being surly out of habit, he actually enjoys a good hike through somewhere he's never been, and his sharp eyes take in everything, constantly darting this way and that. The trip takes longer than it might have, considering I'm here to learn and study. I make stops every now and then to draw a sketch of something, or make a note about some odd flora or fauna. Einar is silent during these breaks, taking the time to sit down and take a swig of his gods-awful whiskey. He once offered me a sip when we first began traveling together, and young fool that I was, I accepted. I couldn't eat for half day, with my throat burning as it was. The dverger, in a bout of deep, speculative creativity, named the vile concoction “fire whiskey”.


It takes nearly six hours of walking, but finally, the village comes into view. It's a marvel of savage engineering and design, with two, great buildings constructed of a wooden skeleton with stitched hides stretched between each “rib”. A single, uncut lion hide is used as a sort of curtain-door on the front of each building, dyed a brilliant green on one, and a deep red on the other. Between the two buildings are all manner of less permanent dwellings, tents and holes in the ground with hides stretched over a simple frame to keep the elements out. The second thing that catches my eyes is the large gathering of gnolls on the edge of the village, each one carrying a one-handed spear with a bone tip. Attached to their weapons are all manner of trinkets and charms. Bits of fur, teeth, or odd bits held on by wire or twine. When they see us crest the rise, a whooping cry goes up, echoing out into the plains, they hold their spears aloft and dissolve into mad, hyena-like cackles as we walk down into the depression in the plains. My companion is immediately on edge, his scarred hands wrapped around his (thankfully) still sheathed short swords. I reassure him, telling him that they are only greeting us. He settles a bit, but doesn't remove his hands.

I stop a good fifty feet from the group and lift my hands up, giving Einar a slight kick to get him to let go of his swords and show them that we mean no harm. He grudgingly releases his weapons and imitates me. The gnolls suddenly fall silent and watch us intently, their faces split in wide, toothy grins that would unnerve me quite badly, were it not for their rapidly wagging tails.

One gnoll steps forward, most likely the leader, or a spokesman for said leader, judging not only by his action, but also by the green streaks running through his coarse fur, easily setting him apart from the rabble behind him. He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed deeply as he mulled over what to say, no doubt. Then, his face split into a wide smile, and he pulled off the green-dyed sash he wore around his waist and held it up, offering it to me, “Welcome to village, human. I clan chief, Bahkur'raka.”

I bow my head to him, taking the offered sash as Einar hands me the package we've brought, a small wooden chest which I am to present to the leader, unopened, “Thank you, chief Bahkur'raka, I am honored by you and your clan's welcome.”

He takes the chest and sets it down gingerly, turning to a gnoll beside him and pointing at the wooden container as he lets out an odd series of yelps and cackles. The gnoll nods, grinning eagerly as he kneels and unlatches his, his tail whipping rapidly as he reaches inside.

Standing up, he draws from the wooden chest a blue pot, made of inexpensive clay, with a rather lack-luster glaze. Honestly, I expected nothing better of my superiors, and will have to give these noble creatures a proper gift at some date in the future.

They seem pleased enough though, and most of them go whooping and screeching after the pot-bearer as he makes for the large, green “doored” building.


Bahkur'raka grins at me and motions toward a a place near the center of the area, a flat circles of dirt, clear of housing and marked only by a burned out fire-pit. The tall creature lopes to the circle and Einar and myself hasten to catch up with him. The chieften turns and squats down on his haunches, gesturing for us to sit.

“As I say before, most welcome visitors. Your gift will hold a place of great import in our tribe. I only hope and pray that gift of gnolls will suffice until we may give you greater knowledge, in return for your humbling generosity.” He says haltingly, working hard at pronouncing the words that must be quite unfamiliar to his bestial tongue.

“I am honored by your gift, and will treasure it always.” After a thorough cleaning. “I am Primate Midas, of the Church of Seven Lights, and this is my companion and bodyguard, Einar, a dverger of the far north.” I say slowly, so as not to confuse him with rapid speech.

Einar grunts, his only acknowledgment of the conversation, then customarily falls silent once more, his eyes darting around practiced suspicion.

He laughs, a shrill, cackling noise of which I am no doubt going to become quite accustomed to in the weeks to come, “No need to speak with slowness for me, I know your speech well, but my muzzle ill-forms your strange words. Though I wonder, why would your holy men name themselves after apes?”

I cannot help but laugh aloud as well, apes indeed! Though I am well pleased that the man-beast took no offense at my slowed speech, one must be careful around such savage creatures, and a lesser one of his race may have struck me down on the spot for such assumed mockery.

“It does not mean the same thing, Chieftain. It is merely a designation of high rank within my order. The precise history of the word eludes me, but I shall make a note of discovering its source when I return to the cathedral.”

“And perhaps you will tell me, should you decide to return?” He asks, tilting his head in a very canine fashion and staring unblinkingly at me for a moment.

Unlikely.

“But of course, my gracious host.” I smile back, making sure to hold his gaze, without appearing too dominant. No sense in upsetting him.

“Very good!” He beams, standing up and offering me his hand, which I politely decline in favor of being able to eat with that appendage later, “You must be weary from your journey, I will take you to your lodgings.”

He sets off immediately, his long legs eating the distance up with apparent disregard to my companions short stature (and my old bones!). He leads us, to my surprise, to the large building, with the crimson skin over it and lifts it aside, gesturing for us to enter. We do so, after catching up and are rather surprised to find it completely devoid of inhabitants!

“Why does no one dwell here?” I ask, frowning with slight concern, paranoia rearing its sudden and ugly head.

“This is for visitors, my people do not sleep here, preferring to sleep outside, under the sky, save when it rains.” He cackles again, throwing back his head in exaggerated hilarity at my evidently ridiculous question.

Still making an odd giggling noise, albeit much quieter, he ushers us both inside, pointing to hammocks made from, what else, but animal skins. Not a feather-bed with goose-down pillows, but clean, at the very least, which is more than I can say for some of the beds I've slept on on the way here.

He spins on his heal and lopes to the exit, the turns back to us for a moment, “You will be woken early tomorrow, as you are invited to watch, or perhaps even, participate in a contest of strength and skill.”

Then, he is gone, with nothing but the rustling of the crimson-stained lion skin to mark his passing.

“Well then, unpacking time, I suppose?” Einar says with his usual gruffness and un-shoulders his burden, letting his pack fall to the floor.

“Yes, and then, rest.” I reply, similarly removing my pack and gingerly placing my book upon a small table provided by our hosts, “I am most curious about this odd contest they wish to show us. No doubt a barbaric display of young gnolls whacking each other with clubs.”

“Aye.” Comes the clipped response of a dverger more than ready to get some sleep after such a painful trek. Can't say I blame him.

As promised, the chieften awoke my companion and I at dawn, just as the sun was peering over the horizon, which must have been quite early, considering that the horizon consisted of flat grasslands as far as the eye could see.

“Awake! The day wastes!” he cackled, rousing us suddenly with a rougher-than-necessary shake of our shoulders.

Einar came awake red-faced and sputtering, nearly taking off our host's head with a vicious swipe of the hand-axe he always slept clutching tight to his breast. The gnoll ducked and hopped back, still grinning at us. Apparently, near-death didn't put him off so much as a wasted morning.

With much grumbling (and a muttered apology) my companion and I pulled ourselves from our hammocks and followed the chieften, who I daresay was almost skipping with pent-up energy, out into the shadowy dawn light.


The entire tribe was gathered around the circle, the fire-pit had apparently been removed, and a white ring had been painted in the dirt. The hyena-men were gathered around it, whooping with rampant excitement.

Our host stops and throws up his arms, screeching something in his strange language. They all fall silent and turn to stare at him as he walks forward to still speaking, though quieter now. When he reaches the throng, it parts with fluid swiftness for him, allowing him to make his way to the center of the circle. He stands expectantly for a moment, watching his gathered tribe, until a small gnoll, a child, come scurrying forth, bearing on its back a bundle of staves wrapped in leather. He deposits them on the floor, rather unceremoniously, and retreats into the press of hairy bodies.

He smiles and holds up a single weapon, hefting it above his head and pointing it at the rising sun. “I speak for the benefit of our guests, what we do now is a contest of skill and courage to mark the finest warrior in the village. I discussed with the elder the night before you and your short-man arrived, whether the gods would allow an outsider to compete with us. After much deliberation and casting of the oracle bones, we have determined that one of you is to join us in our ritual.”

I smile and look to my companion, whispering softly. “Why not try Einar? Surely you can defeat a rabble of young beasts...”

He snorts and shakes his head, “I'm payed to beat the tar out of people that want to stick your squishy body, and occasionally to carry your things, I don't play games for you.”

“I would mention, should you find yourselves hesitant to fight, the trophies of battle. First, a painted feather to ornament yourself, and then, a lion hide, cured and dyed, for whatever you might find it useful. Last, a magnificent artifact of human design, hand-picked by our holy man. Even I do not know what awaits the Victor.”

An artifact? What could these creatures possibly have? No telling what they might have plundered from an unwary merchant, or even a holy mission...

“I'll pay you half-again the original contract.”

“Heh, deal.” He smirked, stomping forward towards the circle. I could almost imagine the way his beady little eyes must be shining with typical dwarven greed.

A collection of younger gnolls step forward, each taking a stave from the dirt and standing in a circle around the chieften, ushering Einar into the formation as well.

They all stare at one another for a moment, then each one looks at the bottom of their chosen stave. Einar, taking the hint, checks his as well, and furrows his brow in frustration. Whatever is on the bottom is beyond his grasp, possibly something in their own language, though I was certain they had no writing among them. The chieften leans over and peers down at my companions stave, then slaps him on the back and barks as a youth steps forward. The chief, and all the rest shuffle backwards, slipping into the gathered crowd.

Gnoll and dwarf square off, staring at each other intently. The hyena-faced creature laughs and begins what I can only assume is a bout of fanciful boasting. Einar just grins, he know how to handle improvised weapons, being something of a barfly for most of his life. The gnoll suddenly leaps into action and charges, padded weapon held aloft.

Einar just grins.


The fight is over quickly, and the result rather predictable. The poor creature never stood a chance. Einar laughs and removes his padded stick from the stricken gnoll's head as he turns and ambles back toward the outside of the circle. The gnoll makes a groaning sound and the chieften whoops, barking out to distinct syllables. Two youths emerge from the crowd and step forward into the circle, taking up stance at either end, just as before.

I heave a heavy, covert sigh as I seat myself into a more-or-less comfortable position on the packed earth, “This promises to be dull.”


And dull it is, though our hosts seem to be enjoying themselves quite a bit, judging from the Ungodly racket they're making. The fights last for far too long, and as the sun rises into the air, it begins to become painfully warm. I may have to doff my robes in favor of nothing more than that silly sash if this keeps up!

Finally though, the first rounds are all over. The winners stand in a line, and the losers meander off to reconcile this year's failure, some go into the crowd, and some wander away for more private reflection. Or, maybe they're just going to kill some hapless animal in a fit of rage. Never can tell with beast-men.

Bahkur'raka presents each of the victors with the promised feather, dyed green and ruffled oddly for decoration of their weapons or some such.

He raises his arms and shrieks then, quickly dividing the remaining people up into four-man groups and repeating the whole process of the first round, albeit with a bit more chaos involved.


My anticipation grows as the fighting progresses. I'm even standing now, my eyes trained on the battle as my mind whirls with possibility.

What could they possibly posses? What artifact could it be? A holy book, a magic sword, the bone of a saint? All these questions running through my mind, each one more insistant than the last. I'm beginning to worry as well, what if Einar can't win, and these brutes keep the prize in question? I suppose if it's a truly valuable relic, we can always bring the Inquisitors in and take it from them, but that would require bloodshed, and I do not want the blood of these creatures on my brow.

I shake my head and look up in time to see Einar make a powerful overhead swing and send his last opponent reeling, stumbling out of the circle and into the grasping arms of his clan-mates.

Einar just grins.


Finally, after two more of these four-way battles, the final encounter is here. After gifting three lion pelts to the victors, the chief grins and backs away from them, holding his arms out at shoulder height, gesturing for his clan to move back and give the three combatants room to finish this.

The sun is setting. Funny, I hadn't even noticed it dipping from the sky until now.

My breath suddenly catches in my throat, they've begun. The men, well, a dwarf and two gnolls, all stare at one another. He two gnolls are finally of interest to me. The only thing standing between myself, and whatever secret treasure the filthy brutes stole. One is truly prodigious, standing at least two heads above even his tallest peer, his stick, apparently having been snapped in two by some brutal blow to a luckless opponent, is held in either hand like a pair of small clubs. The other gnoll is average sized, with the same reddish-brown fur and gleaming yellow eyes as the rest of them, but he carries himself with grace you see in few people, and fewer beasts.

The two gnolls look at each other and nod, silently agreeing to work together to finish off the outsider before they get down to the real fight. The big one is in mid-cackle when from seemingly nowhere, Einar's weapon strikes his directly in the forehead and topples him like a tree under the axe. He lands with a shuddering thud and lays still, knocked out cold.

The other gnoll just gapes, and stares at his fallen comrade for a second. That's all my companion needed. He's on his opponent in a flash, ramming his shoulder into the poor creature's groin and sending him bowling over, clutching his damaged anatomy. The dwarf's weapon is at his opponent's throat, jabbing him rather meanly with the padded tip. The gnoll yelps and scrambles backward, his tail between his legs as he stands up and turns to run, aided in his flight by a sharp jab to the rump.

Einar just grins.


The sun is set, and now only flickering torches and a bonfire light the scene of triumph, Einar standing amongst a riot of hairy bodies, laughing and shouting as they all inebriate themselves on some foul alcohol the gnolls make for celebrations such as this.

The corpse of some plains animal is roasting over the fire, filling the air with the sickly-sweet scent of charred meat. Very fitting, considering the company I'm in.

Suddenly, a silence takes them all, rippling through them swiftly, leaving only the crackling of the fire to fill the noiseless void.

The shrieking of a of voice sharpened by age fills the air and the crowd parts, moving away from the dwarf and creating a path for a stooped gnoll wearing only a tattered loincloth and leaning on a knobby staff as he hobbles forward, a bundle clutched under one arm. I sit up and take notice.

“Here is the trophy.” My host grins, his yellow eyes shining with delight.

Mine are no doubt shining as well, in breathless anticipation.

The gnoll makes his excruciatingly slow way through the clearing amongst the bodies, making straight for Einar, whose beady little eyes twinkle with typical dwarven greed. I crack my knuckles impatiently as the hunched creature at last makes it to the dwarf and offers him the bundle with a slight dip of his head.

Einar takes it, dipping his head in return, smiling with maddening patience as the old gnoll hobbles back to his dwelling, the building with the purple hide, apparently.

After the holy-man (I'm quite certain that is who the old gnoll was) is safely back in the safety of the grand structure, then gnolls all around my companion begin whispering amongst themselves, eyes shining with excitement. One of the gnoll next to Einar, the large one from the contest, sporting a swollen lump on his forehead, grins and pokes the skin-wrapped object, miming for Einar to open it up. Einar does so, slower than is completely necessary, with his back turning to me! The nerve of that wretched midget!

The crowd erupts in a whooping cheer, cackling and guzzling their drinks as they begin to slap the dwarf on the back (and sometimes on the back of the head, to which he replies with a swift kick to the shin, all in good fun, of course).

Einar just grins, and holds aloft, for all to see (especially me), a blue, ceramic pot.



First thing is, is that for a short online story... this was way too long.
The character description wasn't very good, and we didn't really get a good idea of what most of them looked like., I think you got a bit carried away with yourself and didn't think it through.

The actualy story was good though, I think if you made this more leghnthy to an actual proper story buy adding in more detail and backround, it would work very well, this has a lot of potential.

Chance of advancing: Just under medium.

[yoshi927]

Please do not change it. Unfortunently the only way we can be assured that the entry its self did not change is by using the date posted (original or edited). If you edit your entry there is no way for the judges to know conclusively that you did not alter anything else in your entry.Alright, but I'll ask the judges, when you get to the part in question, know that it's a flashback.

[Eita]

@ Eita

Well, here's the thing. You sorta missed a lot of the point of the story. Einar isn't the greedy one here. It seems to me that you went with what Midus saw, and the whole point was that his views were largely skewed. Secondly, gnolls. I don't recall ever once calling them kobolds. And about the ending, it was supposed to leave the reader a little dumbfounded. And Eragon? I don't suppose you've also found a way to link my entire plot to Star Wars with magic as well?
Of course, I'm probably going to get jumped on for being rude to you, but you accused me of searching a thesaurus for words. I'm quite honestly insulted by that.


You didn't drop hints for that, at all. Einar only agreed to what Midus asked of him after he offered to give him more money. As for the second point, that's my bad. But still, gnolls and kobolds are not usually known for their smarts and the way you portrayed them does not at all. The fact that the ending was supposed to confuse the reader did nothing for the fact that it confused the reader. Readers don't like to be confused at the end of stories.
Now, onto Eragon, of course I haven't. Your plot was original and didn't even have magic. As for the thesaurus point, I am sorry for any affront I may have given.

*finishes his rice and gets onto making an ABR comic*

[hyperfreak497]

First thing is, is that for a short online story... this was way too long.

@That balderdash:
The contest rules clearly state "1,000-5,000 words". Last contest, rubakhin, one the greatest writers in IA, period, wrote a story in something like 4,850 words. Your judgement should say something like, "the story seemed to be adding unnecessary length." These are not, "short online stories." These are Iron Author stories, which have very specific lengths set out for them, and MethodicalMeat was within those bounds.

Just my two pence.

[Nameless]

@That balderdash:
The contest rules clearly state "1,000-5,000 words". Last contest, rubakhin, one the greatest writers in IA, period, wrote a story in something like 4,850 words. Your judgement should say something like, "the story seemed to be adding unnecessary length." These are not, "short online stories." These are Iron Author stories, which have very specific lengths set out for them, and MethodicalMeat was within those bounds.

Just my two pence.

But the story was very long, yet still managed to not have much detail on the characters, which is the point I was trying to make, although looking at it, i didn't do so very clearly, this is just my opinion.

[onasuma]

Alright, finished in time! <shakes fist at math>

Typical Dwarven Greed--Word Count 3716


“At last, we've arrived.” I say with no small amount of relief as the caravan rolls to a halt on the dusty wagon trail. I climb out carefully, gathering my robes to prevent them from snagging on the rough wooden frame of the cart, and land on my feet, my doeskin boots making nary a mark in the baked earth.

I turn and offer my hand to my companion, though he waves my hand away with a grunt as he hefts himself from the cart and lands with a rather greater impact, considering the short fellow's density. I enjoy the company of dwarves (or the archaic “dverger”, as my companion prefers), and have found that they make excellent body guards, as a generality. They are gruff and intimidating around strangers (especially dangerous sorts), and yet always willing to tell a few boisterous war stories around a campfire. And of course, they're tough as nails, and surly to boot. All in all, Einar was a worthy guardian, and a pleasant conversationalist. Most of the time, at any rate.

He snorts and shakes his head, grumbling about the weather as he grabs his pack and some of the heavier belongings we share on these trips. A tent, some food, a few sticks of firewood if its scarce where we camp and other essentials, mostly. My log-book dominates my burden as always. It's a rather large book, though without it, the journey would be meaningless. It's a long hike, and a rough one, far from the beaten path we left. We travel over hilly terrain, covered in brown grasses and hardy shrubs with a sickly looking tree, every once in a great while.

Einar mutters and grumbles angrily the entire trek, though I'm used to it. I know he's just being surly out of habit, he actually enjoys a good hike through somewhere he's never been, and his sharp eyes take in everything, constantly darting this way and that. The trip takes longer than it might have, considering I'm here to learn and study. I make stops every now and then to draw a sketch of something, or make a note about some odd flora or fauna. Einar is silent during these breaks, taking the time to sit down and take a swig of his gods-awful whiskey. He once offered me a sip when we first began traveling together, and young fool that I was, I accepted. I couldn't eat for half day, with my throat burning as it was. The dverger, in a bout of deep, speculative creativity, named the vile concoction “fire whiskey”.


It takes nearly six hours of walking, but finally, the village comes into view. It's a marvel of savage engineering and design, with two, great buildings constructed of a wooden skeleton with stitched hides stretched between each “rib”. A single, uncut lion hide is used as a sort of curtain-door on the front of each building, dyed a brilliant green on one, and a deep red on the other. Between the two buildings are all manner of less permanent dwellings, tents and holes in the ground with hides stretched over a simple frame to keep the elements out. The second thing that catches my eyes is the large gathering of gnolls on the edge of the village, each one carrying a one-handed spear with a bone tip. Attached to their weapons are all manner of trinkets and charms. Bits of fur, teeth, or odd bits held on by wire or twine. When they see us crest the rise, a whooping cry goes up, echoing out into the plains, they hold their spears aloft and dissolve into mad, hyena-like cackles as we walk down into the depression in the plains. My companion is immediately on edge, his scarred hands wrapped around his (thankfully) still sheathed short swords. I reassure him, telling him that they are only greeting us. He settles a bit, but doesn't remove his hands.

I stop a good fifty feet from the group and lift my hands up, giving Einar a slight kick to get him to let go of his swords and show them that we mean no harm. He grudgingly releases his weapons and imitates me. The gnolls suddenly fall silent and watch us intently, their faces split in wide, toothy grins that would unnerve me quite badly, were it not for their rapidly wagging tails.

One gnoll steps forward, most likely the leader, or a spokesman for said leader, judging not only by his action, but also by the green streaks running through his coarse fur, easily setting him apart from the rabble behind him. He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed deeply as he mulled over what to say, no doubt. Then, his face split into a wide smile, and he pulled off the green-dyed sash he wore around his waist and held it up, offering it to me, “Welcome to village, human. I clan chief, Bahkur'raka.”

I bow my head to him, taking the offered sash as Einar hands me the package we've brought, a small wooden chest which I am to present to the leader, unopened, “Thank you, chief Bahkur'raka, I am honored by you and your clan's welcome.”

He takes the chest and sets it down gingerly, turning to a gnoll beside him and pointing at the wooden container as he lets out an odd series of yelps and cackles. The gnoll nods, grinning eagerly as he kneels and unlatches his, his tail whipping rapidly as he reaches inside.

Standing up, he draws from the wooden chest a blue pot, made of inexpensive clay, with a rather lack-luster glaze. Honestly, I expected nothing better of my superiors, and will have to give these noble creatures a proper gift at some date in the future.

They seem pleased enough though, and most of them go whooping and screeching after the pot-bearer as he makes for the large, green “doored” building.


Bahkur'raka grins at me and motions toward a a place near the center of the area, a flat circles of dirt, clear of housing and marked only by a burned out fire-pit. The tall creature lopes to the circle and Einar and myself hasten to catch up with him. The chieften turns and squats down on his haunches, gesturing for us to sit.

“As I say before, most welcome visitors. Your gift will hold a place of great import in our tribe. I only hope and pray that gift of gnolls will suffice until we may give you greater knowledge, in return for your humbling generosity.” He says haltingly, working hard at pronouncing the words that must be quite unfamiliar to his bestial tongue.

“I am honored by your gift, and will treasure it always.” After a thorough cleaning. “I am Primate Midas, of the Church of Seven Lights, and this is my companion and bodyguard, Einar, a dverger of the far north.” I say slowly, so as not to confuse him with rapid speech.

Einar grunts, his only acknowledgment of the conversation, then customarily falls silent once more, his eyes darting around practiced suspicion.

He laughs, a shrill, cackling noise of which I am no doubt going to become quite accustomed to in the weeks to come, “No need to speak with slowness for me, I know your speech well, but my muzzle ill-forms your strange words. Though I wonder, why would your holy men name themselves after apes?”

I cannot help but laugh aloud as well, apes indeed! Though I am well pleased that the man-beast took no offense at my slowed speech, one must be careful around such savage creatures, and a lesser one of his race may have struck me down on the spot for such assumed mockery.

“It does not mean the same thing, Chieftain. It is merely a designation of high rank within my order. The precise history of the word eludes me, but I shall make a note of discovering its source when I return to the cathedral.”

“And perhaps you will tell me, should you decide to return?” He asks, tilting his head in a very canine fashion and staring unblinkingly at me for a moment.

Unlikely.

“But of course, my gracious host.” I smile back, making sure to hold his gaze, without appearing too dominant. No sense in upsetting him.

“Very good!” He beams, standing up and offering me his hand, which I politely decline in favor of being able to eat with that appendage later, “You must be weary from your journey, I will take you to your lodgings.”

He sets off immediately, his long legs eating the distance up with apparent disregard to my companions short stature (and my old bones!). He leads us, to my surprise, to the large building, with the crimson skin over it and lifts it aside, gesturing for us to enter. We do so, after catching up and are rather surprised to find it completely devoid of inhabitants!

“Why does no one dwell here?” I ask, frowning with slight concern, paranoia rearing its sudden and ugly head.

“This is for visitors, my people do not sleep here, preferring to sleep outside, under the sky, save when it rains.” He cackles again, throwing back his head in exaggerated hilarity at my evidently ridiculous question.

Still making an odd giggling noise, albeit much quieter, he ushers us both inside, pointing to hammocks made from, what else, but animal skins. Not a feather-bed with goose-down pillows, but clean, at the very least, which is more than I can say for some of the beds I've slept on on the way here.

He spins on his heal and lopes to the exit, the turns back to us for a moment, “You will be woken early tomorrow, as you are invited to watch, or perhaps even, participate in a contest of strength and skill.”

Then, he is gone, with nothing but the rustling of the crimson-stained lion skin to mark his passing.

“Well then, unpacking time, I suppose?” Einar says with his usual gruffness and un-shoulders his burden, letting his pack fall to the floor.

“Yes, and then, rest.” I reply, similarly removing my pack and gingerly placing my book upon a small table provided by our hosts, “I am most curious about this odd contest they wish to show us. No doubt a barbaric display of young gnolls whacking each other with clubs.”

“Aye.” Comes the clipped response of a dverger more than ready to get some sleep after such a painful trek. Can't say I blame him.

As promised, the chieften awoke my companion and I at dawn, just as the sun was peering over the horizon, which must have been quite early, considering that the horizon consisted of flat grasslands as far as the eye could see.

“Awake! The day wastes!” he cackled, rousing us suddenly with a rougher-than-necessary shake of our shoulders.

Einar came awake red-faced and sputtering, nearly taking off our host's head with a vicious swipe of the hand-axe he always slept clutching tight to his breast. The gnoll ducked and hopped back, still grinning at us. Apparently, near-death didn't put him off so much as a wasted morning.

With much grumbling (and a muttered apology) my companion and I pulled ourselves from our hammocks and followed the chieften, who I daresay was almost skipping with pent-up energy, out into the shadowy dawn light.


The entire tribe was gathered around the circle, the fire-pit had apparently been removed, and a white ring had been painted in the dirt. The hyena-men were gathered around it, whooping with rampant excitement.

Our host stops and throws up his arms, screeching something in his strange language. They all fall silent and turn to stare at him as he walks forward to still speaking, though quieter now. When he reaches the throng, it parts with fluid swiftness for him, allowing him to make his way to the center of the circle. He stands expectantly for a moment, watching his gathered tribe, until a small gnoll, a child, come scurrying forth, bearing on its back a bundle of staves wrapped in leather. He deposits them on the floor, rather unceremoniously, and retreats into the press of hairy bodies.

He smiles and holds up a single weapon, hefting it above his head and pointing it at the rising sun. “I speak for the benefit of our guests, what we do now is a contest of skill and courage to mark the finest warrior in the village. I discussed with the elder the night before you and your short-man arrived, whether the gods would allow an outsider to compete with us. After much deliberation and casting of the oracle bones, we have determined that one of you is to join us in our ritual.”

I smile and look to my companion, whispering softly. “Why not try Einar? Surely you can defeat a rabble of young beasts...”

He snorts and shakes his head, “I'm payed to beat the tar out of people that want to stick your squishy body, and occasionally to carry your things, I don't play games for you.”

“I would mention, should you find yourselves hesitant to fight, the trophies of battle. First, a painted feather to ornament yourself, and then, a lion hide, cured and dyed, for whatever you might find it useful. Last, a magnificent artifact of human design, hand-picked by our holy man. Even I do not know what awaits the Victor.”

An artifact? What could these creatures possibly have? No telling what they might have plundered from an unwary merchant, or even a holy mission...

“I'll pay you half-again the original contract.”

“Heh, deal.” He smirked, stomping forward towards the circle. I could almost imagine the way his beady little eyes must be shining with typical dwarven greed.

A collection of younger gnolls step forward, each taking a stave from the dirt and standing in a circle around the chieften, ushering Einar into the formation as well.

They all stare at one another for a moment, then each one looks at the bottom of their chosen stave. Einar, taking the hint, checks his as well, and furrows his brow in frustration. Whatever is on the bottom is beyond his grasp, possibly something in their own language, though I was certain they had no writing among them. The chieften leans over and peers down at my companions stave, then slaps him on the back and barks as a youth steps forward. The chief, and all the rest shuffle backwards, slipping into the gathered crowd.

Gnoll and dwarf square off, staring at each other intently. The hyena-faced creature laughs and begins what I can only assume is a bout of fanciful boasting. Einar just grins, he know how to handle improvised weapons, being something of a barfly for most of his life. The gnoll suddenly leaps into action and charges, padded weapon held aloft.

Einar just grins.


The fight is over quickly, and the result rather predictable. The poor creature never stood a chance. Einar laughs and removes his padded stick from the stricken gnoll's head as he turns and ambles back toward the outside of the circle. The gnoll makes a groaning sound and the chieften whoops, barking out to distinct syllables. Two youths emerge from the crowd and step forward into the circle, taking up stance at either end, just as before.

I heave a heavy, covert sigh as I seat myself into a more-or-less comfortable position on the packed earth, “This promises to be dull.”


And dull it is, though our hosts seem to be enjoying themselves quite a bit, judging from the Ungodly racket they're making. The fights last for far too long, and as the sun rises into the air, it begins to become painfully warm. I may have to doff my robes in favor of nothing more than that silly sash if this keeps up!

Finally though, the first rounds are all over. The winners stand in a line, and the losers meander off to reconcile this year's failure, some go into the crowd, and some wander away for more private reflection. Or, maybe they're just going to kill some hapless animal in a fit of rage. Never can tell with beast-men.

Bahkur'raka presents each of the victors with the promised feather, dyed green and ruffled oddly for decoration of their weapons or some such.

He raises his arms and shrieks then, quickly dividing the remaining people up into four-man groups and repeating the whole process of the first round, albeit with a bit more chaos involved.


My anticipation grows as the fighting progresses. I'm even standing now, my eyes trained on the battle as my mind whirls with possibility.

What could they possibly posses? What artifact could it be? A holy book, a magic sword, the bone of a saint? All these questions running through my mind, each one more insistant than the last. I'm beginning to worry as well, what if Einar can't win, and these brutes keep the prize in question? I suppose if it's a truly valuable relic, we can always bring the Inquisitors in and take it from them, but that would require bloodshed, and I do not want the blood of these creatures on my brow.

I shake my head and look up in time to see Einar make a powerful overhead swing and send his last opponent reeling, stumbling out of the circle and into the grasping arms of his clan-mates.

Einar just grins.


Finally, after two more of these four-way battles, the final encounter is here. After gifting three lion pelts to the victors, the chief grins and backs away from them, holding his arms out at shoulder height, gesturing for his clan to move back and give the three combatants room to finish this.

The sun is setting. Funny, I hadn't even noticed it dipping from the sky until now.

My breath suddenly catches in my throat, they've begun. The men, well, a dwarf and two gnolls, all stare at one another. He two gnolls are finally of interest to me. The only thing standing between myself, and whatever secret treasure the filthy brutes stole. One is truly prodigious, standing at least two heads above even his tallest peer, his stick, apparently having been snapped in two by some brutal blow to a luckless opponent, is held in either hand like a pair of small clubs. The other gnoll is average sized, with the same reddish-brown fur and gleaming yellow eyes as the rest of them, but he carries himself with grace you see in few people, and fewer beasts.

The two gnolls look at each other and nod, silently agreeing to work together to finish off the outsider before they get down to the real fight. The big one is in mid-cackle when from seemingly nowhere, Einar's weapon strikes his directly in the forehead and topples him like a tree under the axe. He lands with a shuddering thud and lays still, knocked out cold.

The other gnoll just gapes, and stares at his fallen comrade for a second. That's all my companion needed. He's on his opponent in a flash, ramming his shoulder into the poor creature's groin and sending him bowling over, clutching his damaged anatomy. The dwarf's weapon is at his opponent's throat, jabbing him rather meanly with the padded tip. The gnoll yelps and scrambles backward, his tail between his legs as he stands up and turns to run, aided in his flight by a sharp jab to the rump.

Einar just grins.


The sun is set, and now only flickering torches and a bonfire light the scene of triumph, Einar standing amongst a riot of hairy bodies, laughing and shouting as they all inebriate themselves on some foul alcohol the gnolls make for celebrations such as this.

The corpse of some plains animal is roasting over the fire, filling the air with the sickly-sweet scent of charred meat. Very fitting, considering the company I'm in.

Suddenly, a silence takes them all, rippling through them swiftly, leaving only the crackling of the fire to fill the noiseless void.

The shrieking of a of voice sharpened by age fills the air and the crowd parts, moving away from the dwarf and creating a path for a stooped gnoll wearing only a tattered loincloth and leaning on a knobby staff as he hobbles forward, a bundle clutched under one arm. I sit up and take notice.

“Here is the trophy.” My host grins, his yellow eyes shining with delight.

Mine are no doubt shining as well, in breathless anticipation.

The gnoll makes his excruciatingly slow way through the clearing amongst the bodies, making straight for Einar, whose beady little eyes twinkle with typical dwarven greed. I crack my knuckles impatiently as the hunched creature at last makes it to the dwarf and offers him the bundle with a slight dip of his head.

Einar takes it, dipping his head in return, smiling with maddening patience as the old gnoll hobbles back to his dwelling, the building with the purple hide, apparently.

After the holy-man (I'm quite certain that is who the old gnoll was) is safely back in the safety of the grand structure, then gnolls all around my companion begin whispering amongst themselves, eyes shining with excitement. One of the gnoll next to Einar, the large one from the contest, sporting a swollen lump on his forehead, grins and pokes the skin-wrapped object, miming for Einar to open it up. Einar does so, slower than is completely necessary, with his back turning to me! The nerve of that wretched midget!

The crowd erupts in a whooping cheer, cackling and guzzling their drinks as they begin to slap the dwarf on the back (and sometimes on the back of the head, to which he replies with a swift kick to the shin, all in good fun, of course).

Einar just grins, and holds aloft, for all to see (especially me), a blue, ceramic pot.


I really liked it. I found descriptions good, and I liked how the dwarf was portrayed. I have to agree with nameless though, I found it not to long, more too wordy (yes i do know stories need words).
Some bits made me laugh as well. "The nerve of that wretched migdet" made me laugh out loud, and im not to sure why, as when i read it back, its not so funny...
All in all, a good story, which appealed to the dwarf in me (i always get dwarves on those online testy things
Chance of advancing: high

[Eita]

The plaza around the temple had an elegant, high-class feeling about it. In the center of the plaza, a statue of the Skull Lord raised a warning hand to any defacers of the temple. Murals of great victories adorned the buildings of the plaza. There stood the legendary General Ripper, demanding surrender from the Sage King of the east. Next to him, the third Skull Lord directed hordes of revenants in a key battle in the civil war from a century ago. Across, Caster and Rider were outnumbered but dispatching their opponents in a businesslike manner.
Guard Captain Hatsu among others was on duty at the Third Gate, one of ten roads that lead into the outer temple complex. Few people use that gate except during ceremonies. The First Gate offers a quicker, if more narrow, going. Only two people had passed through the Third Gate during Hatsu’s shift. He was currently keeping his eye on the second, a youngster who had the accent of the Eastern Nations. That child had been around for a few hours now. He had said he was here to sketch the temple, but he hadn’t picked up his sketchbook for the past half hour and was now fiddling with a puzzle box. Hatsu moved over to confront him.
“Shouldn’t you be getting home, kid? Why are you still here if you’ve finished the sketch? It’s looking like rain.”
“Ah, well... my father said he would meet me here when he was done with work, but he seems to be running late.”
The kid stood up to talk, putting down his puzzle box down next to the sketchbook.
“As a guardsman, I can’t feel comfortable about people loitering here this late at night. We’ll spare a man to take you home. If your father shows up, I’ll tell him personally what happened. Okay?”
The kid frowned, but bent to pick up his sketchbook. In that instant, it happened. Hatsu barely saw the flash of steel as the knife was drawn. His hand went to his sword- but too late. The kid had a knife at his throat.
“It’s not kid,” said the kid, grinning ear to ear, “it’s Sougou.”

---

The Eighth Gate was not as ornate as some of the central gates, but it still boasted an impressive array of gargoyles. These were fearful creatures only concieved of in the mind of the artist. They ranged from a tiger with a third eye to some sort of demonic creature with tentacles flailing. Rookie was no longer perturbed by these statues, after a few months serving at the Gate. However, the monk sitting back against the guardhouse was obviously impressed. Next to him leaned a long staff that he carried to walk. Rookie had observed a slight limp when the monk walked up the road a few minutes ago. The monk wore an embroidered robe, typical dress of the eastern nations. Rookie prided himself on observation.
“Rookie, Ren, come out there with me. I got a bad feeling about this guy.”
Captain Chun loosened his sword in its scabbard with his right hand, his left pulling at his hair. That was a nervous habit of the Captain’s. Ren, a mute who had been accepted into the guard two years ago, folded the hand he had been playing and went to follow the captain. Rookie followed as well.
Chun walked up to the stranger, flanked by Ren and Rookie.
“Excuse me, sir. This gate is going to close in a few minutes. The storm clouds look pretty bad, shouldn’t you get back home?”
The monk had a devilish smile. It was all over in a minute. Rookie was on the ground. His consciousnous slipped away...
“That took longer than I had expected. Hope that I didn’t keep Sougou waiting. Who knows what that kid’ll do...”
The monk frowned and walked through the gate, leaning heavily on his staff. The other guards ran out to engage the intruder, but he was already far into the main plaza. Lieutenant Smasher led four men in pursuit and left the remaining one to help Commander Chun and the others.

---

“We have no hidden treasures. I can swear this on my name.”
The venerable Sage King wore a heavily embroidered purple robe, and his beard fell down to his feet. He was stroking that beard as he talked. Next to him knelt his page, a child from the noble Washi family.
“I did not come all this way to hear a lie, old man.”
The Skull Lord clutched his staff as if to break it. His face was hidden by the Skull Mask that indicated his station. In stark contrast to the old Sage King, the Skull Lord was a tall, powerfully built man.
“Skull Lord. I knew your father. He and I were the architects of our alliance. I certainly would not want to do my friend’s son any wrong. However!”
The Sage King rose slowly from his throne, supporting himself on one of the arms. His page made to help him, but was waved away.
“These foolish demands for treasure must stop! You would do well to forget about imaginary wealth. Leave now.”
The page heard the sound of air displaced. The Skull Lord held a crossbow. The Sage King was on the floor. The Skull Lord turned to him.
“Boy...”

---

Sougou shuddered.
“S-sir?”
Hatsu was making an effort of will to keep himself from shivering, knowing that any movement might impale him on the knife.
“Shut up. If you talk out of turn, I’ll kill you.”
Hatsu felt a drip of blood slither down his neck. He would have nodded profusely, had he dared.
“Sougou, let the man be.”
A monk had entered through the Eigth Gate. He clubbed Hatsu over the head with his staff, shaking his head as if to say “kids these days”.
“He’s a filthy enemy, sir.”
Sougou flicked the knife back up his sleeve. All of the sadistic, frigthtening behavior from before had faded before this monk. Sougou now seemed merely a dutiful subordinate.

---

A few minutes later, three other men made their way through the Fourth Gate, blood splattered on their garments.
“Didn’t I tell you never to move as a group?”
The monk stood up on his staff. He had been leaning on a statue. That was on account of his bad leg, thought Jive.
“Sorry, captain. We en’t all one man armies like you and the kid here.”
Jive fingered the brim of his hat. He had bought one of the top hats that were fashionable in this kingdom right now. Purely to blend in, he said.
“It isn’t captain. It’s Tajima. Alright, folks, we’re inside the temple complex. Hostiles will get here in a minute-” Lieutenant Smasher’s men made an uproar as they charged through the eight gate- “so prepare to engage. Phantom, save your energy.”
Jive was quicker with a blade than he liked to admit. He swept aside the first man easily, and clubbed him with the flat. Sougou put a knife in the good Lieutenant, and Tajima accounted for the other two while that was happening.
“Good work.”
Tajima grimaced as he stepped on his bad leg. He’d taken a cut to the shoulder. Nothing serious, it seemed.
“Alright, gents. There’ll be more in a bit, so in thirty seconds, we’re headed for the Inner Temple. Make your final checks, if you would.”
Sougou, ever restless, began to clean and sharpen his knife. Jive started pacing, pausing every few goes to check if he had some piece of equipment. Fletcher, the archer in this company, was making a last-second check of his arrows. The only one with anything to do, really, was the wizard they had brought in, by the name of Phantom. He was checking over the concealment spells he had made, and drilling himself in the ancient tongue he used. Wizards are always talking in ancient tongues. In fact, even the other wizard in the rebel group, not currently present, never understood what Phantom was saying, and vice versa. It all makes man wonder whether or not they make it up as they go along.
It is truly amazing how long thirty seconds can last under the right circumstances. Jive began to toy with the idea that some god of time had trapped them inside this interval forever. But the end did indeed come.
Phantom said his words, and they were all concealed from other eyes. Tajima gave the signal to move in.
The first obstacle was a guard, there to keep a registry of people who had come through the gate to the Inner Temple. It proved no challenge, as he had no way of detecting them. Frankly, Jive thought, they could’ve snuck through without an enchantment. This guard was bored and half-asleep.
Next proved a bit more of a challenge. There was a magic barrier on the Great Stair. If they passed through, their spells would dissipate and they would be plain to every eye. Of course, ten or eleven guards also stood at this juncture. Tajira signaled Phantom, who let loose with his sleeping spell. The guards were snoring away within seconds. Tajima signalled to go.
They went through that barrier unchallenged, although their concealment was now down. Tajima asked Phantom on the way up, but apparently there were similar magic barriers every few feet, and there would be no point re-casting the concealment. And so it was that they came to the final guard post. Tajima gave the signal to lay low. Phantom had a trick up his sleeve yet again, it seemed. Jive watched expectantly, but all Phantom did was throw out a frog. A guard prodded it with his sword, confused. Jive was also confused, until the frog started getting bigger. The guard’s eyes widened. The frog had swelled to the size of a small elephant. Guards were now stabbing it with their swords, to no effect. In the confusion, Fletcher was able to shoot down three or four guards before even being noticed. By the time they saw Fletcher, Jive and Tajira were among them. The two were too badly outnumbered to win, but along with fire and lightning from Phantom, holding the guards off was an easy task. Meanwhile, Sougou made a break for the Upper Sanctum.

---

The sanctum was a large room, with small holes in the top that light filtered through. It had an intricate pattern of tiles on the floor, and mosaics of skeletons coated the walls. Sougou’s target was on a higher platform, only accessible by ladder. Barring his way stood three men. Normally, Sougou would have liked those odds. However, he knew that these three men were powerful wizards, also necromancers of some repute.
“Don’t know how you got this far, kid, but this is where you stop.”
The foremost of the men grinned. He flicked a hand off to the side, and the skeletons on the walls suddenly came to life, and lumbered towards Sougou.
This was a tough spot. But Sougou had no intention of fighting the skeletons. He dodged relentlessly.
“Not bad, is he? How long do you think he can keep it up?”
The leading wizard took a few coins out of his pocket, and jingled them in his hand. Another one got in on the action, but the third saw something disconcerting about the kid’s movements. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but...
“Oh, crap.”
Every dodge Sougou made carried him closer to the second landing, and his target. The wizard who had noticed prepared to blast him off the ladder with lightning. Sougou mounted the ladder. The wizard began his spell...
“Watch out, there, man!”
The leader wizard fired a shield past the wizard who was preparing to shoot. Fletcher had almost got him with an arrow. However, the arrow distracted the wizard just long enough.
“Stand down, and clear out your friends over there!”
Sougou held the Holy Urn above his head. Inside dwelled the souls of the great Skull Lords, and it was a divine symbol granted by Death himself to the necromancer’s country. The two wizards who had not noticed him going for it were shocked.
“If you don’t do as I say... I’ll break it. Three. Two.”
Sougou grinned. The wizards quickly dropped the spell and the skeletons faded into the floor. Fletcher gave a thumbs-up to Sougou, and rounded up the guardian wizards, binding them with ropes that Phantom and the other wizard had prepared.
Sougou took off for the Great Stair.

---

Tajima was in a tough spot. His leg was starting to act up, and he was slowing down. Phantom had already narrowly saved him twice. He dispatched two more soldiers with blows from his staff. Jive seemed to be holding his own, barely. Fletcher had gone up and into the Upper Sanctum. Phantom signalled that he was running low on energy, and Tajima nodded, catching a blow on his staff and sweeping the soldier aside. The battle seemed to be nearing an end.
Jive came to Tajima’s side, already considerably slowed. He cut down a man on the way, and barely managed to block an attack from the side.
“Stop.”
Sougou was at the door, holding aloft the Holy Urn. The soldiers stopped.
Tajima, making a visible effort, rose up to his full height. He walked up next to Sougou, through a throng of soldiers trying to figure out what had just happened.
“Gentlemen, bring out the Skull Lord. He’ll want to talk about this, I daresay.”
Jive collapsed, too tired to do anything else. Victory, eh? He didn’t feel less bone-tired for it.


There it is.

I only have one complaint. How exactly does the Skull Lord/Sage King scene have anything to do with the majority of the story? It fits into the greed segment, but, still. Seemed put in there for a bit of background and then nothing else was done with it

Chances of passing: Yes.

EDIT: How many people can we pass out of the 7?

[Eita]

First week of school, writer's block.... this is going to end badly. Ah, well, here it is.


Awakening

The Howin house had sat atop the hill as a guardian, watching over the community, but now it slept. Windows that had once been bright and alert were now obscured by drooping curtains. It had grown a thick head of moss in its slumber, and a beard of ivy that threatened to completely obscure it; the lawn was not of grass but of pine, remnants of the last major windstorm.

Why it was abandoned, none knew. It had been the beginning and the end for seven generations; six of those generations had their lives summed up in marble amid the creepers in back. Their lives had been its pageantry, and were now its dreams, and twelve years ago, when the Howins vanished and their home slipped into slumber, so too did the village below.

There are no stories here now. Children grow up and move away, and the residents grow older. We are fading. And I cannot help but feel that somehow, the house is connected.

Wake the house.

Were you to ask me where this injunction came from, I would not be able to tell you, but I know it is there. Perhaps it was Lisbet, my generation’s older sister, telling her ghost stories about empty, echoing halls. Perhaps it was old man Robbins, caretaker of the grounds in his youth, with his conviction that house and town were intertwined. It might even have been my best friend, Tas, daring me to catch the house’s eye on midnight runs to see if it would awaken for the witching hour. Or the fact that I have been to college and seen what the world outside actually looks like, and I want to know why it does not exist here. Either way, it is my duty to come here, not a dare but a pilgrimage.

I would come on the road, but it would expect me. Given the blackberries between my home and their house, jeans would be appropriate, but they feel somehow disrespectful. There is a ceremony to my approach, illogical but necessary. I wear cotton under wool, boots instead of sneakers; I carry a scarf but not a backpack. Unnecessary adherence to times past? Yes. The disappearance of the Howins was within my lifetime. But the house seems too old, somehow, or too elevated for me to come as a child of my era.

Last time I came here was five years ago, on a dare with Tas; we came through a narrow track between the brambles, and out through the shadow of one of the pines. Today I follow these paths again and emerge on the branch-strewn lawn, then step carefully between the needles, careful not to startle the slumbering house. Every crunch of twigs under my feet and every rustle of needles sullies the silence like heresies in a temple or muddy footsteps on new snow.

The cedar porch creaks a warning as I move onto the first step. I pause, tentatively take another step forward, receive another warning creak. At this point, the light changes, the sun ducking behind a cloud as if refusing to associate itself with my insolence—or wishing not to see what comes of it.

I whisper an apology, or some equivalent thereof; the trees rustle a bit, and the sun returns. It is difficult to continue, now; the feeling of watching is getting stronger, and I can almost see intelligence in the reflection of light off the windows.

Unsurprisingly, the front door is locked. As are the first-floor windows and the back door. There are a few options, though, and the one I choose is a balcony which another of the pines has finally gotten up the nerve to reach up and overshadow. The climb is difficult, requiring me to wedge myself between two trunks for much of it; the branch is almost too slender for my weight, and I need to drop from it to get onto the balcony. Committed. No way back. So instead, I enter.

Oddly enough, the French doors leading inward are unlocked, so I step in. They open inward, and kick up a cloud of dust as they brush over the tips of the inch-deep carpet. The room itself is cluttered with remnants of older times; the prior occupant must have been a bit of a pack-rat. One canopy bed, veiled in dusty pink and lavender, dominates the room; the walls are hung with tapestries, possibly older even than this house. Much of the room is covered over with dust, dimming further the once-lustrous bric-a-brac—but there is one thing that draws my eye.

There is a dresser on the far side of the room, covered with a collection of matte-finish clay knickknacks. The center of the dresser is reserved for the vase. Tall and austere, robin’s egg blue with its only decoration a series of brighter blue ridges down the bowl, it towers over its kingdom of ceramic animals, miniature English houses and flea-deep dust. None of it has been touched since the departure of the Howins.

This is… odd. I would have expected someone to have looted the place by now. Chalk one up for the idea that the house has some sort of effect.

There’s something about the vase, too. Not as dusty. Brighter than anything in this room. I cross the room, a cloud of dust in my wake, and look at it. Normal, but… immaculate.

What happens next even I can’t quite explain; I reach down and touch the vase. I think I might have wondered if it would hold fingerprints, or something along those lines.

Becoming. Sitting at the center of a ring of stones, growing from a wheel, spinning, forming, as I formed around me forming. A family coming together within me. That which was theirs was mine.

In the beginning, there had been glory. Parties, celebrations. Bright dreams. Contentment in the stories which I had dreamed.

Two generations had passed, and I had wanted more; these parties were all the same. Empty socializing, hollow music. So I waited, and I watched, and I began to interfere. Giving them dreams of greater parties, steering them towards the imaginative ones in the town, pushing them towards prosperity and excitement. The third set of Howins had obliged, oh yes. And the fourth had tried. The fifth, though, had fallen back to mediocrity, the sixth more so.

Denying me the dreams I deserved. It angered me. So I took steps. Living in their dreams, pushing them towards the resolution I wanted.

They learned. And they did not approve. But they were human, and I would outlast them.

I had not expected them to respond by withdrawing. Insolence. So I leaned a bit harder. And harder still.

…and then they left. All at once in the middle of the night, leaving everything. It was hardly surprising, of course; if they had something of mine, I could communicate with them.

But then there was silence. None returning. None venturing to speak to me. I slept, and the village dozed off with me.

But now, a visitor….

I tear myself away from the vase, step back—myself again. The air of the room is different; it is no longer asleep, but observing. Waiting.

Dreams. A future. Practically another world. The town being bright again…

….and a maniac house trying to push me beyond my boundaries.

Was this even much of a choice?


The town hasn’t changed, but I live in hope as I return to campus in summer. Set myself up on the first day. Sun streaming through my window, sound echoing up from the sidewalks; pictures on the walls, books on the desk—and a single robin’s egg blue vase sitting on the dresser.



Nothing really happened... Seemed like most of it was just exposition that could've been summed up a lot quicker. Was kind of confusing too, but that's probably just me. Points for the sentient vase though. Love how at the end you had it follow the college student. You could've sacrificed some of the fluff for more character background though.

Odds of advancing: Medium-High

[yoshi927]

@Eita;

Well, I probably didn't make it too clear, but that was the start of the war that actually led to the rebel group. Stepping back, I think I could have made this quite a bit better by spending more time writing about the history. Well, you live and learn, eh?

[Felixaar]

Four people get passed, wasnt it? Im giddy with excitement!

[Eita]

I'm praying that I haven't gone and written another story that you need to be Russian to understand. :smallsigh: But the only thing that can possibly explain it is: this is Petersburg as it is, and this is the people of Petersburg as they are. No one else lives like this but the Slavs, and even then only in Petersburg - but this is how things are there, in truth. It's an enchanted place.

In other words: Manic? This is RUSSIAAAA

Petersburg





Listen,
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.
And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand that starless ordeal.
Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.
And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'
Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

- Vladimir Mayakovsky
Petersburg, 1914



Mitya, Mitya! Don't despair. Look, let's bathe in the river, or the fountain. It's afternoon - the water must be warm, in the fountain, and still - like it's waiting just for us. Dust will settle on the surface and catch the light. And petals from the cherry blossoms.

Where? Well, this is Petersburg! Somewhere in Petersburg there is a fountain, by a line of cherry trees close enough for the wind to blow the petals into the water, because I wished it and I want it to come true.

Naked? Sure, let's go naked. I'll pull my dress down and show my breasts. Let's go without shoes, even, let's burn our bare feet on the grey stones that make up the square. I know that people will see. But I don't care. This form is not the true form, as Dostoevsky might have said. And if the cops come, we'll pay them off.

Let's lie right down in the middle of Nevsky Prospekt, with our eyes open, let's lie there spread-eagled and get swept up in the size. No cars will come, I think. And if cars, then one lone truck rattling off in the distance, mixing with the sound of the trackless tram. The scent of exhaust on the wind. It will remind us of our fathers, who were both mechanics with rough hands stained with grease, and of a happy childhood, where we used to play near the road, in the sand. Sand, with specks of mica in it. We saw diamonds.

We'll lie there, with the asphalt drying our damp hair, and the telephone wires will sway in the wind like cradles. The clouds above us will be massive. The swell of the sky will form above us, as soundlessly as infants in the stomach of their mothers.

Don't lie there, Mitya, with the grubby rim of your T-shirt pulled up, showing your brown stomach. You keep that vase pressed to your bare skin, holding it like a burden. Idly, you roll it back and forth over your stomach, and a bit of water left in the bottom sloshes - a trail of saliva from a dozen dying flowers.

The color of the glass mixes with the color of your skin. Purple: blue and brown.

And I want to touch you, because even in this heat the glass could be cold, and I don't know, and I want to. Does it cool you? Your fevered skin? Your fevered mind?

You want to clutch your pain to your chest, as jealously as if it were made of gold, and keep you and your world to yourself, to prove that you have suffered. You think now, don't you, that if you gave up your pain, it means that the woman you miss will have lost all meaning in your heart. And so all of it would have been for nothing, right?

Light from the window hits the vase and sends a patch of blue light scrambling across the floor.

Mitya, hold the vase up to the window. Turn it towards my outstretched hands. Look! It's like I'm holding a pool of water. And is the water anywhere really that color? Sure, far away, in Florida, in the Caribbean, in other distant and tropical gulfs. But the waters of the world all mix together, as dictated by the wind and the moon, ineffable currents, unknowable things. And they go somewhere, and wherever you see water, a droplet or two might have come from there, might have traveled all that way

to Petersburg.

To Petersburg.

Listen! Give me your hand. If you won't go, then let's stay here as the sunbeams from the window moves across the room, and the spot of light will travel from my palm to yours.

It'll be dark out soon. Sunset and the square become as gold as gold leaf, the statues become ikons, the faces become ikons, the clouds become wings, and the buildings are chariots. The streetlights are a string of pearls.

Later in the evening, before the sunset - you can depend on it like clockwork - those clouds in the sky will collapse in tears. Warm tears. Summer's tears, that refresh you before the night. Joy and tiredness. The first hint of evening will blow up, the first wind that's soothing and cool.
Then the rain.

And the people will stay out. Young women will laugh and shriek, and their boyfriends will open their jackets and take them in their arms, to protect them from the rain. There will be an old auntie with her hands on her hips, smiling down at the weight-guesser - the water in her old curls must've added a pound or two, or four. The boats will bump up against the docks, like dogs who nose the door when they're anxious to be let out. The rain will come, and wake the drunkards up, as tender as a kiss, and they remember to go home to their wives, to their mothers. There will be a bit of silence, and then, like at the end of the movie, breaking the spell, a bit of discussion, some friendly swearing, and boyish laughter, Russian laughter, from a couple of full-grown men. The crowds will keep on moving. Footsteps in the puddles.

Around suppertime. The laughter and the noise, the whole crowd, will pour into the nearest McDonald's and eat American food, and be smiled at by the workers - the only place in all of Russia where people on the job will smile. (Since Lenin, anyway: or so I've heard.) Everything will be a little bit Western, a little bit platinum. Like the billboards on the streets, above the neon, the places in Petersburg that envy even Times Square. There is a picture of a model (ingenues are back in style) with her glossy lips open in childlike surprise. And on her polished cheek, the water is drying. She looks like she was crying, too. Tears of happiness, just like the clouds.

Petersburg does not believe in tears. Not tears of sorrow, just of joy.

Don't think of lost love. Don't think of the flowers that were held in that vase. She exists somewhere, in Petersburg. Don't cry for her, who held flowers in that vase, flowers that are now dead and gone and have returned to the Earth, flowers that once felt the afternoon rain, that comes down like clockwork, in Petersburg. And I am by your side, and I want to know you, and I want to be with you. And I want to know if it's possible, to say to another human being every word that comes into my mind, in spite of its inelegance, or its vestments. No private thoughts for me. Is it possible for you to know every last word that's in my soul?

Think, Mitya. What good do you do, when only that vase can see your face? Vibrations. You are the plucked string

on which God can play.

The shape of your nose might strike someone - as the particular inspiration needed for a poem. Your cheek, flushed and healthy, might remind a man of youth and vigor, and keep him from the bottle. Your tears might move someone to kindness, your lost love might drive someone towards a love that's yet to be found - a love that would have slipped through their fingers.

Love rises and falls with your breath - like the waves.

After dinner. Satiated, of all but small talk, a cigarette lights up. Then one more. Then two. Three bright lights, like tiny lanterns in the darkness, behind which are the murmurs of conversation, and sometimes beloved faces, lit up by the passing cars.

Do you remember telling me about your first cigarette? Late at night, when your father was at the theater, you went out into the streets. And a woman - not an old woman - somewhere between the games of youth and motherhood - was out smoking. And you felt brave, because you were alone, as you seldom were, and because she was just at the right age to be as indulgent as a mother and a loose girl at once. You worked up the courage, and you bummed a cigarette from her - and found a lighter somehow, somewhere.

Upstairs again, you opened the window - and kept the blinds down, just in case a neighbor passed by - lit the cigarette and stuck it through the slats. You sat there at the chair, with your eye to the chink in the blinds, and the smoke mixing with the moon light, and the street light, and the signs.

You didn't cough, although you inhaled (you felt proud!) but your nose ran a little, and you wiped it with the back of your hand, which had picked up the scent of the tobacco. You caught the scent on your fingers. And it struck you, suddenly, that this was the scent that was always on your mother's hands, because before she died and went away from you she smoked. You remembered, although it had been forgotten for more than ten years, pressing your young face into her coat and inhaling that smell, you felt the snowdrops melting on the soft fuzz and the broken buttons. You understand for the first time that her winter jacket didn't keep out the cold.

And all of a sudden you missed your mother. And you kept your hands to your face, in the pose of a cemetery statue, until the scent faded. And if the woman hadn't been out, if she hadn't felt generous (as you always do), then maybe the memory might have been allowed to go away. If she hadn't been out on that night, when, almost for the first time, you were alone, you wouldn't have had your mother's hands there again, for one last time - just long enough for you to forgive her for dying.

Don't keep yourself from the people.

The people.

You told me once that in Russia - that in Petersburg alone - the people don't walk with their heads hung low, but with their faces pointed towards the sky.

I didn't see that until you pointed it out. And now, whenever I go out, I see the faces looking out at me. I wouldn't have seen that without you - I would have lived out the rest of my life without having realized.

I need you to see these things for me, and if you stay here with your old love and your old pain, which have both vanished into the ocean of Petersburg, then I will stay with you, because I need you by my side, these city streets.

Who else can see the people as you do? My Petersburg is stone buildings, swirls of dust, and heat. I know the aching dreams of Stalin, entombed in their overwrought Taj Mahals. I see the church buildings, with their cracks in the plaster, the plaintive, trusting eyes of the saints waiting patiently, patiently, for the era of cruelty to be made wholly past, and I can weep for God, because God is in the buildings here, in the gold, in the domes. And here and there, I can imagine that people are going back to compassion. But you are the one who knows that the people here walk with their faces tilted up. You know their sorrows, because you yourself have suffered, and you can give so much to them.

The people. A little Soviet - a little Soviet, sure. But then, why not? Although the world has moved on, already forgotten the events of October. Forgotten the high wigs, the excitement of European ideas, and the thunder of hoofbeats and poems. The past is the past, and at the end of every day, what was once Russia, is now erased. It returns to the dust. To the water: a day sets into the river, becomes a droplet among droplets.

Night falls on Leningrad. A white night.

Listen to the sea birds, Mitya.

What silence

falls upon the world.

I've heard something: perhaps from you. At the very last moment, before the sun slips down past the horizon, it flashes green, at sea level. I don't know what it looks like - what shade, what size. Have you seen it? Can this happen in Petersburg? No, don't say a word. Don't tell me if such a thing exists: although it must surely exist. I've kept myself from it, from all photographs and textbooks, because if this exists then I want to see it with my own eyes, without knowing what to expect.

Let's go. There'll be time for us to get down to the waterfront, if we run.

Let's go, Mitya. I want to see it. It could happen today, tomorrow again, or in a month - but I want to know if it'll happen in this evening, in this droplet. The chance will never come again.

The sun will set, as suns do in Leningrad in the summer, without setting. Do stars sometimes rise? One or two, late at night? All of a sudden, although I've seen these nights a thousand times before, I can't remember. I don't know if this is a memory or wishful thinking, but I think I can remember one or two, trembling in the breast of a pink sky. The light is waiting for you, and the stars, and it might come to pass (I don't know the way the universe works) that they will not exist without you there to see it.

May I propose a little dictum? I say that every act of solitude is greed! I want you to embrace the world. To live more.

Let's go, Mitya. I want to see if one or two might ignite, over the top of the building, in the combination of light and dark,

that exists only in Petersburg.


Sevastian Rubakhin
January 2008



Confusing, yet awesome because of the confusion. Really captured the feeling of the moment and even from the fact that you barely exposed that Mitya guy, I understood his sorrow. I really can't say anymore then this.

Odds of passing: High. Really, really high.


Man, there better be a LOT of activity in the next half-hour or so, or else the furst round is going to look an AWFUL LOT like the second.

Anyway, for Round One, I'm writing outside my comfort zone.

WOUNDED.
1843 words


WOUNDED


Clarissa sat down and just stared at it. She put it down on the drifts of old trash and old filth on the alley floor and stared at it. The air was chilled. Smelled like wet cement and wet rot. Wind swirled along the brickwork and licked about her ankles. She shivered and closed her coat about her throat. And she stared at it.

--

Elena's coat looked really, really warm. The snow had come early and the school yard was grey and cold. There was a certain kind of wind that only seemed to blow in school yards. Sharp. Biting. Laced with grit from the younger kids' play area. That wind, the grit, felt like it was just ignoring her sister's old coat. Clarissa could remember how she had wanted that coat, had pulled open the closet door late at night and run her hands along the sleeve. And how she had pulled it on the day it had finally come down to her. How she had pulled it close around her, feeling the rough patches on her skin. How she had turned and twirled in the mirror, trying to find an angle that hid the holes. She remembered frowning at herself. And later, crying into her pillow while her parents fought downstairs.

But Elena's coat was long and black like her hair. Skin so white it gleamed in the harsh autumn sunshine. Eyes a sky-shrapnel blue and a smile like the edge of shattered glass. Surrounded by other kids in warm coats and colourful scarves, their eyes algow with adoration. Clarissa remembers sitting on the picnic table in the far field. She sat with the wind kicking grit into her eyes, the scarred wood sticky and uneven beneath her. She sat, and watched the other kids gather into their groups and flow into and away from one another in a strangely compelling dance. It was the same at every school she'd been to. Every year there would be a picnic table in a far field, splinters in her leg, and the dance of faceless children.

"Hey! New Girl! Clarissa!" She hears the voice and looks up. Her heart leaps into her throat and her breathing siezes as she sees five girls in front of her. At their head, Elena. And they were looking at her. Waiting for her. Talking to her.

"Yeah?" Clarissa managed.

There was a terrible pause and Clarissa braced for what was to come. *You get that coat at the dump? Your hair loioks like a dead cat. Stay off of out picnic table.* This too, was the same at every new school.

Elena spoke. "What's your favourite band?"

And that was it.

--

"Clarissa, honey, is that you?" Her mother's voice drifted in from the TV Room, all watery and trembling.

"Yeah mom," she said as she went to the cubboard and began pulling down pill bottles. She reached over and turned on the tap.

"You're late, Clara. I was worried."

Clarissa walked through the kitchenette with a glass of water in one hand and a small pile of pills in the other. The smell of stale air and stifled hopes hit her nostrils as she entered the TV Room. Her mother lie on the one sofa, blankets over her, pillow under her head. Her eyes fluttered up to meet Clarissa as approached. Clarissa handed over the pills and the water. "Sorry. I was just out. Around. Scoping the neighbourhood. There's a good-looking pizza place over on 12th."

Her mother swallowed her pills and stifled a mild coughing fit with her hand. "That's nice."

A noise on the tv attracted their attention. On the screen, some girl was screaming at some other girl that she had stolen her boyfriend, stolen her money, stolen her life. They looked on the verge of coming to blows. "Is Dad coming home tonight?" Clarissa asked, still staring at the screen.

"Oh, you know your father," her mother answered, "He could be home any time. Or no time. As long as he shows up to pay the rent there's not a lot more I can do. Did you make any friends at school today?"

Clarissa's mouth pulled up in a small confused smile. "Yeah," she answered, "One." And went to her room.

--

"This is the den," Elena said, leading the way through the wide halls and high-ceilinged rooms. Her voice was high and distant, her movements exaggerated and dramatic. "And this is the Games room." Elena's father was never home either. She said that made them sisters. Her mother was 'upstairs somewhere.' They had a pool. Closed for the winter. Two cars. An attic. Elena herself had two rooms. One for sleeping and one for clothing.

Clairissa followed Elena on her tour, trying not to send any noise out into the vast space all around her. She was wearing the only socks she owned that had no visible holes and she kept looking behind her, completely unable to escape the certainty that she was leaving foot-prints on the floor behind her as she walked.

Elena let her try on clothes. Watch her DVD player. Look through her photo albums. "You don't even own any makeup?" she asked, her sky-shrapnel eyes flashing and shining. And so Elena spent the afternoon teaching Clarissa how to apply blush. Eye-shadow. Lipstick. Coordinating colours. "You're an Autumn," she said. "I'm a Summer."

Elena told her she simply MUST stay for dinner.

--

Elena has a birthday. She hands Clarissa a cream-white envelope in class with a triumphant smile. "Everyone is going to be there. Everyone."

She argues with her mother. "We don't have the money, Clara. We don't."

"But I can't go to her party with nothing, Mom. I can't be the only one there without a present."

She and her mother comb the apartment for spare change. Together with the few dollars in the old coffee can Clarissa finds a dress in a second-hand store. It is blue. She wraps it.

At the party the other girls and Elena sit in a small knot of smiles and laughter. They gave Clarissa half-glances and half-smiles and whispered to each other.

The girls have pooled their money and bought Elena a vase. Blue. But not the faded winter-sky blue of Clarissa's dress. This is sky-shrapnel blue, fiery blue, the blue of Elena's eyes. She hugs them each in turn and tells them she loves them all.

They sit in the warmth of her praise and sneak pittying peeks at Clarissa from the corners of their eyes.

--

The next morning Clarissa wakes up an hour early and sits in bed scraping long scratches into the tender skin of her inner thigh. Again and again she drags her ragged nails over the same patch of skin until it turns read. Then white. Then breaks open and starts to bleed.

She showers until the bleeding stops. Goes to school.

That day Elena tells her to carry her books.

--

Clarissa didn't cry when Elena told her to walk behind them. Her and her other friends. Bridgitte. Georgia. Samantha. Each of them with warm coats and bright coloured scarves.

"You have to walk behind. In the back. Farther."

Clarissa didn't cry. Elena looked almost disappointed. The others giggled behind mock-horrified hands. Heads bobbing and eyes darting towards her and away. Clarissa just stood there. Eyes dry. Mouth set in a hard white line. She nodded.

She walked behind. Head down. Eyes half-shut.

In Elena's room there were magazines and CD's. Boy-talk and jewelry. And there was Clarissa in the corner. Staring at the row of backs. And at every flash of sky-shrapnel blue Clarissa looked up, a half-smile on her face and hope in her eyes.

--

"You don't have to play with them, if you don't want to," her mother tells her one morning, over breakfast. Clarissa is stunned. Her thighs are scabbed and abraided. It hurts to walk. Sitting is a slow and delicious torture.

She has no answer. Eventually she shrugs and goes back to her breakfast. Her mother says nothing more. Later, when Clarissa gives her the pills, she thinks her face is read and puffy.

--

One day Elena takes Clarissa home. Alone. They sit and talk and laugh and play. They talk about celebrities and giggle about boys. Hours pass.

"Why do you keep squirming like that?"

Clarissa shrugs.

"What do you have worms or something? Because, eww."

Clarissa says nothing. Elena persists. Clarissa, bright-eyed from Elena's attention, tells her why.

--

The next day Elena ignores her. Calls her crazy. Laughs at her. Clarissa goes home alone. Her mother says nothing.

--

Elena allows Clarissa to come over one more time. The others are there. They make slam-books and play truth or dare. Each of Clarissa's turns are spent on truth. She tells the whole truth each time, assuming the other girls are doing so too.

They call her 'nut' and 'wacko' and 'psycho.' Elena looks down her nose and tells her to get out.

Clarissa stands and leaves. Says nothing. On the way out she sees the vase on the pedestal by the stairs. She puts it in her backpack and slinks out of the house.

--

And so she sits in the alley outside of her apartment. Amid the trash. Staring at it.

Tears bead up in her eyes and fall to the muck-strewn ground. Silent sobs shake her skinny frame and make her throat feel like its lined with fishing hooks.

And still she cries. The brilliant blue of the vase refracts and relfects in the haze of her tears until Elena's eyes fill her vision and fill the world around her.

She utters one long and strangled scream and kicks the vase as hard as she can. It cracks into three large pieces and one large shard embeds itself into her foot.

She stands there, chest heaving, eyes blurred, for a long time.

--

Later, she steals a dollar from her mother's purse and buys some model glue. She spends the daylight searching through the trash of the alley. And when dawn comes a brilliant sky-shrapnel blue vase sits on the table beside her bed.

--

The next day Elena is quiet. She invites Clarissa home but says little else. Clarissa places the vase on the pedestal when no one os watching.

--

The next day Elena makes her walk behind again.

--

That night Clarissa picks the scab from the wound on her foor. She uses her ragged nails to peel the skin away from the wound. The pain is sharp and hot as she pulls her socks over the oozing cut.

--

One night after, she wakes and hears her mother coughing.

END


There wasn't really that much character development. Mostly Clarissa, poor and truthful, Elena and her clique, rich and demanding. You also seemed to miss the main point of the stories, that being greed. Really, it sounds more like revenge then anything else. However, you really did capture how people can react to things like that.

Odds of passing: Medium-High


Ebb The Aeroplane (Let’s Turn Fire Into Wine)



Ebb The Aeroplane (Let’s Turn Fire Into Wine)


Travel is gorgeous when you‘re young enough to edge life into films. Hoping, or sometimes forcing, that yours will end up as a romantic comedy. And when you’ve got enough time on moving sidewalks, try to match up songs to moments and how the credits will roll. See, airports give you time to think. Think back to last weekend about Jessica, an old hometown friend, invites you to a gathering of old friends. And when your hesitation was reminiscent of midday hangovers in the back of used cars, the answer came out like the glare across the windshield.

Let me tell you something about the past. It’s fine and minute enough that you can be completely wrong about everything , from Jessica’s goodbye a few years ago to that pause exiting the taxi to look up at the terminal, and when you are (or think you are) it ruins your whole concept of self and present. Explain why you got here, right now. Show me your genetics. And what if you can’t? When that little hesitation, the soft click of closing your cell phone, crawls into your answers. Plays atheist to devil’s advocate. So it’s a little vacation. You’ve got some time off, you needed a break anyway. But what if that’s not it. What if you’re hoping, and here’s where it gets funny, that it’s not just a little vacation. Remember all those teenage ’what if’s?’ Were you a bit too quick to ask for that time off? Yeah, now your stuck. Regression towards flight 270.

But let’s look at it in a different light. Change comes in different styles. That call last weekend could be just what you needed. You’re at the airport now. No longer just apartment to work to apartment with life expectancy of twenty bucks worth of diet coke and gas, life is simply here. And you’re simply there. Of course, you’re not simply there forever. You’re gonna leave, that’s why you’re there. So if you’re gonna leave, you might as well take something with you. That’s exactly why you can’t stop wondering what’s gonna happen when you land. That’s why the flower cart caught your eye.

Show me napalm by any other name. And beauty with the question of lust. Kick the dust but don’t disturb the guy in front of you. Just turn up your music and try to drone out the engine noises, man's a castle. Show me revolutions flying business class and don't forget. Carry that hope in you. Don’t show that, not yet. Give it time, shower it with blue anxieties you thought you got over years ago and make sure she knows it when she sees it. Make it like the rose, not because it’s so perfect but because the rest of the garden’s on fire. Give it love mix tape love, give it a soft scene. Make it like…her. Sounds crazy, sounds unrealistic. Sounds like freedom.

Just ignore the guttural whooshes of the air outside. Forget about how fast you’re going and the frailty of it all. The captain doesn’t know, he’s sorry but he’s forgotten. Forgotten what this means to each and every one of his passengers. Flying without engines? Fires in the cabin? God, what a joke. This isn’t earth anymore, we’re touching the heavens. Doesn’t he know what that means? It means 16,000 and dropping means texture and youthful desire just got a whole lot more overdramatic. It mean love is forever. Take it in. The city is the flowing empty sky above you and you, yes you, are the vehicle of destruction, life, and everything and the ocean is your mother. The empty belligerence of life, fleeing and tumbling as you're pushed back in your seat, that screams and smiles like that girlfriend you had in high school. Look for the endless creeping cities of Atlantis that holds and love all that it takes with simple fleshy hands that reach out and kiss the morning surfers before they go to their desk jobs. Keep it in you. Clutch those flowers you bought for her just as you boarded the plane like the bathroom walls you always wanted to write in and finally did. Remember you remembering how much she likes tulips. And forget everything else as you clutch the bouquet to your chest and place them into the vase of the ocean, show it your hope. Let them all die, show me - no give me the truth and the texture. Give me young love, give me sacrifice. Give me her tears, your eyes, water’s way with words. Give it, give it all to me.


It was really, really abstract. You never really elaborated on the situation, focusing more on Machiavellian schemes and plots. The story itself was good, but it needs more fleshing out. It's lacking something... A fullness. You have amazing potential though.

Odds of advancing: Medium

Now then, am I the only one who has finished their reviews? Anyways, choosing the four who shall win is going to be hard considering that all of them were good stories.

[Amotis]

You guys do realize that you're practically posting judgments outside of spoilers, right?

[Thamir]

26th of what! Do I still have time? I forgot!

[Amotis]

26th of last month. So, no...not really.

[Felixaar]

"Pirates! Are you friendly pirates?"
"Ah... No, not really."

Bump.

[Nameless]

@Amotis:

I really enjoied this, it was short and simple and had a good plot.
The only thing i can really say is to expand it further.

Odds of advancing: Medium high

[rubakhin]

Guys - er, isn't the deadline for the judges the eighth? :smalleek: That's ... in four hours.

[Eita]

Thank goodness I've got my judging done.

[rubakhin]

*nod* Have you officially passed anyone yet, though? I thought you just gave us all probability of passing?

[onasuma]

Damn, sorry. Stuff keeps piling up on me. I'll get this done as soon as im home. Really sorry. (the irony is it be english coursework delaying me

[Eita]

Here we go.

I Still Miss You: Pass

Ebb the Aeroplane: Fail

Typical Dwarven Greed: Pass

Wounded: Fail

Yoshi's Story (didn't feel like checking name): Pass

Awakening: I'm telling you right now, this was one of the hard ones. Fail.

Petersburg: This one fought with Awakening. As you might guess, it passes.

[purple gelatinous cube o' Doom]

I apologize for being this late with my critiques. Trying to find a job in baseball is one unto itself, and this slipped my mind for a while. And for some reason, I thought I had until tomorrow. Anywho, I've begun everything, but may not have them all done until tomorrow. So, if things can wait a day, I'll post everything tomorrow.

[Amotis]

Again, judgments should be in spoiler tags.

judgments

[Felixaar]

Whoo, I've got one pass so far. Whee :smallbiggrin:

[onasuma]

Finished reading everything. Critics are coming. I just dont feel happy with passing and failing people without saying why.

Yoshi's one:
Sorry mate. I didnt like it much. It just through us in to a story and at the start there was alot of description which we didnt nessicerily understand. Setting a scene is a good thing, but i think that went a bit overboard.
In the middle i felt it picked up, if it had all been like that, i would have passed without a doubt, but it wasnt.
Sorry, its a fail

Rayvn's one
Absolutly fantastic. It was gripping and just kept me wanting to read it. Make a sequal! The description was great, especially the the outside of the house. I could really see it. The ending was suprising, or at least it supprised me.
All in all, it was a great read, and i will be really sorry if it doesnt get through.
Definatly a pass.

Rubakhins one
I think some of it was indeed lost on me, but I do learn russian, so maybe not so much.
The opening was strong, i really liked the idea of the poem. It was a strong story, and i enjoyed it. The description i found was very good, not perfect, but very good. I liked the final few lines, very effective if you ask me.
I believe you have passed.

Truemanes one
OH! How I am torn! I liked this one more than some, but liguistically i dont think its as good.
I felt the story was good and had a good use of both elements.
I didnt get the significance of the coughing at the end, and would quite like to know.
I wish I could pass it but im afraid I cant. Its a fail.

Amotis' one
Ive read some of your work before, and im afraid so say, this time i was dissapointed.
Story analysis wise, I felt it could be better done, but the basic structure was ok.
I wish you could have found inspiration for this, as i know you can do much better. However, i have to pass and fail based on this story, so its a fail.

Summary:

Felixxar, rubakin, methodical meat and Ravyn pass.
Im sorry to the rest, you fail.

[Nameless]

omgomgomgomgomgomgomg... I missed the deadline *reads*

[Nameless]

Okay, this is what I've got so far, I'll read the rest now and post more after.
Also, sorry for the doubble post.



Felix: Pass

Meth: Fail, Sorry, Although this is really my kind of story, I didn't really enjoy
it.

Amotis: Pass

Yoshi: I haven't commented yours yet so here: Overall, I really liked this. You used a good amount of detail and I thought it was a good little story :smalltongue:
The only thing I didn't like was the term "kid". It was okay when the guard was ferfuring to him as "kid" but when you were talking about hiim through the narator it kinda got annoying and repetetive.
Over, it was good and enjoyable
Pass.

[Felixaar]

Three for Three! Comeone on cubey, make my day!

*hula-dances*

[Nameless]

Oh for goodnasake, For some reason it hasnet posted my other comment... this is the third time today :smallannoyed:

EDIT: There, Yoshie's one is up.

[Felixaar]

bump
c'mon, im hangin' on the edge'a'ma seat heyar.

[MethodicalMeat]

Alright, I've got to ask, are we giving up on this competition? Because the judgments were due four days ago, and I haven't seen a peep out of any of the judges in three days.
I worked hard to finish my story on time, despite the fact that I had half the time I normally do, and I have college to wrestle with. Is it really so much to ask that all the judges try to be on time and stick with it to the end, ore at the very least, tell us they've bailed on the competition?
Thank you Eita, for doing your judgments on time, by the way.
Onasuma, despite the fact that you passed me, you had nothing to say about my story. No criticism, no praise, not even a witty, mocking remark. You simply did not say anything. I want feedback, that's why I'm in this competition.
Nameless, not only did you not provide any actual feedback beyond "I didn't like it.", you didn't even bother to spell out my name. It was days before I realized you were talking about me.
And Purple Gelationous Cube of Doom, where are you?

[onasuma]

I really liked it. I found descriptions good, and I liked how the dwarf was portrayed. I have to agree with nameless though, I found it not to long, more too wordy (yes i do know stories need words).
Some bits made me laugh as well. "The nerve of that wretched migdet" made me laugh out loud, and im not to sure why, as when i read it back, its not so funny...
All in all, a good story, which appealed to the dwarf in me (i always get dwarves on those online testy things
Chance of advancing: high

I honestly think you could have at least looked back before you moan.

[Ravyn]

Half the normal time? Usually in the IAs I'm in, they don't implement two weeks until after I've lost my bracket.

[MethodicalMeat]

I honestly think you could have at least looked back before you moan.

My apologies. I was looking at the group of judgments you posted on the last page, and neglected to look farther back. My other complaints, however, still stand.

[Felixaar]

Nameless also reviewed your story if you look back.

Have to agree it is kind of a put off that judgements are coming in so late when - even if only seven of us did - we got our stories in on time.

[Nameless]

Alright, I've got to ask, are we giving up on this competition? Because the judgments were due four days ago, and I haven't seen a peep out of any of the judges in three days.
I worked hard to finish my story on time, despite the fact that I had half the time I normally do, and I have college to wrestle with. Is it really so much to ask that all the judges try to be on time and stick with it to the end, ore at the very least, tell us they've bailed on the competition?
Thank you Eita, for doing your judgments on time, by the way.
Onasuma, despite the fact that you passed me, you had nothing to say about my story. No criticism, no praise, not even a witty, mocking remark. You simply did not say anything. I want feedback, that's why I'm in this competition.
Nameless, not only did you not provide any actual feedback beyond "I didn't like it.", you didn't even bother to spell out my name. It was days before I realized you were talking about me.
And Purple Gelationous Cube of Doom, where are you?


I know, my internet is terrible and keeps disconecting, so I'm trying to give as many feedbacks as I can before it disconnects again. Right now I'm using the school computers.
I think the best idea is to just ignore my judgments and I wont go further with this.
right now im internets completely gone. (well almost)
I'm very sorry.

[MethodicalMeat]

Nameless also reviewed your story if you look back.

Have to agree it is kind of a put off that judgements are coming in so late when - even if only seven of us did - we got our stories in on time.

I realize this, I didn't say anything contrary to it. I saw his judgment, and did not say that he didn't judge me, only that I didn't notice it at first because he abbreviated my name as "Meth".

[Nameless]

Must... type... fast Before internet dissapears...

Like I've already said, just ignore my judgments, it's not really the best time fore me to do something like this (although it is beggining to impove)
Maybe I'll do it properly next time.

But if you look at the first judgment I did, that was alright. :smalltongue:

[Felixaar]

bumpty-bumpty-bump.

[onasuma]

Torm hasnt logged in since this time last week. Just saying

[Felixaar]

Then I say we run amok and claim victory over the opressors. I name myself the first president of the republic of northern california!

*looks at The Stand*

I have got to stop reading this thing...

[rubakhin]

If you get California, I'm naming myself Grand High Philosopher-King of Kievan Rus and the Caucasus.

My first act as lord and sovereign will be to bump this thread.

[onasuma]

Tormskull has failed. It appears he has left, yet did so on 1779 posts. Those last 6 werent even very good...

Anyhow, due to his apparent dissappearance I shall step forward and offer to take it over. Can I get opinion on that idea?

[rubakhin]

I have not a qualm. Doesn't really matter who runs this thing, right?

[MethodicalMeat]

I'd happily agree to Onasuma stepping forward.

[Felixaar]

If you get California, I'm naming myself Grand High Philosopher-King of Kievan Rus and the Caucasus.

My first act as lord and sovereign will be to bump this thread.

The Stand reference. Screw California. Screw Grapefruit. (http://xkcd.com/388/) I get Australia, and Antarctica.

But I third agree Onasuma taking over, which makes it official (official enough, anyway)

All hail the new king.

[onasuma]

*begins being worshiped and stuff*

Also, i Pm'd nameless and PGCD. Hopefully they'll get some judging done.

[Nameless]

Well I got my computer running again last week, who's stories have I missed? *checks*

Okay, so I've done these one's, just a quick reminder,I've already done the comments, so here's just the quick verdicts:


Felixaar- Pass

Methodical Meat- Fail

Amotis- Pass

Yoshi- Pass


I'll get reading on the rest.

[Felixaar]

I think you can give up on Cubey. I've PMED him twice with no response.

[Viola]

o = )

[hyperfreak497]

If you want a fourth judge, I could step in.


o = )

Not to mini-mod or anything, but this post adds nothing to the conversation, and is probably considered spam. I would advise refraining from posts like that in the future.

[Nameless]

@ Ravyn:

Although there it wasn't much of a "story" as such, I love the way it was written, the detail and explenation was great and it made me want to read more.
I think it could of have been better if you improved on the sotry it self, but overall it shows a lot of potential.

Since we don't really have any time and say the whole "low, medium, high" thing, I'll go straight to my final say, and it's a pass. :smallsmile:

[Felixaar]

I was working in my lab,
late one night,
When my eyes beheld
an eerie sight
My monster from its slab
began to arrive
And suddenly,
to my suprise,

They did the BUMP!
They did the monster BUMP!

[onasuma]

As soon as nameless' is in, ill put up the next round. Come on namey! We're all counting on you!

[purple gelatinous cube o' Doom]

hyperfreak497, thanks for stepping in for me. onasuma, I apologize for not getting back to you. When I said I'd do this, I thought I would have a little more time than I actually did. I've been looking for a job for three months now, and have been turned down 5 times. I had some leads in the last few weeks, and have been hitting that pretty hard, since a getting a job in my field is top priority in my life at the moment. Most of what I've done here in the past few weeks is some WW stuff. I apologize to everyone for not keeping up my end of things, but I hope y'all can understand.

[onasuma]

Perfectly reasonable. I hope you manage to get one of said jobs or if not, a job in general in the near future.
Hyperfreak i think we can do it easily with 3 judges, as i wont be stepping down from that.
*cant think of anything else to say. Goes to get drunk*

[Nameless]

I woulda read more uesterday but I was at a BarMitzva all day :smallannoyed:

Anyway's who's have I missed? *searches*

[Felixaar]

Truemane and Rubakhin. Remember you're only allowed to pass four people.

[Nameless]

Oh for the love of frack cripe... I completely forget... :smallsigh: :smallsigh:
I've already passed four people, why the frack is my memory so terrible... why did I have to inheret my father's memory and not my mothere's... She has awesome memory but nooooo I had to get my dad's...

[Felixaar]

I'll forgive ya if you hurry up and get the rest of the judgings done soon.

[Felixaar]

*sighs, facepalms*

[Eita]

So... Is Tormskull still gone?

[onasuma]

Yes. I took over, and as soon as nameless gets his reviews up (COUGH!), the next round will start

[Nameless]

Yes. I took over, and as soon as nameless gets his reviews up (COUGH!), the next round will start

My fracking internet keeps going the frack out for the love of frack sake! :smallfurious:
I'll have to read them when I get to school tomorow, because I start reading one and then after 2 mins I get that fracking screen where it say's all tha stuff and cripe...

Which is also why I'm not updating aSod as much as I used too... or ABR... :smallfurious: :smallfurious:

[Fat Daddy]

HOLY SCHNIKIES!! It lives... and seems to be going strong. Love the new 'waterfall start' format. Can't wait to read the next round.

[onasuma]

Lives is probably too strong a word, we just seem to have a rises and falls off stuff. Currently, we are dead

[Nameless]

@Petersbug:

I have very little idea what the heel was going on... But that's partly why I liked it. The poem at the beggining was a very nice touch.
As much as I hate the following fraze, i'll say it anyway: "it flowed really well"
Odds: High

[Fat Daddy]

Lives is probably too strong a word, we just seem to have a rises and falls off stuff. Currently, we are dead

Well if you need a judge or coordinator or whatever, I can step back in. Whatever I can do to help. As a bonus I am CPR certified. :smallsmile:

[Felixaar]

Bump.
Bump Again.

[hyperfreak497]

You sure you don't want me to do the last few judgements that Nameless hasn't done? If his connection keeps "fracking up" or shwatever, it shouldn't hold up the whole competition.

[Nameless]

You sure you don't want me to do the last few judgements that Nameless hasn't done? If his connection keeps "fracking up" or shwatever, it shouldn't hold up the whole competition.

I seconed that emotion.

*goes back to read some more*

Wait... what ones haven't I read yet? :smallconfused:

[onasuma]

I dont know. All I know is I want to know which 4 you pass and which fail. However, im sure the authors would like feed back.

[Nameless]

FFS, I was reading Ravyn's one and it logged me out for 15 mins. :smallfurious:

*goes back to reading* *mumbles*

EDIT: Haven't I already read this?

[Nameless]

@ Ravyn:

[Snip]

I swaer I've already done this story...

EDIT: Wait... I have.

I cannot believe I've just read the same story again... :smallannoyed:

[MethodicalMeat]

Jeebus...
We're still not done with the judging?
I really want to say more, but I think my temper would flare up a teensy bit.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Darn it, is it to late to post something here? I´ve been looking for this thread for a bit now but I couldn´t find it.

I´d just like some comments on how it is, if its possible to post here.:smallbiggrin:

[MethodicalMeat]

Sorry Dallas-Dakota, you'll have to wait until the next competition.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Aww'd, when does it start?

[onasuma]

When hell freezes over if nameless has anything to do with it. (sorry to be mean, but the worse i make you feel, the more likely there will be a next round sooner)

[Felixaar]

I say if Hyperfreak can get judgements in before Nameless, we'll take Hyperfreaks instead. Sorry nameless, your cool and all, but I'm just barely resisting the urge to strangle your ISP right now.

[onasuma]

Ill have to agree with that. Please someone get them done.

[rubakhin]

Bump.

Good lord, men.

[Felixaar]

Cool new av, Rubakhin. I PMed Hyperfreak but to no avail, atleast so far.

[Nameless]

Okay, I got good news and bad news, good news is i'm chainging broadband provider so my internet should be ship shaped... bad news is that it'a completely out 'till next wednesday...

[Felixaar]

Hey all. I know I'm not incharge of this competition, but I looked at the completed judges results and saw that theres ony one discrepancy.

Eita voted for
Rubakhin, Methodical Meat, Felixaar and Yoshi

Onasume voted for
Rubakhin, Methodical Meat, Felixaar and Ravyn

I think if nameless could make a decision between Yoshi and Ravyn, we could call that the judgings. Usually I'd ask Onasuma to do it but he's already a judge. I PM'd nameless, so, *crosses fingers*

[Dallas-Dakota]

I'm willing to do it, since I can't enter anything in this one.

[Felixaar]

Mkai. Anyone out there who can get a good judging in should be counted, I imagine. Go for it, D-D.

[Eita]

Wait... Are we still on the first round?

[MethodicalMeat]

Wait... Are we still on the first round?

Sadly, yes, yes we are.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Reading.



I think if nameless could make a decision between Yoshi and Ravyn, we could call that the judgings.*
Those two? Okidoki.
_________________________________
Ravyn :

For the length, a great story. You can put great detail into something as much as just a bedroom, something which Tolkien could do greatly, a part of which I admire him as a writer, you have that to a lesser talent. In that short story you gave a mission(to revive the house so the village could 'live', gave a past and also gave your character a very nice history
Yoshi :

Its a very nice story but : the story is seperated(by the parts of ---) not just in location but in plot-wise, the first few parts add up to the middle part, but the last two parts don't have a real connection except that 'treasure'.
A great way for you to improve is to use more spaces, which also makes it better to read. I see a great plot in there, but... Its just missing something..
Between the two of them I say : Ravyn.
__________________________________________

Also if nobody is doing it already and I'm giving pas(since I ain't running the contest) I'l PM the passing authors that they have passed the first round and that info/subject/word/thingy would be posted later.
So if anybody gives me a GO I'l do it.

[hyperfreak497]

Well, it looks like DD took care of it. Just to let you guys know, a virus completely trashed my home computer, so now I'm limited to when I can get on a school computer or, if my brother's feeling particularly generous, my brother's computer.

I'm willing to judge next round, as my computer should be fine by then.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Well, it looks like DD took care of it. Just to let you guys know, a virus completely trashed my home computer, so now I'm limited to when I can get on a school computer or, if my brother's feeling particularly generous, my brother's computer.

I'm willing to judge next round, as my computer should be fine by then.

Good luck with getting some PC time.

I'm in next round as either writer or judge.
I'm PM'ing the winning contestants if thats fine?

[onasuma]

Fair enough.

New round (at freakin last)
The word is "reincarnation"
the picture is found here: http://www.taxidermy4cash.com/denvercougar.jpg
Good luck and the round ends on the Friday the 11th of April

Edit @ Dallas: As long as nameless is ok with it, you can take over from him. You cant write. You have to earn places in this competition.

[Eita]

At least we're moving. Someone, drop me a PM when they're done writing.

[Tormsskull]

Hey everyone,


Just wanted to say sorry to everyone. I got a promotion at work, got a girlfriend, bought an investment propety, been working on that, was convinced to finish my novel, so, long story short, I disapeered for a long time. I'm so sorry that I dropped out of this completely.

-Mike

[Eita]

You wrote a novel? Ooh.

[Dallas-Dakota]

PM's to surviving authors send.


A novel? Cool!

[Felixaar]

Hey, I wrote a novel :smallfrown: Still workin' on the girlfriend bit, tho :smalltongue: Anyway, no hard feelins, Tormenstine.

Looks like cool new prompts. Ill get to work right away, (I.E. Fifteen minutes before minight on March 10).

I'd also like to thank Dallas-Dakota for stepping in to judge and move that we immdiately accept him as a judge in toto (and no, I don't mean dorothy's dog. though... how cool would that be?). I've got nothing against nameless, he's a cool guy (and one of my life rules is dont argue with the guy who has a grim reaper avatar), but I don't want to go through this month long judging thing again, impending doom or no.

[Nameless]

So... Dallas is taking over for me since I still dopn't have internet 'till next week... but then I shall finally have real internet access power which doesn't continuesly sign out on me!!! MWOHAHAHAHAAAA!!! :smallsmile:

I mean... I like pineapples! :smallamused: (not really I'm just told to say that)

Take it away Dallas! :smallcool:

(right now I'm posting from Malfunctioned's house)

[Dallas-Dakota]

Yay, I'm looking forward to stories of you all:smallbiggrin:

[Nameless]

Yay, I'm looking forward to stories of you all:smallbiggrin:

Thhhaaattt's triiight Dallas... Stories of us alllll.... :smallcool:

[Felixaar]

Woah woah woah, hold on here.

Nameless doesn't like Pineapples?

[Dallas-Dakota]

Thhhaaattt's triiight Dallas... Stories of us alllll.... :smallcool:

Well, the authors which are still in anyway.

Btw, time for some math again.

Nameless + Pineapples = not good.

[Felixaar]

So your saying that Baron Pineapple, or possibly Belkar, is the only one who could ever defeat the grim reaper?


...We've got work to do.

[Dallas-Dakota]

So your saying that Baron Pineapple, or possibly Belkar, is the only one who could ever defeat the grim reaper?


...We've got work to do.

Baron pineapple was defeated, now in baron's heaven, pineapple section. He likes it there and does not want to leave.

And Belkar... The Grimp Reaper runs away from Belkar.
Belkar = The Grim Reapers boss taking a vacation on the mortal planes.

[MethodicalMeat]

I'm just posting here to let everyone know, that I'm dropping out of the competition.
I'm just not getting what I want from it. During my last two Iron Author's, I'd come to expect constructive criticism from my judges, not just whether I "pass or fail". I'm not here to win, I'm here to better myself as a writer, and I'm not gaining that from this anymore. Plus, this competition randomly started up again right in the middle of my having to write a series of essays for school. So, I chose the essays, as well as a more constructive environment for writing.
Goodbye all, maybe I'll see you in Iron Author VII, but probably not.

[Felixaar]

...Okay, then. Only thing I can say to that is that if you wanted critique on your story, you should probably make a topic in the forum saying so much. All I'm looking for in this contest is a good time and potential ego boost/deflation.

Shame to seeya go, Meth.

Well, I vote we get Yoshi in as our 4th writer.

[truemane]

...Okay, then. Only thing I can say to that is that if you wanted critique on your story, you should probably make a topic in the forum saying so much.

Hold on there, Felixaar, Methodical Meat is being entirely fair. The Iron Author contests, traditionally, have always been more about constructive critique than they have winning/losing.

Read back through them if you have the time. It's the feedback that the writers want. Winning and Losing are by-products, and more a way to give the whole thing some focus and structure than they are primary intentions.

This is the first Iron Author that has emphasised the competitive aspect and downplayed the feedback to the extent that it has.

And this also seems to be the least organized and most poorly attended Iron Author as well. And it seems to me that this is not coincidental.

[onasuma]

Well, we have had quite a bit to deal with. The runner dissappearing, a judge having awful internet...
Sorry that we've made it bad for you MM. I think the fairest thing to do is give the place to yoshi. He got more votes than anyone else to be honest. Is everyone ok with that?

[Dallas-Dakota]

I always try to give constructive criticism(spelling?). But I may have been a bit hasty with my judgings as I was hoping to pump a bit of life into this.

I second Truemane's post.

[Felixaar]

Ah, I see. Sorry.

And yeah, I agree with the Yoshi thing (I suggested it after all) but I don't see how he got more votes than us :smallconfused:

[onasuma]

I ment out of those who hadnt got through. Everyone else got none, where as he got 1, thus he had the most reamaining votes

[Nameless]

Whats all this about pineapples? :smallconfused:

Yays I'm getting my internet back tomorow (hopefully) Then I shall observe... :smallamused:

[Felixaar]

Oh, okay.

And you implied that you dont like pineapples, and everybody loves pineapples (new sitcom), so I questioned the idea.

[Nameless]

Oh, okay.

And you implied that you dont like pineapples, and everybody loves pineapples (new sitcom), so I questioned the idea.

The reason I don't like the taste of pineapples is because of the apocalypse that is soon to come.

[Felixaar]

Ohhh. My inquisitive temperment is appeased.

[Dallas-Dakota]

And you implied that you dont like pineapples, and everybody loves pineapples (new sitcom), so I questioned the idea.

I don't like pineaplles. unless Pineapple cookies! They delicioooous!:smalltongue:

[Felixaar]

I don't like pineaplles. unless Pineapple cookies! They delicioooous!:smalltongue:

Pineapples cookies?

This competition is descending into madness.

[Nameless]

Pineapples cookies?

This competition is descending into madness.

Madness? MADNESS? THIS... IS... COOOKKIIIEEESSS!!!

On another note, skittle cookies

[Dallas-Dakota]

Madness? MADNESS? THIS... IS... COOOKKIIIEEESSS!!!

On another note, skittle cookies
This is so getting sigged!

[Nameless]

Yay I said something usefull!

On a completely unrelated topic, I HAZ INTERNET!!!!!!!!11!!!!111ONEONNE!!!111

I shall obsurve this contest.

[Felixaar]

Skittle cookies? Skittles melt and burn in the oven. I've tried it with nerds.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Put skittles in cake after its out of the oven, that works.:smallcool:

[Felixaar]

this thread is a wealth of good ideas.

[Felixaar]

Woo! Here's my entry, y'all!

Runner
I hide. Lying below a dark red couch, I hope that he can’t see me. Him… the one who hunts me. He comes with blade and bow, blonde hair, sadistic smirk, every feature is flawless yet horrible. And thus I remain hidden; a small, frightened man, in debt to people much larger than myself.
“Come out, Thern, and we’ll make it quick,” I hear his voice waft down from above. One thick leather boot treads onto the carpet just in front of my face, then a second. “I know you’re in here. I know you can hear me.”
Cyrius, the merciless hunter. I carry a sword at my side, but it is no protection against his strength, and his skill. But this is not the first time we have met… oh no. It has been like this for years the number of which I have long lost count. I run, I hide, and still he follows, still.
I cannot understand it. I owe goods, I owe taxes, and I owe money, but not enough to necessitate such a long campaign by this hunter. Secretly, I know the truth – Cyrius is a proud man, he does not give up. I suspect he is no longer paid for his services, but considers that my ability to survive his hunt is an affront to his nature.
And so it has been for weeks, months, years, that I keep running, that seems to be all, and he keeps seeking. Sometimes he finds me, like tonight, but I have always gotten away… but will I this time?
“No more games, Thern, I promise,” comes that harmonious, but cruel, voice, and I know he lies. Boots tread again, further away this time, mud both dried and damp is spread over the carpet, an act that would have no doubt enraged the owner of the inn. “You come out here, we’ll have a go at it, quick and easy, and then you won’t have to worry about me any longer… you won’t have to worry about anything… lucky you…”
Boots, and now the cuffs of pants, walk further away, almost at the other side of the room. Now’s the chance. With a sudden heave, I topple the couch and leap up. Cyrius spins around with sudden precision, not that I see, I’m too busy running. The doorway is only a few metres off, but just the first few inches seem to take hours.
Running faster than ever before, I lurch at the doorway, only to be brought down by a yellow feathered arrow. Deep into my left calf it drives, and I collapse to the ground, a short gasp of pain as a grab for my leg.
“Under the couch, Thern, I thought you had more style,” Cyrius tells me, walking over. A second arrow is in the bow, and he pulls it back.
“No… let me go… Cyrius, I beg…” I cry out, my face in anguish, my only hope already a lost cause.
“Let you go?” Cyrius asks. “By the gods, Thern, you never learn, do you?” He pulls back the arrow – for now – and shakes his head. Blonde hair swishes from side to side on his face, mesmerising.
“You’re a coward, Thern… such a coward. And you’ve never learnt that, I don’t think anyone’s ever even told you before. For the past… oh, twelve years it must be now, you just keep running, running, and running! When was the last time you felt even the slightest joy?” he asks, spitting in rage.
Not really interested in his speech, but my mind still zooms back in time at the question, trying to find an example. None. Theres nothing there, no happiness.
“Sure, by running, you live another day. But what’s that day worth if all you do is run? All you do is live in terror! Would you not rather fifteen minutes – seconds, even, - of joy, rather than fifteen years of horror?” Cyrius asks, lost in his own speech. “What is it worth to live when you have nothing to look forward to? Every time we meet, so far, you get away… but you know, sooner or later, like tonight, I’m going to get you.”
Cyrius takes a step to the left, beginning to walk in a circle around me. Half my mind screams to escape while he’s distracted; the other half is listening to him.
“Do you know what happens when you die, Thern? You live again. Not in the same station you were in before, mind you. You get a new life, depending on what kind of man you were in the past. And do you know what happens to runners?” Cyrius bends low now, light blue eyes glaring into mine, teeth gritted. “You’re nothing. You’re a rat. You run, because that’s all you can do to live, you can’t even fight back. You’re a deer. You’re a rabbit. You’re the prey, always the prey, never the predator, and sooner or later, just like now, someone’s going to get you, and it’s going to be sticky, and messy.”
I can’t help but listen. A new life, the one I’ve already got? Cyrius words repeat them selves in my head – always the prey, never the predator, running forever.
“There’s only one other choice, Thern. It’s what MEN do – good men, great men, real men. They stand and fight. More often than not, they know they will lose, but they pass bravely to the next world, and they get a new chance – they can live as they never before did, in a place where they HAVE the power to be the predators, to survive, and to not live in fear,” Cyrius continues.
“So I’m giving you a choice, Thern,” he tells me, standing up once again. “You can run, once again, as you always have, and that will be your choice, and you always will. Go ahead, I won’t stop you – I’ll be back on the trail in an hour, but you can walk out that door with a head start. But next time… there’ll be no talk… there’ll be no offer, there’ll be no choice, for you see you’ll have made your choice, to live forever as a coward, as a runner.”
“Or, you can stand and fight. I’ll kill you, theres no question. It’ll hurt, by the gods it will hurt, but atleast you can know you did the right thing… and who knows… perhaps the gods will have some favour on you, and put you in a higher place in your new life. Maybe… maybe not… but it’s worth a try, wouldn’t you agree?” Cyrius asks rhetorically. “Make your choice.”
I stare up at him for a second that could be century. On the surface of my mind a battle rages as to which choice to make, but deep down in the depths of my consciousness, I already know.
I stand up – as well as I can, for a man with an arrow in his leg, and draw my sword. “We fight,” I speak, the first words I’ve spoken all night.
Cyrius grins. “Wise move,” he tells me, and draws his sword.
Steel flies and light glimmers as we strike and parry to and fro, back and forth. And then I feel it – for the first time in these past twelve years, I’m enjoying myself. Cyrius is grinning, and I feel a grin touch my lips. We fight like old friends, like old enemies, around the room.
All is silent, atleast to my ears. I don’t hear the clatter of metal against metal, all I hear is my own breath, so it’s no surprise that I don’t hear it when the end comes. Cyrius knocks my blade up, and with a sudden thrust, his digs deep into my chest.
I stare across and the blonde haired man, who taught me my most important lesson in life, then killed me in the space of fifteen minutes. But he was wrong… it doesn’t hurt. I’m not aware of the immense pain. I’m not aware of the blood seeping through my shirt and down my chest. I’m not aware of anything really, and the final curtain draws, and all fades to black.
Pitch black, like midnight, it’s all I can see. Then a point of light in the distance. Theres a humming, ominous music in the background, building to a crescendo, and as it loudens, I feel the wind (can there be wind in a place like this) rush by me as I am pulled toward the light, faster and faster, and it grows with every second.
The music, it rolls louder and louder, an orchestra of beauty that could not exist in mortal planes, as the light overcomes me, and all is gone from black to white, and suddenly the music plays louder still as I leave the light, rushing back into the darkness…

* * *

Darkness all around me. Then I realise why. My eyes are closed. I open them, stretch and yawn, and suddenly feel shocked when a growl escapes my lips. I look around. I have a paw! A big, brownish gold paw. I try to think back, remember what I was doing before I woke up, and there’s nothing.
Moving towards me, creatures much like my self but much bigger, one with a massive mane of golden hair, and I leap forward, running across the grass, and a thought enters my mind, unbidden, like something from another life time…
Now the predator, never again the prey…
I am a runner, no more.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Reading:smalltongue: :smallconfused:

[yoshi927]

Well, I think I'm dropping out here. I was only notified today that I'm back in the contest, and it's too late to do a good job. So... I'm out. Catch ya' next contest, I guess.

[Felixaar]

Hmm. Then I vote we extend the deadline by a week to March 18, mainly cause I dont wanna win by being the only one to enter.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Hmm. Then I vote we extend the deadline by a week to March 18, mainly cause I dont wanna win by being the only one to enter.

Seconded....

[onasuma]

3rded. fillar

[Ravyn]

April 18, but yes, extension will be appreciated, and thank you. You caught me right in the middle of putting the finishing touches on my undergrad thesis, and it hasn't been very good for my inspiration in other subjects.

Though I do agree with Methodical Meat on the matter of criticism; it's a lot harder to really want to make an effort when I know I'm not as likely to get to learn anything from it. I don't trust my eye alone, and it's nice to get to know what the judges are looking for as a way of seeing what other people are likely to enjoy in future work.

[rubakhin]

Just to make absolutely clear on all of this, we are definitely extending the deadline, correct?

For I am bloody tired, and I want to go to bed.

[Eita]

*stamps sign of approval*

Also, MethodicalMeat, I give you three choices. Return now, return for the next Iron Author, or face my wrath. Wait, no, I thought up a fourth. Post random stories that you write. They are quite good.

[Dallas-Dakota]

*stamps sign of approval*

Also, MethodicalMeat, I give you three choices. Return now, return for the next Iron Author, or face my wrath. Wait, no, I thought up a fourth. Post random stories that you write. They are quite good.

*also stamps sign of approval with my unique stamper*
Seconded.

[yoshi927]

Alright, I'll try to get something together.

[onasuma]

Just to make absolutely clear on all of this, we are definitely extending the deadline, correct?

For I am bloody tired, and I want to go to bed.

Yes we are.

[Felixaar]

Just a note, y'all, I'll be away from the 14-24th, so please dont let the next round end till say the 28th, assuming I get in.

Best of luck to all my fellow contestants! Get to work! (also good luck with you Thesis, Rav.)

[MethodicalMeat]

*stamps sign of approval*

Also, MethodicalMeat, I give you three choices. Return now, return for the next Iron Author, or face my wrath. Wait, no, I thought up a fourth. Post random stories that you write. They are quite good.

If I write anything appropriate for the playground, I'll post it, to be sure. If I decide to start a thread of my own, I'll post a link to it here, so anyone who wants to read it can, and I may come back for the next round, depending on how much free time I have.

[rubakhin]

(Cultural notes: Yes, they have otaku in Russia.)

Theory

A miracle appeared to Alekhin one day, during the rainy season, right before it got warm. This was some time after the war. Alekhin had long since returned to a largely symbolic clerical job and a cramped but elegant apartment. His girlfriend Valeria had sat him down to discuss marriage once or twice (in a way that had been, thank God, far more practical than romantic) and, as for the battlefield, he had no sins on his conscience.

On the day of the apparition he had gone for a walk after work, to an obscure part of the city. He did this some times, for no reason other than to explore, figuring that he could always take the trolley home. Alekhin loved his city. He loved the permanence of the buildings, the reliable modernity of the subways and the cars. More than anything else, he liked the clean feeling that the people seemed to have there, liked the little bakeries where women wearing porcelain doll makeup came with their boyfriends to buy cakes that look too good to eat - or, not too 'good', exactly, but 'too predetermined.'

He stopped off at one of them to buy himself something warm. The drizzle had him chilled. A television set, perched at an awkward angle, loomed over the cashier. A reporter was on the screen. The cameras washed out her features - her eyes and mouth were like the patterns on a china plate. Her friendly, vacant voice recited the news - nothing interesting. He paid for his coffee and got out.

Somehow or another, without thinking too much about where he was going, he ended up by the water - strange, because it's not easy to get to that part of Petersburg by mistake. Wind blew up out of nowhere, blurring his sight. He narrowed his eyes at the long road ahead of him, and the world turned into three streaks of grey - the ocean, the city, the sky.

There was no beach there, just a few patches of rock and sand between two dismal high-rises of indeterminate purpose. One of them had a flight of concrete stairs leading down to the sand, and a young Caucasian man was sitting on the railing, shifting his weight on his girlish hips. He was wearing a faded denim jacket and talking on a cell. Something said on the other line made him smile, flashing white teeth. He jumped down off the railing and hit the ground walking. He hadn't noticed the Russian, and they were alone.

Without being really conscious of what he was doing, Alekhin began to follow him.

"I can't believe you've never seen that movie," said the Caucasian to his friend. He didn't have much of an accent. It was Muscovite, if anything. "It's not racist, but symbolic - or no, not symbolic. I mean ... " He paused, searching for the right words, while Alekhin stopped short in his tracks.

The corpse of a deer was floating in the water. Alekhin looked behind him, at the road. It must have been hit out there - how did it get to the sea?

The body's hind legs were missing, and the last few inches of its spine were stripped clean of flesh. Alekhin stared at it. He hadn't expected a deer's spine to be so large, as thick around as his wrist. The water was choppy that evening, because of the rain. White foam flecked the doe's long, delicate ears. Its front legs were curled against its chest like a cat.

"It's honest," said the boy. "Yes, that's the word, honest. Hold on." He covered the phone with his hand, nodded towards the deer, and called out, "I say to you get up and walk!"

The corpse plunged underwater, as if it had been grabbed from below. Then it resurfaced, pounding at the surf with its elegant but powerful thighs. It struggled for a moment to gain its bearings in the choppy sea, and then righted itself, calmed. It flicked its ears, spraying flecks of cold water, and, at that, turned towards the horizon and trotted into the ocean, further and further, until its head had disappeared beneath the waves. It did not come back again.

Alekhin chased after the Caucasian boy, but he had disappeared in the fog.



* * *


There are still people in the world who think of sex as something sordid. They generally prefer the act under blankets in the dark, with their eyes squeezed shut. Alekhin himself had a slight trace of this sense of impropriety, but this was exactly why he preferred to make love in the mornings and late afternoons, when it was still light outside. Within the comfort of a white overcast day, it was impossible for everything to seem dirty or strange. So, as usual, he had Valeria in the evening, after the rain.

When it was over, Alekhin had the thought that he shouldn't have done it that day. He lay in bed, gazing up at the placid ceiling, his hands behind his head. Even this position seemed vulgar, complacent.

Valeria stepped out of the shower wearing an old, faded towel. The towel was tan, like a pelt - she looked like an Indian from an American cartoon. She sat at the edge of the bed and caressed Alekhin's arms. Although obscured somewhat by a thin patina of fat, he had never lost his muscles from his wartime adolescence. But the skin was beginning to pull at the corner of his eyes, and on his face was hung a lifetime's worth of weariness.

Valeria leaned over him, close enough that her damp curls tumble over his face. "What's up there?" she laughed. "Can you see?"

"I'm just thinking."

It had been two hours since what had happened by the ocean. Maybe three.

Valeria turned and bent to pull her slippers out from underneath the bed (a sudden draft had chilled her feet). There was a rip in the towel that no one cared enough about to mend. Through the tear, Alekhin could see the downy small of her back. He shifted onto his side and, one by one, kissed the droplets of water off the notches of her spine.



* * *


Twelve hours later, Volodya Alekhin stood by the shore.

He lit a Belomorkanal - his fourth or fifth. It warmed him up inside, or, at least, he had the illusion that it did. (He tried to remember something that Pushkin or maybe Chekhov had said about illusions - failed.) He hadn't known until now the animal solitude of a sunrise and had overestimated how soon it would come. His neighbor Talik looked it up for him online, saying that officially, it rose at 7:04 exactly, but that couldn't be right. That would mean that he had seen the sunrise dozens of times on his way to work every morning and hadn't noticed.

He wasn't sure why he had picked this time. Maybe because the place was likely to be deserted, and he had understood that when the sun rose in front of you it meant you were alone, and that a meeting like this couldn't happen with someone else trespassing, that nothing special ever happened in front of dozens of eyes.

Alekhin checked his watch. It was past 4:30. He was cold and, somehow, ashamed. He knew he wasn't even in the right place. All of the buildings here looked the same, especially now, in the darkness and fog. It was getting lighter, but the air was steel-blue and damp. He couldn't make out anything but a crane in the distance - had he been this close to the industrial zones before? Alekhin pushed the thought away. He couldn't really be expecting to find the same patch of sand. More likely than not, he had walked right past it already.

He disappeared on a trolley before long, and he was in the busiest part of the city by the time the first color appeared on the horizon.

He thought of going back to that place after work was over - thought of finding that sand as if by some magic, at the exact hour that he had seen the boy before - but he was so tired. The idea of traveling that far ...



* * *


Alekhin's favored watering hole wasn't anything spectacular, and neither were the people in it. The men here all looked something like Alekhin himself - the same vodka, the same weariness, even the same drab olive jacket on some stranger's back. Talik, his young neighbor, was the odd number out. He was dressed in trendy clothes, had his fashionable glasses, and generally looked as if he'd do better in a dance club.

"Did you have your sunrise?" he asked, dropping into the seat beside.

"Don't ask stupid questions," Alekhin grunted.

"Ah, come on," Talik said with a shrug. "Listen, Volodya - I have news."

Vitaly Tyshchenko never had news. Alekhin had known him for almost his entire life, his parents having moved into the apartment next door when their young son was in school, and nothing much had ever happened to him, nothing new was ever going on. He wasn't stupid, but indifferent to his studies, and apathetic towards any possible path.

"Well, really? What is it?"

"It looks like the army got me," he cheerfully announced.

Alekhin's face fell. "Vitasha ... "

"Mm?"

"They'll eat you alive! Look at you! You must weigh ninety pounds. You'll get killed."

Talik shook his head. "It's not like there's anything interesting going on."

"It's not the enemy I'm worried out, but the officers. You don't know how they treat new conscripts. You haven't heard of dedovshchina, Talik?"

He shrugged. Sweet Talik! All wrists and elbows.

"There's got to be something you can do about this. Isn't there anyone you can pay off? Look, I'll give you a little money ... "

"Sure, I could do that - maybe try school - but it's not worth the effort. I have to do something in life, Volodya."

"Vitasha," he said again, "Don't."

A silence came over them both. Sooner or later, a few beers and a little something to eat, and that was all. Alekhin knew that there was something he should say to him, some story he could tell. But nothing came to him.

He had been thinking about Chechnya since it happened - almost nonstop. That was all he knew about what had happened, that a Chechen had done it, a young Chechen boy. He had a wild thought - maybe he should go back, back to Chechnya. He could go to war with Talik, if only he weren't this old. He saw himself looking into the eyes of a young soldier and pulling the trigger - a life for a life. A deer for a man. Maybe that had been the purpose of Talik deciding this now, maybe it had been the purpose of that boy.

Remembering that, a jolt of pain went through his heart. He couldn't think about it now. That deer, that ocean ...

Why had he shown himself to Alekhin? What message did he have?

"You know, Volodya," said Talik, breaking the silence. "You're the only one who calls me that. Vitaly, I mean. Just you and my parents." He paused to take a drink. "I wonder if they'll call me 'Vitaly' in the war."

"They'll call you Tyshchenko, or by some nickname. Not enough first names to go around." They had called Alekhin Alyy - the scarlet one - short for his surname. There was a story behind it, but Alekhin couldn't remember it now. He had blushed over some woman, or discovered a field of poppies, or fell in some red clay or mud ...

"Why don't they call you Vitaly? What do they call you instead?" Alekhin asked, after some time.

"It's embarrassing ... "

"I've heard all kinds of names - they used to call me Scarlet during the war."

Talik laughed. "It's not that kind of embarrassment. But because you've been a friend to me I'll tell you. You remember that when I was younger I was sort of a nerd?"

"I guess." As a child, Talik had been reclusive (for what reason, Alekhin didn't know - he had grown up into a slender, handsome, and personable young man), and it seemed to Alekhin that their friendship had developed out of proximity alone.

"Well, I was into the usual stuff. Anime, Japan. I was interested in the civil wars. I ... " He trailed off. "Can I have the rest of that? I'm thirsty."

Alekhin poured the rest of his beer into Talik's empty glass.

"Thank you. I remembered reading about a historical figure, someone of no consequence. He was held as a hostage by various people from an early age, used as a political pawn whenever his father needed one. The last person who took him hostage, a famous warlord, seemed to genuinely care for him, adopted him - and then died. His adoptive brother attacked him over inheritance. And then, after a long struggle that all but destroyed the entire clan, he was forced to commit suicide. He wasn't even thirty, Alekhin."

Talik drank - quickly, before Alekhin could make an interruption. "He - I don't know how to explain this to you - his whole life had amounted to nothing. And there was nothing in the history books about who he was, or what he did, only what had been done to him. I wanted to know what he was like, what sort of person that he was. I felt somehow that - I don't know, that by not knowing all of this I was perpetuating it somehow, his ... objectification, I think, is the word.

"I looked for a long time. I could only find one line describing his personality. That he was a handsome and bright young man, that unlike his brother he didn't like fighting. I dreamt about learning Japanese, and searching through the history books, even going to Japan and finding the place where he died - of course there's nothing to see there now. Just a patch of grass and gray buildings on either side. I've never been there, but I saw a photograph of the castle marker.

"I don't know how to explain how I felt about him. I didn't tell many people about it - when I did, I said that I loved him. I don't know how to put it now. I wanted to save him. Do you understand that, Volodya? That it wasn't fair that this should happen to him, that it's right that somebody should be moved by it?"

Alekhin didn't respond.

"I figured that if I couldn't do anything else, I could take on his name, and live the life he would have lived otherwise. But I started getting out more, never got around to learning Japanese ... nothing. And now I think it's stupid for a Russian to use a Japanese name, I was too embarrassed to try using it in real life. But I wasn't used to being called 'Vitaly' anymore. It felt wrong."

He sat back in his chair. Alekhin realized that it was over.

"It makes sense, I guess. I had grown out of that name, become a different person. You know, the American Indians used to take on new names whenever something significant happened to them - so did the samurai, come to think of it."

"And what do they call you instead?" he managed, hoping to get him talking again. What could he himself say about any of this at all?

"Konstantin, Alexei, all sorts of things. It changes. I keep looking for a new name, something with significance. Or maybe it would be better if I picked something without significance at all. I'm too afraid that it'll stop mattering to me."

"What does your ... " Alekhin paused, searching for a euphemism. "What does your friend call you?"

"My friend? You mean Slava? Well, when we met, I was going by Arkady. He still calls me Arkasha, I can't talk him out of it."

"I think it suits you."

There was another silence.

"What name did you go by? Back then, I mean. The Japanese one."

"I can't tell you that, Volodya. It's ... I mean, I just can't say it anymore now that it doesn't mean anything to me."

"I understand."

What was the name of that boy? Was he still alive, and walking along the shore, talking to his friends on his cell phone? Did he go to school, did he plan to join the army? Or had he vanished like a sylph, like a saint rising up into the clouds?

"Do you want me to ... start calling you Arkasha?" asked Alekhin, finally.

Talik looked pained. "No ... you don't really get it, do you?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"And you're sure you don't want any money. There's nothing you might want or need me to do?"

"Volodechka - everything's fine."

Vitasha, Alekhin thought, why did you tell me this?

Talik stood to go. He paid for everything, including Alekhin's half, and got out.

Volodya Alekhin stayed there for a while on his own.



* * *


"You shouldn't have gone out drinking tonight," Valeria told him. "You went overboard."

"I was with Talik. It was fine."

"Talik? You mean your neighbor? He came back hours ago. You were drinking by yourself." She shook her head. "I thought you were strong enough that I didn't have to take care of you anymore."

They made love later, Valeria had wanted it. She had wanted to see his body, his reassuring strength. He wasn't like the old alcoholics, with their dull eyes and rotting bodies. He was in control.

Afterwards, Alekhin told her.

Valeria sat in her negligee, wringing the blanket in her lap, her pert mouth open, looking something like a pinup.

"And it never occurred to you that it was only an illu- "

"Don't say it. Valeria, I'm begging you, don't say it."

"Or a trick?"

"Why would anyone trick me like this?"

"Then it must be a miracle."

"And why would God ... ?"

"I don't know! Volodya, you need to - "

He jumped up and ripped the blanket off of her.

"What do you want me to do? Do you want me to pray to God, Valeria? Do you want me to pray to God?"

Valeria rose. Her whole body was shaking.

"Don't you yell at me."

"And why not?"

"You don't mean it. And even if you did you can't want the trouble. The neighbors will think you're killing me."

Alekhin sank down on the bed. "You're in Russia," he murmured. "They won't care."

"I am not going to let you hit me, Volodya."

"I don't w - " His voice failed. He couldn't even look her in the eye. "You don't know," he told her, his voice breaking. "You don't know." And Valeria's heart wept for him, and she knelt down beside him, and she laid her head in his lap.



* * *

Alekhin had met Valeria about a year ago, through a dating site that Talik had sworn by (as embarrassed as Alekhin was to be using it.) He had signed on late at night, and Valeria's name had come up at random. He messaged her, and for no reason that he could remember, started pouring his heart out to her - about drinking, about everything, all the torments of his life, large and small.

Valeria Maslennikova had looked outside. The sky was turning blue, getting light. At this point in time she went every day to see the sunrise. She didn't know why she went, she just went every day like a vigil. She told him this. But then she said, "But I'll break it tonight, for you."

And Alekhin blurted out, "Valeria, please don't be upset. But will you come sleep with me? I don't mean sex. I just want you to lie down with me for a while."

"I'm a virgin," she had said - rather calmly.

"If it happens, it happens. But believe me, I'm not looking for sex."

And then Valeria Maslennikova said, "I would have come to you in spite of that."

They met at the crossroads, in some out-of-the-way place, and he took her home. From that day on Valeria never left his side. And because he didn't want it to have meant nothing, Valeria's perfect trust in him, the miracle that they had met at random, he stopped drinking on that day.

Alekhin met Makka Aslanovna on the same site. It was her thick dark hair that drew him in, more so even than her saturnine features. It looked like some solid thing, like lacquer, like a wall.

There was something in her accent, or the way that she moved - or maybe he was imagining it. At first he was convinced that she had some relation to him, and was always asking to see pictures of her relatives back in Grozny, and when he walked her home, he looked anxiously for her family members or friends, other Chechens.

Sometimes she seemed as wise as a mystic - and he would close his eyes and try to picture the boy as he remembered him when they talked. Maybe the boy himself would have said the same words, about God, about love. - But then Makka would say something so feminine, so cynical, or so herself that the illusion would be totally gone.

They did not discuss the war.

One day, he worked up the courage to ask her - Had she ever seen a boy . . . ? He paused, wondering - how can I possibly explain him to you?

"In a denim jacket. He had a cellphone with a red cover. He was about seventeen."

Makka tossed the veil of hair over her shoulder. "What, you think I know every Chechen boy?"

She was sitting on the side of the bed, wearing that battered tan towel. Alekhin noticed it.

"I'm talking nonsense. Get dressed. Let's go get something to eat."

He went to get his shoes out from the foyer. He could hear the noise from across the hall - The Tyshchenkos were out (hopefully, anyway) and Talik had invited Slava over. They were usually careful to keep quiet, but considering the circumstances, it was natural that they'd want to let go for a night.

Makka appeared at his side. "What is he doing to that poor boy?"

She was kidding, but Alekhin grimaced. Slava was closer to his age than Vitasha's. What did Talik think he was doing, going around with someone almost old enough to be his father?

They went down to the old place. Alekhin nodded towards a man wearing a denim jacket as Makka picked a table.

"So you don't know anyone with a jacket like that?"

Makka just glared.

A few drinks later (Makka ordered water), Alekhin was in the mood to tell her. He used almost the exact same words as with Valeria. He wasn't expecting her to be afraid, but to laugh, and to his relief she did neither. In fact she hardly seemed to react at all. She picked at her food, mulling it over.

"I just want to know his name," Alekhin told her. "Maybe ask him why."

"It's probably Ruslan," said Makka, wetting her lips. "They're all named Ruslan down there."

"It's - Makka, this is serious," said Alekhin helplessly.

She shrugged. "I had the feeling that you were only interested in me because I'm Chechen."

She gave Alekhin a moment to deny it. He didn't.

"I was curious why. Some guys like us because we're exotic or whatever. But I don't really care. I have a good time with you. It doesn't matter why ... "

Alekhin closed his eyes.

"Tell me," he said. "What should I do?"

Makka took a sip of water before answering. "Maybe your girlfriend is right. Maybe you should pray to God."

"Yes ... I don't know ... "

"This all reminds me - have you seen any films by Tarkovsky?"

"Not one."

"Not even Solaris?"

"I don't watch a lot of movies ... "

"Well, I was watching his last film, called The Sacrifice. A spiritual film. You should see it, it might help you. And the strangest thing happened. It was a masterpiece among masterpieces, of course, but slow, my mind was wandering. One second I was thinking about something or another - and the next second I was sobbing hysterically. I still don't understand why."

"That's odd. You don't know what upset you?"

"I think it was because ... well, that scene, the characters were being told that a war had just begun. And one of the female characters just - well, she goes into hysterics and starts screaming and crying. For about four or five very ugly, very real minutes, until they have her kicking down on the floor and inject a tranquilizer. And I understood without even having to look it up (although I later verified it) that Tarkovsky was a man who as a civilian had suffered from the war, that he had seen it and knew what it is. I can't really explain it to you. So I started crying, too. I'm not sure why, I just did."

"Yes," said Alekhin, "It must be amazing. To see a movie, and see one of your own emotions or fears expressed, knowing there's at least one other person out there feeling it too - "

"No," Makka cried. "Maybe I've suffered because of the war, but that's not why I cried. I wasn't thinking of myself. It was just compassion, compassion ... "



* * *


Makka took him to a lot of films from that day on. She had studied cinema and psychology and had a lot to say about everything, but Alekhin didn't want to even tell her whether or not he enjoyed them. He knew that she was watching him closely for another mistaken comment. Going to the movies soon became an uncomfortable experience for them both, Alekhin studying her face for the proper reactions, and Makka off in her own private world that he could not hope to enter.

What with one thing or another, and ultimately, perhaps because of those insignificant words, Makka grew tired with him, and left.

From that day onwards, without Makka, and without the force of Valeria's will to stop him, Alekhin drank nearly every night at home. He told himself that he would stop if he saw the sign that he hoped for so much - if he saw the boy a second time.


* * *

Early one evening, Alekhin ran into a group of people on the stairs - most of them young, dressed to go out clubbing. They were congregating around, waiting for something. Slava was among them.

"Yaroslav Mikhailovich," Alekhin called. "What's going on?"

"We're headed out to Greshniki once Arkasha comes."

Alekhin wondered how many times he had heard young voices calling for a Kostya or an Alyosha, and footsteps in the hall, and had never connected it to Talik even after he had told him about his other names. He still thought of him as that same young boy somehow, the boy who never left his home, who was sheltered from the world at large.

"You guys go on," said Slava. "We'll catch up with you later." said Slava to the others, taking out a pack of cigarettes. To Alekhin, he said, "Have you seen him?"

"He can't have shipped out already, right?"

Slava laughed, disturbing his lighter flame. "No, I bribed somebody." He exhaled, and the cigarette came to life. He disappeared out the door in his own cloud of smoke. Alekhin followed him.

"What for?"

"Do you have to ask?" Slava said with a sigh that sent smoke billowing from his mouth. "He's - well, he's my guy."

They were headed in no particular direction, towards the outskirts of the city.

"I was against it at first," said Alekhin. "But it might have been better for him in the end. He has to do something in life."

"Yeah, he told me that. You know, he reminds me of me when I was his age ... When I was a kid nobody ever stuck his neck out for me. I resented that. Just wanted to give him the chance I never got, I guess."

Somehow or another, without thinking too much about where he was going, they were heading towards the water - strange, because it's not easy to get to that part of Petersburg by mistake.

"At the same time ... well, I just want things to stay the same. I don't want him to go."

"You want him to live like this forever?" said Alekhin. "Going to the clubs with you people, drugs and God knows what else? Living with his parents and not doing anything with his life?"

Slava dropped his cigarette butt on the ground. "No," he continued. "It's not like that. It's not selfishness, or anything sick. I thought I could be the person who saves him."

"My old girlfriend said something like that. She just said, 'Can she help you better than I can? Then I'll go.'"

Valeria hadn't wanted to desecrate what she had done for him by bringing up her risks and sacrifices, by demanding that he be grateful. It would have been too painful.

"Hm. Really." Slava lit another Marlboro. "You hear a lot of that from people like us. 'I want to help you, I want to save you.' I thought it was a gay thing. A lot of guys in the life are screwed up. I don't know if it's just because it's hard going, or if only screwed-up guys go this way in the first place."

"I don't know if there's anything wrong with you," said Alekhin stiffly.

Slava glanced up, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. "We'll end up by the water if we keep going. I have to turn back. Take care."

"Take care."

Alekhin didn't think about the boy. He thought about Valeria, about how what was once so important now wasn't important at all, and after so many ugly things, it exhausted him to think that he had even once in his life seen something as beautiful as a deer. How could it have existed here? Even the ocean had gone into the night.

Over the sound of the waves, he listened for Slava's footsteps, for the footsteps of anyone, but he couldn't hear a single person.

Alekhin was alone.

[Ravyn]

I swear, the professors were conspiring this week.... but here's something a little experimental for you.

As the crow flies

In the long-ago, stories were born of things that might have been. Hear, remember, and perhaps they will be again.

Hot rises the air from the desert, far below the hills: heat that guides the messenger, the carrier of the self. Heat carries black wings as she rises from atop the sand and amid the wildflowers; heat carries the scent of a hunt completed, and in their meeting, the messenger knows her purpose; ceasing to be guided by the hot air, she follows instead the smell of freshly fallen meat.

Once, Death concerned himself not only with humans, but with animals as well, bringing them to where they would be reborn. But none of the animals would follow him; when he slashed their eyes, set them free and bid the spirits follow, they fled from him. One day, he met a crow, still living, who did not flee. “They will not follow you,” she said as she pecked at the corpse of the moose he was preparing to escort. “Only we would.”

At the top of the hill, the hunt is over, the prey dead. The cougars feed unaware; what, to them, is another carrion-bird looking for a handout? What matter human tales of avian messengers to the king of the mountains overlooking the rocky desert? The sun is high, the shadows short; short too is the time while the meat will still be fresh.

“And why is that?” Death asked, blue-flame eyes watching the crow closely.

The blue-eyed crow, perched on a rock nearby, looks down at the cougar and her cub, and the hooves of the dead deer stretched out from between them. For now they ignore her, intent on their meal; the mother gnawing on its neck, the cub tugging on an ear. For the crow, it is the cub that is the closest to posing a problem; her work requires the eyes, and the little one is getting dangerously close to them.

“You smell of death,” the crow replied. “To most, you smell of an ending. To us, you smell of food.”

She hops forwards, claws leaving scratches in the sand behind her. Two yards away, and their ears perk up, noticing her. One yard away, and the mother watches her, her eyes a silent challenge in amber. Two feet, one backward hop, and claws hiss through the space where the crow had been.

“And could you do better, trickster?” Death asked, and the crow laughed again. “You give them a choice. I know better.”

Clearly the direct approach will not work, and time is getting short.

“Show me,” Death said. And he walked, and she sat on his shoulder, until she saw another that had fallen. But she did not do as Death did; instead, she took the eyes in her beak and pulled them loose, and swallowed them, and the spirits trailed behind her. Then she flew to the place between the stars where Death takes those who follow him. The spirits did not wish to follow, but they did anyway; all creatures follow their sight, and she played with them and guided them on as she flew, now and again lagging to let them try to strike at her and free themselves, then rushing ahead.

She continues testing the cougars’ limits. Two hops forward, one hop back, duck under the claws, flutter clockwise to a different rock, come in from a different angle, repeat. The cub finds her probing as interesting as his meal; the mother is not amused. Claw-swipes are getting closer, and the shadows under the tree that the crow has maneuvered herself below on the way to her goal do not seem to be helping.

And Death realized that the crow could be his messenger, and he nodded, slowly. “Impressive, little trickster.” And she preened herself, proud at his notice. “But that was once. Will you still be able to do that when it is what you are, and the scent cannot be preened from your feathers? Show me.”

Eventually she comes around half-circle, to the head side of the deer. By this time, the mother is ignoring her meal and concentrating on the feathered interloper; the cub is watching, the ear still clenched between his teeth.

And she accepted his challenge, for no crow can refuse a game. They agreed on a long competition, to see who the first would be to lose a spirit before returning it to the place between the stars; Death one among the humans, the crow one among the animals.

Her goal is in sight now; the blank square-pupilled eyes of the fallen deer, staring blindly out over the hillside. To her they glitter, and amplify the blue in her eyes mirrored there. The mother cougar by now has lost her patience with the crow, and is preparing not to deter but to kill; the crow is impatient, standing before the scree-filled slope, her wings half-spread to take off at a moment’s notice.

But the crow realized it would not be fair if she could not see the endings as Death could, so to seal the agreement she insisted on carrying part of his fire; it lights her eyes for all to see, as it lights her targets’ eyes for her to see.

This is her chance, a fact she knows well. Again, she hops forward to challenge the cougar-mother, and again the cougar pounces. But the sun is at the crow’s back, and the crow is wary; she hops aside, and the cougar meets the rough slope and begins to slide. She turns, but the sliding of rubble under her feet slows her; the crow has an opening.

And that which reflected served as a mirror for the crow, to see the sign that would remind her of her promise—and that, my child, is why crows like those things that shine.

She has almost forgotten the cub, but she remembers as the ear on which it had been gnawing hits the ground in a puff of dust, and takes flight as he pounces. From the dust is more dust—his pouncing, her wingbeats, clouding eyes, clouding distances; and below the growl as the mother regains her footing. But the crow is fast, and the crow is wary; she takes the first eye, avoids another kitten-pounce from the cub, pries loose the second and flies away, the claws of the mother cougar prying loose a feather from her tail as she takes off and hurtles away into the sky, an echo of the fallen deer trailing in heat-shimmer behind her.

If you watch, my child, you will see her flying to the place between the stars, and a new star falling away to begin where it lands. Remember the stories, child, for memory allows what has been to be again.

[Eita]

Is that it or do we need one more?

[Dallas-Dakota]

We still need Yoshi´s.

Also, I´m willing to host the next contest, focusing more on advice and critique then the competitive part, opposite as we did with this one.

Name suggestions?

Iron Author VII - Revived, Re-inspired, it´s back.

Or something along the lines of that?

Even though its a bit early...
===========
Reading.

[onasuma]

I think we need to wait until this is over before you try taking over. Remember dont vote until the deadline, as they can still edit.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Yes, I know, I was just saying it in advance.
I know. Though I´m already reading, because I know I don´t have enough time from last till deadline to read ´em all.

[Felixaar]

I do believe this round has ended. Might I suggest we pick a winner from the three who entered?

[Dallas-Dakota]

I´l be deciding vote if so needed.

V

[Felixaar]

Uh, I'm pretty sure you're one of the official judges.

[Eita]

@Felixaar:

It seemed a little rushed near the end, as the guy was dieing. The part at the very end with the bear lion thing could have been a bit smoother. Also, minor format complaint. If possible, could you put double spaces between paragraphs? It makes it read smoother. Quite good though. Roughly eight.

@Rubakhin. Probably spelled the wrong. The Russian:

So far, I have one, very specific complaint. "He paid for his coffee and got out." just seems bland to me. Short, cut off. It contrasts with your usual style, which flows quite well. Nonetheless, it matches up to the precedent set by your previous one. 8.5-9.

@Rayvn:

First off, nice poetic opening. If it weren't for your first story, I would probably put in a remark that some people dislike those kinds of openings, and that I hope you can write differently. But, you can. Now then, I noticed an odd thing in your writing. The beginning and ending were superb. However, the middle at times seemed to get nonsensical. I find that odd because the middle is usually considered the easiest part of a piece to write. Regardless, 8.5.

Final Score:

You sure you want to see it?Oh, Felixaar, thank you for having a short story. Managed to knock that out rather quickly.Last chance...Alright, if we can pick two to win...Rayvn and Rubakhin.If, on the other hand, we may only pick one...Rubakhin.

[rubakhin]

@Eita


Damn, you're perspective. Yeah, that was intentional. In the original of that scene - I'm nearly 100% sure I edited it out, maybe it's still there - the original lines went something like "Alekhin realized that the newscaster was talking about Chechnya. He paid for his coffee and got out." The flat realization and the blunt, abrupt exit would have painted Alekhin as an emotionally numb vet. Which would have thrown the whole story off-kilter. In particular because because the appearance of the Chechen boy would have seemed like just another thing in his life that related to the war. His relationship with Makka, etc. would have come off as being another way to deal with his time in Chechnya instead of as a direct result of seeing that boy.

I was playing around with the idea of Alekhin as a war vet who did have some sin to redeem. I wrote the first few pages with that in mind (incidentally, this was all supposed to take place in Moscow at some point - to me those first few paragraphs still feel more like Moscow than Petersburg somehow :smallannoyed:). But I couldn't think of any miracle, any course of action, or any sin that seemed fitting. Then I decided that I wanted to make a story about a miracle without a point, and the pain that it caused the witness. But if I presented him as being scarred from Chechnya, I think the reader would have been waiting for some sin, some regret, or assumed one in their minds, and it wouldn't have worked at all.

When it came time to edit the part to make the tone consistent with the message of the rest of the story, I couldn't figure out an elegant way to end the scene, so I kept it in. I'm surprised you picked up on that. :smallbiggrin:

[onasuma]

I have reviews on my main computer. As soon as this damn shirt arrives, ill go check to make sure everything still applies.

[onasuma]

@Felixaar:
I really liked this. I found the use of the prompts not to obvious and liked they way they showed up. The story itself was strong, if a little short. I disagree with eita about the end. I felt it was well written throughout. Overall a good story. 9/10
Advice: Probably make it a bit longer, try some more complex vocabulary more often.

others will be edited in after im back.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Felixaar :

The story gets explained properly along the way, it drags you into the view of the person, a bit ´living the person´ as I call it.
The only grammar/spelling errors I saw were here.

Maybe… maybe not… but it’s worth a try, wouldn’t you agree?” Cyrius asks rhetorically. “Make your choice.”
You forgot to capitalize the first letters of the second and third sentence. Because the dot indicates a new sentence, even though the multiple dots also indicate a short silence.
The last paragraph was... Weird, Though it slowly makes a good understanding. I find that the two last lines made a very good ending, also giving the reason for the last paragraph.
==
Overal it gives the feeling of an ending, the ending of a story. Not a story, but the ending of an story.
It gets explained very good along the way, but I feel that maybe there should be something earlier. There is no explenation why he was on the run in the first place, maybe that? Or an general short explenation(As I would call it, you are good at implementing them into the story. Rather then giving blunt in-character(spelling?) explenation, the only explenation made by Cirius feels like a explenation to the character, not to you. As it should be.

Overal, very good, there´s not much I can improve here.:smallbiggrin:

Reading Rubakhins

[Eita]

@rubakhin:

Really? You found that surprising? Let me put it this way. Say you're driving on a perfectly straight road. Then, someway down the line, you hit a small bump. It's not a big bump, and on most roads you wouldn't even notice it. However, because the rest of the road was so smooth, it sticks out. In essence, your writing style is so smooth and flows so well that when one thing turns up that doesn't flow, it's almost jarring. It stands out against everything else. In short, you write so good that when one mistake turns up that becomes the most memorable part of the story.

[Felixaar]

Yay! People liked it!

And, yes, it was rather short but the truth is I suck at short stories. If I'd tried to develope it too much you'd be stuck with a five hundred page novel (it's happened before). Glad ya'll enjoyed it, did we work out whether or not we're having a third round?

[onasuma]

Personally, i dont think its worth the hassel. People havent really enjoyed this so i think we just decide the winner here and now. Well, once votes are in.
And yes, i will get those reviews done as soon as im home from school.

[Dallas-Dakota]

Personally, i dont think its worth the hassel. People havent really enjoyed this so i think we just decide the winner here and now. Well, once votes are in.

Seconded.


And yes, I will get those reviews done as soon as im done with homework and get around to it along with all the other stuff I need to do..
Edited it a bit for you so it fits me.

[Felixaar]

Hey, I enjoyed this competition :smallannoyed: admittedly slow, but it was fun. I get the feeling we should think a bit before hosting the next one though.

Eek. Only one judge has posted their decision so far, and it wasnt for me! Nervousness! :smalleek: :smalltongue:

[onasuma]

Edited it a bit for you so it fits me.

well, it works better now... Sorry, im honestly gonna do it as soon as i can.

[Felixaar]

Bump.

I mean, seriously.

[Ravyn]

When I turned this in I was working on my thesis (and at least as crunched as any of the judges are now). Now I am halfway home from college. Where is my critique?

[Felixaar]

Inside Onasuma and Dallas-Dakota's heads. We need to pry them open.

[onasuma]

officially, i am a terrible, terrible person. Id offer compensation, but i cant think of anything appropriet. Say if you can think of something. Just dont say reviews. Im doing them as we speak (so to speak).

@ Rubakhin:
First of all, great story. Although i doubt this will mean much coming so late, i really loved reading it. Probably my favourite in terms of pure story. I thorght the language was sophistitcated and i empathised with the main charcter alot. I loved the description of the deer near the start as well. The ending was also very empathetic. It made me a bit sad for the guy, alone after the relationsjip i built with him.
Very few areas to work on in my opinion. I think i noticed 1 comma where there shouldnt have been and near the start again the fog the boy dissappeared into turned up from no where. Other than that great story.
9.5/10

@ Ravyn:
First off, i didnt like the opening. Im just one of those people, but i think ill ignore that on grounds of how good the rest was. I felt the imagery was very good and the descriptions were amazing. The logic behind it also worked very well. I just feel that, well, it could have been a bit longer. The imagry of the ending was strong and it mantained a good level throughout.
I dont think there was anything wrong with it, there just should have been more.
8.5/10

Descision:
Rubakhin 1st
Ravyn 2nd
Felixaar 3rd

[Dallas-Dakota]

Aaahhk, I hate myself. I hate real life. I hate my time-consuming responsibilities. I hate it all. Except you guys ofcourse.

Felixaar : You can try and you may succeed, will you do it?
*as you get closer you can hear cracking and things being thrown and shattered*
*suddenly with one step closer you can hear wild roars not from this world and even stranger things*

My head is filled with pure chaos, milk and cookies. My brains were destroyed long ago and the remains have fled Europe to somewhere I don't know, this is your last warning, do not get closer or even inside!

[Ravyn]

Don't get closer? But chaos and Things That Should Not Be make such lovely inspiration....

[Felixaar]

*makes a note not to eat d-d's "brains" again*

and I hate to be picky, but ona, I dont see how I get third and rav gets second if you gave me a 9 and him 8.5? I'm not complaining, just wanted to check.

[onasuma]

I thorght i gave you 8... No offense ment here, but i prefered his. Sorry.

[Felixaar]

Not at all. So shall we declare Rubakhin the winner, and therefore our Lord and Master?

[Dallas-Dakota]

(( My mind is pure unspoilered chaos, cookies and milk, those three are the only thing constant there, and a bad migraine, youre writing ways will be wary, schedules destroyed, if you want to write a novell you might have inspiration for Donald Duck, if you want to write a one-shot-ficlet you might feel like the world is full of sad people(which it is). But I still prefer it to no brains, so I keep it*sneezes thrice IRL*))

Sorry for my timed post but, as it was, just as you guys started posting, I went to sleep. Such a good timing we have! And now its around 6/7ish in the morning which is way to early for a saturday and I'm stepping back in bed. And I'm partially sleep typing, yay for typing curses which allow you to type easily and blind!

(Edit, as soon I'm properly awake, I swear to Allah, your christian god and Confucius that I'l read the stories, declare a winner and .... review? Which I out of my head did for one of the stories)

[Felixaar]

bump. hurry up, double d.

[truemane]

Can we call this one done and move on?

No reading the Spoiler if you don't want to know where the votes stand at present.


There are two votes for Rubakhin. So that means, if I'm not completely out of my mind, that Dallas-Dakota's vote can't change the course of the contest anyway.

So I say wrap it up and call it done.


Also, I'd be willing to discuss the possibility of hosting the next one, if people are agreeable and willing to entertain such a notion.

[onasuma]

Yep, lets make it official, Rubakin won. I doubt it was a satisfiying victory mind, and im sorry you had to wait so long for it.
Truemane: Im all for you hosting the next one, i certainly wont be doing it again after this. I think dallas said he wanted to do it a few pages back, but i doubt it really matters, after all, if he cant get reviews in, i doubt he'll get round to hosting.

[truemane]

Well, don't fret about it. It happens. It's happened before and it's ALMOST happened several other times.

But I'll get to work on setting up the next one. If anyone has any serious objections to me doing so, please feel free to voice them.

[Felixaar]

Yes, admittedly a dissapoint competiton. I support truemane setting up the next competition - I would've done so, but travelling and all just conflicts. If you want any help or some idea-bouncing, give me a PM.

also, ultimate congratulations to Rubakhin (though admittedly, it is kind of an anti-climax). I always knew you would win, and am honored to be defeated by your superior skills.

[Amotis]

I'm all in support of truemane running the next one.

[rubakhin]

Yeah, truemane is good at this.

:smallconfused: I'm torn. On one hand, I'd rather write in a competition that he's running just to see what happens, but on the other hand it would be nice to judge because I have no personal responsibilities whatsoever IRL I know I could provide them in a timely manner. Hrm ...

[Dallas-Dakota]

I withdraw any participation from me because : A I suck B Lack of time C Lack of persistance D That I really suck and that there are way better people for the job then me.

Sad to do this but I just suck to much.:smallfrown: