Iron Author Contest (This is the Creative Writing Contest)

[The_Librarian]

Here's my entry about a horse and an activist

Spoiler

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Aneesa pulled back the curtain a little way to stare out across the fields. Even here, miles out from the city, the sky was a fiery orange from the streetlamps, speckled with the flitting white specs of the headlights of hovercars dancing through the skies like fireflies. From this far out, it could almost be described as beautiful. Aneesa shook her head sadly and let the curtain fall back over the window again. Her daughter, Nudhar, was asleep on the sofa, still dressed in the golden trousers and tunic that Aneesa had patiently put together for a party Nudhar had never gone to. It would be a shame to waken her after it had taken so long for her to stop crying. Nudhar was a quiet, reserved girl of fourteen years. She rarely spoke, seemed to have few friends, and spent most of her time with the family’s horses.

Normally, the horses would bring a smile to Nudhar’s face, but a virus had been sweeping across India, killing the equine population. This afternoon, she had been meant to attend the birthday party of a girl from a stead just a couple of miles away, but after Black Rocket had been put to sleep by the vet, there had been no question of her going. He was the fifth of their eight horses to have been put down, and Nudhar’s favourite. The other horses were already showing symptoms of the virus. Nudhar was heartbroken. Aneesa had done her best to comfort her, but she felt abandoned out here, so far from the city. Her husband, Maahir, left home before the sun rose in the morning and did not return until long after Aneesa and Nudhar were asleep.

Aneesa was determined to wait up for Maahir tonight. At first, she had wanted him to hold Nudhar, to do his part in helping the girl recover from her grief. Then she had grown angry, and stayed awake so she could argue with him, tell him that he should have spent more time here at the farm, as though it was somehow his fault the horses had died. Now she stayed up out of concern. Maahir had never been this late home before.
_______________________________________

Far away from the Ramin family stead, Maahir Ramin woke with a start as his computer beeped in protest. He had fallen asleep at his desk, and his head had hit the space bar. Fifty or so pages of blankness began trailing out from where he had been writing a report for the management.

We do not have infinite funding for you, Ramin! they had told him. We can’t afford to spend money on something which isn’t commercially viable.

Maahir looked at his report in dismay. He had typed solidly for three hours before falling asleep, but only a single half-sentence remained which had not been deleted in a fit of perfection:

I urge the shareholders to continue funding Project Mansour because

Because it was a major step forward in the realm of cybernetics.
Because it would be good publicity for the company.
Because it would make Nudhar smile.

Maahir smiled faintly at this final thought. He knew, as well as his wife did, how hard it was to communicate with Nudhar sometimes but this… this could help her so much. He groaned and rubbed his temples with his hands. It would not satisfy the management, however. He looked down at his sketches and blueprints, brushing aside scaled down prototypes of sensors and hydraulics. To the untrained eye, it could have been little more than a television set or a refrigerator, but to him, it was his finest work, as beautiful as a Monet and infinitely more useful.

Maahir had inherited little from his ancestor, Mohammad-Ali Ramin, save for his skills in Mechanical Engineering and a belief in human rights. He wondered what Mohammad-Ali would think of him now, working for a company which made weapons alongside toys, medical equipment and torture devices. Anything could be made and sold from here. He certainly hoped the man would approve of his latest project – there was a beautiful innocence to it, something that he had gained from his daughter more than an activist over two hundred years dead. He frowned at an error in a diagram, and made a quick note of it in pencil before realising how late the hour was. Cursing to himself, he got to his feet, leaving his desk an utter mess, and hurried out of the office.

The corridor should have been empty. Everyone else had long since gone home, and the cleaning bots didn’t start patrolling until 3am, he was sure. In any case, it didn’t matter what state the corridor should have been in because all Maahir could process before he fell unconscious was why on earth someone had put a metal wall outside his office, and how much it hurt his head as he collided with it.
__________________________________

Mr Ramin, please wake up.

Maahir moaned as a cleaning bot nudge him gently but persistently. He frowned – since when had cleaning bots ever spoken.

Mr Ramin, you really shouldn’t be on the floor. The cleaning robot is getting quite agitated.

What was worse, whatever was speaking was using an emotionless, electronic version of his own voice. Maahir opened his eyes. A long, chrome nose was peering down at him. It was a small masterpiece in sculpture, the equine lines beautiful and flawless. Its head turned to one side and the blue LEDs of one eye peered at him.

“My god… Mansour!”

Yes, Mr Ramin?

“You shouldn’t be up here! You might be seen!” Maahir looked around hurriedly, but the building was still deserted. Even so, competition in the company was so fierce that he could not rule out his rivals using their own mechanical expertise to spy on him. Competition between the engineers had reached feverish levels – it was not unheard of for them to spy on each other, or even for fights to break out in the hallways, so precious was the company funding. “Explain yourself!”

Your assistant neglected to turn me off, Mr Ramin.

Maahir cursed again and got unsteadily to his feet. Mansour moved his head in such a lifelike fashion that for a few moments, Maahir could not believe he had created such a beautiful machine. The horse gleamed in the office lighting, sparkling from it chrome plating and its eyes a soothing blue glow. He was, as Maahir had hoped, graceful and gentle, but strong.

Nudhar would love him.

“You should have waited in the laboratory. I would have checked on you before I left.”

Past behavioural patterns indicate that you normally leave the building at 2100 hours, Mr Ramin. I extrapolated from this information that you had forgotten about me.

It could learn… If this wasn’t enough to convince management that this project was worth funding, then nothing would. Maahir grinned with delight.

“Mansour, I would like to run a few tests, if I may. Will you accompany me to the laboratory?”

That would not be wise, Mr Ramin. Maahir frowned.

“I know what I am doing. After all, I built you. No more objections. You will follow me to the laboratory.” Maahir began to walk swiftly along the corridor while the troubled cleaning bot headed in the opposite direction, humming contentedly to itself. Mansour followed his creator, his demeanour, his glowing eyes, everything neutral. For a moment, Maahir paused.

Is everything all right, Mr Ramin?

“You do not have to keep saying my name!” Maahir snapped, leaning against the doorway leading to the elevator lobby. His assistant, Edi, more than Maahir himself, was a mechanic of the tiniest details. She had spent weeks researching horses even after Maahir had finalised the plans for Mansour. Books upon books on the finest racing horses had been stacked neatly and alphabetically on her desk and she had made a scarily in-depth study on Darley Arabian, a single stallion from whom most racing horses were descended. In sculpting the mould for Mansour’s casing, she had studiously copied from a painting of the horse to match it for every line, every muscle. In fact, Edi had been most disappointed that Mansour was going to be finished in chrome, as she had been quite certain she could get it look quite lifelike.

“Mansour and Darley are so alike! But Mansour will not just be the founding example of cybernetic horses – he is the prototype for all future cybernetics!” His assistant had been most enthusiastic about the project. At times, it had taken her enthusiasm to keep Maahir going.

Noted.

Maahir blinked for a moment.

“Oh, ah, yes… good.” He called for the lift and waited impatiently for it to arrive, tapping his foot. As the doors slid open, he looked at the space beyond sceptically. With a certain amount of care, Maahir pressed his back against the wall of the lift and breathed in as Mansour reversed inside and then turned his head to the side to allow the doors to close. Maahir found himself staring at an emotionless blue eye.

What has happened to Edi? He stared into the eye defiantly, refusing to be afraid of his own creation. Mansour had not said Edi had forgotten to switch him off, only that she had neglected to do so.

Mansour stared back.

The lift chimed as they reached the basement, but Mansour did not seem inclined to move.

“Mansour, please exit the lift. I can’t move until you do.”

My assessment of your planned destination has not changed. This is unwise.

“Oh? So it’s the destination you don’t approve of?” Maahir asked, chuckling. “Is the laboratory not clean enough? Have you taken a dislike to the décor?” Mansour lacked a response to this, and remained silent. Maahir sighed and patted Mansour’s side. “Come now, horse. Whatever do you have to be afraid of?” This was utter foolishness. That the horse could learn was one thing, but for it to have developed emotions as well was lunacy. Mansour obediently walked out of the lift, hooves clacking loudly against the concrete floor.

Maahir stepped out of the lift behind his creation and froze. The laboratory was a mess – almost everything glass had been shattered, monitor screens smashed, bookcases overturned and the books shredded. Edi lay propped up against a partition wall, with spreading blooms of blood blossoming across her clothes. Her lifeless eyes stared towards the lift – had her last thoughts been of escape? Maahir forced himself to walk further into the laboratory – the computers had been smashed open and their hard disks ripped out, leaving torn cables trailing out of the cases. Everything… everything had been destroyed.

“You,” Maahir hissed, rounding on Mansour. “You did this!”

No, Mr Ramin. I did not. To hear it respond in his own voice pushed Maahir’s grief and rage to boiling point. He ran to his desk to find the small pistol he usually kept there… but it was gone.

A moment later, someone else discharged it several times into Maahir. Mansour watched emotionlessly as a rival engineer looked up at him and sneered.

“What’re you lookin’ at horsey? Go home!” It was the instruction Mansour had been waiting for.
____________________________

It was four in the morning when Nudhar awoke. Aneesa was asleep in a chair, and not even the gentle thudding noise against the door was waking her. She quietly found her head scarf and wrapped it around herself. The garment still felt odd, but it had filled her with pride the day Maahir had bought it for her. It marked her out as a woman in her faith now.

Certain she was properly attired, she opened the door and gasped.

You are… golden? You are Nudhar Ramin. I am home.

[Amotis]

Thanks for the comments, I agree that the reference to the guy from the article was a bit forced, and I wrote it in a kind of make-it-up-as-you-go-along way, so that would be why it lacks structure.

There are no rules against reading other peoples' stories are there? If there are, I've just broken them.

Just that it would most likely mess with your own. But seeing as you're done it shoud be fine.

[ZombieRockStar]

*steps meekly forward*

Here's my 100% non-sensical, multi-genre (prose, poetry and play) entry about a novel and an actress. I was exercising my weird muscles here, so it's kind of meant to be read in the acid-trip fashion in which it was written. (Not really)

The spoilers within spoilers is for purely functional reasons, otherwise it's hard to see what's dialogue and what isn't. Sorry for the extra work.

Spoiler

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The 37th Hottest Woman in the World

Characters

Emmanuelle Chriqui (Emma)
Nick Shay (Mr. Book)
Frank Sinatra
The Band
Comedian Lenny Bruce

The Play/Poem/Story/Poem/Play/Story/Play/Poem/Story

Emma on stage, doing nothing.

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She is nothing of not the epitome of
Superfluidity—the purest change.

And now she’ll change.

Those clothes don’t look good on her.
At least, not at this time of the afternoon.
She’ll spend the rest of this afternoon
In quiet contemplation, asking herself
Whether her membrane is too soft.

(chorus)Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She gives us light.
She gives us Hell.

One half of a pair,
She lives in the air.
She changes her hair.
She isn’t there.

Spoiler

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It was a beautiful day when Emmanuelle Chriqui was voted by no less a stellar authority than Maxim magazine as the 37th woman on its annual “Hot 100,” thus christening her as the 37th hottest woman in the world. She celebrated by contemplating her own hotness in relation to Kant’s philosophy of aesthetics and other principles of self-image, including Plato’s theory that she was merely a representation of an even more beautiful abstract form, and if her earthly form was so beautiful: think of how much more beautiful her true form is.

Emma
I am the 37th hottest woman in the world. Thus, my soul must be the 37th hottest soul in heaven, and even more hotter than my hot soul on Earth.

Spoiler

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The paradox that next year she would occupy a different spot on the list while the identities of the women on the list didn’t change and neither did their appearance never struck her.

A book, however, did strike her.

A book is thrown, striking Emma in the head.

Emma
Ow!
Book (offstage)
Sorry!

She picks up the book to examine the cover. She then opens it, turns it upside down, and shakes it, as if there might be something between the pages there to shake loose.

Spoiler

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She shook, but there was nothing there.

Spoiler

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Sorry, dear.
Nothing there.
Not a hair.
Sorry, dear.

Emma
Hey…there’s nothing here.

She throws the book off to the side. It strikes Book in the head as he walks onstage.

Book
Ow!
Emma
Sorry.
Book
What was that for?
Emma
I didn’t like it.
Book
You didn’t even read it.
Emma
No, I mean I didn’t like it.

Spoiler

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The book was an anathema to her. A rejection of everything she was: a television and movie actress. The concept of the book defied her existence, that all you needed to be entertained was a few pieces of paper. The cost of production of the book was likely less than her fee for single guest appearance.

Spoiler

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Oh Book! Oh book!
Why be so like a book!
Why not more like a magazine?
Or a trampoline?

Spoiler

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Wait…that doesn’t make much sense.

Why do things always have to make sense to you?
They don’t to her.
She absorbs everything,
Never asking if it makes sense.
Emulate her.
The emulation of Emmanuelle.

(chorus)Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She gives us light.
She gives us Hell.

Emma
And so, I’m going to tear it up.

Book moves to stop her.

Book
No! That’s my book!

She becomes aggressive.

Emma
I’m going to tear it up! I’m going to tear it up! I’m going to tear it up!
Book
No! No!

With a might push, he flings her back and runs to fetch the book.

Book
I won’t allow you to tear this book up! It’s mine.
Emma
Alright then, book-head. Book-man. Mr. Book. Read your book. But I don’t like it.
Book
Maybe it doesn’t like you. Maybe I don’t like you.
Emma
*Gasps* You don’t even know who I am. How can you say you don’t like the 37th hottest woman in the word?
Book
You are the 37th hottest woman in the world? (Emma nods) You are Emmanuelle Chriqui, 37th hottest woman in the world? (Emma nods again) You are the Emmanuelle Chriqui?
Emma
*Nods again, looks pleased at Book’s worship* Please, call me Emma, Mr. Book.
Book
*Looks stupefied* Emma…
Emma
*Nods* Mmm-hmm.
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Yes, that’s right…
Book
Emma…
Emma
Okay, that’s enough.
Book
Emma…
Emma
Okay, that’s enough.
Book
Emma…
Emma
Okay, that’s enough.
Book
Emma…

She hits him.

Book
Ow.
Emma
Payback for throwing the book at me.

Spoiler

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Bookish lessons heard by fools
Taken by cautionary tools
Dropped into warm watery pools
As if they were rods of Plutonium.

The book is a lesson
But it can only be absorbed
By the digestive system.
Books are not for reading.
They are for eating.

(chorus) Eat the book. Eat the book.
Turn it into waste.
Eat the book. Eat the book.
Paper, ink and paste.

Spoiler

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His name was Nick Shay. He was a waste management executive from New York, who liked to spend his spare time reading. At the moment, he was buried in Don Delillo’s novel Underworld, that sad tale of fractured identity in postmodern America, where identity is constructed through entertainment. Sadly, he was not a particularly active reader and was instead thinking about baseball and his favourite Frank Sinatra tune, even as he read about baseball and Frank Sinatra, missing their key importance to the story.

Frank Sinatra enters, with microphone and sings for the audience.

Sinatra
God only knows,
The way she moves.
She’s like a silhouette on wheels
And everything she steals
Turns from gold
Into a cold
And empty heel.

Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She gives me light. She gives me Hell.
Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She’s got forty diamond rings
She’s willing to sell.
Only God can say
How she moves that way.

Emmanuelle, she’s like fire
In the cold winter sky.
Got a burning desire
Only she can…SATISFY!

Emmanuelle! Emmanuelle!
She takes my light. She takes my Hell.
Only God can say
How she moves that way.
Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle…

(Operatic) EMMANUELLE!!!

He exits. The stage goes black.

Spoiler

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Nick was not what one would call a particularly scholarly person. The subtleties of trash management often did not require advanced critical thinking, so the metaphor of trash as . He did notice one of the characters bore his name, and also happened to be a waste manager. He thought it was a funny coincidence. Maybe, he felt, he should write to Don Delillo about this funny occurrence.

Nick Shay was an avid watcher of television. He had seen Emmanuelle Chriqui before when she had appeared as Jodie on The O.C., one of his favourite programs. He had admired her from the start; her beauty and her shape were beyond comparison to everyone but the 36 women above her. But he had not dared imagine that he would meet her. It was a moment of pure excitement for him. A moment when suddenly his own life seemed insignificant compared to the person he was in front of. He did not consider he character, or her acting, or her voice, for those were merely supplementary to her beauty. For it was her beauty that was important. Her aesthetics, to put it in a philosophical perspective. For beauty must be admired, or else it is nothing, and if nothing is beautiful, then there is nothing to live for.

The stage lights up again. Emma has changed her outfit. The old one has been tossed on the floor like garbage. Book is reading his book.

Emma
Mr. Book?
Book
Hmm?
Emma
Have you ever been in love?
Book
I think I used to love someone. I love my book, at any rate.
Emma
No, I don’t mean did you love…I mean: have you been in love?
Book
Aren’t those the same thing?
Emma
No…what I mean is…have you been in actual love…as in…making it…
Book
You mean…
Emma
Have you ever made love?
Book
No, I don’t think I have. Why do you ask?
Emma
Oh, I was just thinking…

Spoiler

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The imagination of the common man is a powerful thing. This had, of course, been Nich Shay’s fantasy since he first saw Emmanuelle Chriqui on the television, or even, he dimly recalls, in the movie Detroit Rock City as an extremely minor character. The fact that it had been his fantasy with every beautiful woman he saw was irrelevant, for it was with this woman that it was to be fulfilled.

He naturally thought it completely ordinary. She was a celebrity. The instant hook-up was perfected to an art with her kind.

Emma and Book kiss. A punk-rock Band comes on and starts playing while they kiss.

Lead Singer
Oh, have you read the news today?
Have you read the news today?
She’s got a brand now boy
And they’re full of joy.
Have you read the news today?

Who knows when they’ll break up?
I give them two or three weeks.
She’s so strong and he’s so meek.
It’s so sweet I might just throw up!

Have you read the news today?
Have you read the news today?
She’s expecting a kid.
Heaven knows what they did.
Have you read the news today?

Just flip the page over
To read the rumours of his gay life.
Is their relationship over?
Who knows about all the back-stage strife?

Have you read the news today?
Have you read the news today?
There’s a new hurricane,
And they ran out of names.
Have you read the news today?

There’s only seven left alive.
Looks like they won’t have food or lights.
God knows how they’ll survive
Those cold and windy nights.

Oh, have you read the news today?

They finish the song and then smash their instruments as much as possible. They exit, leaving behind their ruined instruments.

The stage lights go out again. When they come back on, Emma has changer her outfit again. The old one is left with the first on the stage floor. Book is reading again.

Emma
That was nice.
Book
*Murmurs agreement*
Emma
Why must you read?
Book
Hmm?
Emma
You’re always reading.
Book
Meh.
Emma
“Meh?” What does “meh” mean?
Book
*Shrugs* Meh.
Emma
*Pause* *sigh* Meh.

She takes out a newspaper and reads, casually tossing off each section into the air as she reads.

Spoiler

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Miami — The missile situation took another drastic turn when the Kremlin delivered its ultimatum today to Washington. White House officials say that the president will not be frightened into assent, inching the world closer to nuclear war.

Lenny Bruce runs onstage in a 1950s housewife outfit, waving a duster in the air.

Bruce
We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die! We’re all gonna die!

While running back and forth, he trips on the broken drum kit left by the Band, and falls forward, smacking his head on one of the drums, dying instantly.

Spoiler

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Requiem aeturnum, donna eis, Dominie. Requiescat in pace, Lenny Bruce.

Emma throws the newspaper down in anger.

Emma
That’s it! I’ve had it with you and your book!
Book
*Looking up* Hmm?

She tears the book out of his hands.

Emma
You’re always wombating reading! It makes me sick! *Tears a page from the book* Sick! Sick, sick, sick! *Tears another page*
Book
Meh.

He walks off. She continues to tear up the book.

Emma
Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick!

She repeats this line until she eventually begins eating the pages she tears up. Fade to black.

Spoiler

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Tear it up.
Eat the book.
Eat it up.
Turn it into waste.
Eat it.
Eat the book.
Eat it.
Eat it.
I don’t know why you’re such a fussy young man.
Just eat it.
Eat it.
Eat the book.
Eat it.

END

Word count: only 2000, but since half of it is a play, it takes up the space of at least twice that.

[Ravyn]

Here we go: bird and theologian, though due to the (lack of) length and breadth of the latter's Wikipedia article and the whole not mentioning religion thing, it's mostly bird. Enjoy!

Spoiler

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The forest was wreathed in mist, the air practically aglow in the dawn. A breath of wind brought the whispers of leaves and the scent of jasmine to the tallest tree’s lone occupant, ruffling her crest. There was something more today. Something different, out at the forest’s edge. Voices and rustles and, occasionally, something that resonated. Something new.
It was enough to wake her up, not enough to interest her… but she was hungry, and it was a good time to fly. The bird removed her head fully from under her wing and looked out toward the forest’s edge. Sunlight shone off brown feathers as she spread her wings, hopped once towards the end of her branch, and then took flight, diving into the mist, weaving through the glowing maze of sun and fog and shadow.

It was a good day to play. The mist was melting away, and the sun was bright. Already, half of the gamelan had been set up. Two of the performers were maneuvering the slenthem into position, another placing the tabi on their respective instruments. All the action, however, was lost on its youngest member as she strode from just within the forest with a handful of colorful blossoms.
Today is the first time. Today…
She smoothed her blue sarong out of the way and knelt by the gong. As promised, the water was already ready, sitting still in the glass bowl. Silently, with an air of intense concentration, she slipped the flowers in, letting them float there. Today will be perfect.
“It’s the instruments that matter, not the flowers!” one of the others called. The girl straightened, nodded. Looked to the wooden stand, the hook and dragon that held her instrument. Stepped over to it and picked it and the bow up, then sat down and bent over it, one hand on the neck and one on the bow.

Far above and a ways away, the hawk-eagle veered as the sound changed, the ringing trading off with—it was hard to tell what. Perhaps there was some creature there she had not yet seen, calling out. It was sort of a wail, sort of a keen, and completely alien. This bore closer looking into; she pumped her wings a few times to regain altitude, banked sharply to the west and glided toward the source of the sound.

“Stupid bow,” the girl muttered under her breath, letting her rebab lean against her as she glared at the strings. The tone just wouldn’t come right. Of all the days… At least it was tuned. Just in time; setup was complete, and people were beginning to arrive. Her family would be somewhere in that crowd, sitting down on the grass to listen. Today will be perfect, she reminded herself. I’ve worked hard enough…

Humans. Gathering at the edge of the forest. Some sitting and waiting, some setting up things that shone in the early morning light. But what had made that call? It perplexed the bird. The ringing was from the shinies, that much was clear. She landed on a nearby tree and watched. Perhaps… there it was! The female, holding the stick, twined around the strange—what was it? A branch balanced on the ground, sticking through some sort of—whatever it was, it had tight skin and shiny streaks. The humans silenced. Waiting for something? This was interesting.

It was time. The girl took a deep breath and drew her bow across the strings. Ji, lu, ro, nem, ji, ro, lu… she thought, her fingers flicking over the notes as she did so. Ji, ji, lu, ro… ji, ma—

That was it! That was the creature! The hawk-eagle took flight again and called to it.

Was that me? But it couldn’t be; the note from the rebab was coming clear. So what screeched? The girl looked up just in time to see the eagle fly above, nearly dropping her bow, but barely managing to continue to play. It’s beautiful…

She had gotten something’s attention… the bird circled once, twice.

For the girl below, having this sort of creature in the audience her first time performing was unbelievable. A deep moment. Would Laughery have something to say about this? she wondered offhandly. Strike that, concentrate…
The tune wandered into the ngelik… and the bird was still circling above. Distracting the audience, but did that matter?

The hawk-eagle, meanwhile, continued to fly and listen. The… whatever it was… was slowing down. What was it trying to do? She landed. Stretched her wings. It was pausing. It was waiting. What for? She called out, again, as something rang below, then took off and flew away.

Called during the gong, left during the… whaaaaaa… The girl set down her rebab, spent a moment watching the hawk-eagle fly back the way it had came, and then, remembering her purpose, sat down behind the slenthem and picked up her tabi. She’d had the most spectacular bird she’d ever seen in her audience. Her tone was back. And what was left of the concert would most assuredly be perfect.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

I wish I'd got bird and theologician. I could do a lot with those.

[The Vorpal Tribble]

Wait a sec... are we supposed to be involving BOTH wiki articles?

(this isn't a problem as a church and a glacier would fit in oddly well with what I'm writing)

[Amotis]

Wait a sec... are we supposed to be involving BOTH wiki articles?

I thought only one and I told that one dude only one. But Fat Daddy said otherwise but that he said it wasn't clear. In the end, yes one is okay.

[Brickwall]

I thought only one and I told that one dude only one. But Fat Daddy said otherwise but that he said it wasn't clear. In the end, yes one is okay.

It is?! Man, then I could have avoided stuttering my story with that album one! I'm unhappy.

[Cult_of_the_Raven]

it was originally meant to be two. but concessions were made once the contest got underway. that's the way I understand it at least.

[Amotis]

Yes there was confusion and so only one can be used.

[King_of_GRiffins]

At 1475 words, a story including an Icelandic Glacier and an Eastern Orthodox Church. Last minute here, so I didn't get to put them more as brief settings.

Spoiler

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Inside the old church building, twelve men sat irregularly among the pews. They wore drenched, solid grey uniforms, emblazoned with no emblem, crest or signature of any kind. Some held whispered conversations, others took guard or simply sat in thought, but they all bore the look of exhaustion.

Two particularly chatty uniformed men sat at the corner farthest the altar, talking almost loud enough for the others to hear.

“Have you seen the new kid?”

“The blond or the one with the mask?”

“The masked one,” he says, pointing over to two others, both looking towards the altar in silence. “, I heard the captain say he’s one of the last supers our sides got.” The second soldier turns to face the other, his face making clear his suspicion. “You’re joking, right? All the way up here? Must be something going on up here after all if they sent another one over.”

“Yah, I heard the captain talking about that too,”

“You really need to stop spying so much. He might shoot you next time.”



After not too long, the companies’ uniforms are dry, and they all appear to settle in around the small parish. A door can be heard opening up, and from the left of the alter streams a cone of light, lighting up the dimness of the main room. A tall man in the same uniform as the others walks out in the light from the side room. He stops and turns back towards the door, “Once again, thank you for your hospitality, Bishop.”

Stepping out of the brightness, his features become a bit more apparent. The man is old, far older than anyone else in a uniform should be. His head was bald, and on his shoulder, written in black marker was the word ‘Colonel’, with ‘Captain’ marked out directly above it.

He walks over to the altar, and standing behind it addresses in a deep, loud and rasping voice. “We’re heading out again. We just got a real operation over the radio, so get in the AV’s,” He snaps his head over to the door immediately, burning his eyes into soldier sitting there, “Yes, the old ones.”



Outside, the weather was rather temperate, if wet after the rain. The scene was not what one would think of when hearing the words ‘Iceland’, but today, after the constant abuse given to the atmosphere in recent and past times, Iceland was on a one way course to tropical. The area clashed against their choice of uniforms, almost advertising themselves to the eyes of others.

Fortunately, there wasn’t another soul in sight.

The ‘AV’s’ similarly stood out, but more in the fashion that Godzilla stands out among skyscrapers than that of a bad choice of camouflage. In the empty lot, the oblong beast towered above the men’s heads, its grey blending with small bits of brown rust. One could almost call it a tank, if one set cannon on top.

The men file in silently, and the vehicle roars into motion and sets out north-bound. The silence pervades the enclosed space as they sit on the benches along the side. The Captain rises from the secondary seat beside the driver, and grabs a bar running along the top. Again, he addresses the group in a deep, serious, and monotonous tone.

“Here’s the brief: We’re heading up to Mýrdalsjökull to raid the lab inside the glacier. They’re setting up a device to blow the volcano, and short to say, we’re not going to let them. This place might be ready for a rain forest, but that doesn’t mean the rest to the world is. If they get it to blow enough smoke, temperatures will drop again, and some places, like ours, can’t handle that.”

“We’re running low on batteries for the shockers, so we’re switching guns again. There are nerve darts under your seat. The blue ones will kill the yellows ones will paralyze. If they miss, they break and the liquid evaporates and gets them if they inhale. If you can’t get a clear shot, shoot low or far and you’ll get them. Just don’t miss at close range.”

Everyone who looked up to listen looked back down, and the same silence as before returned. The Captain steps back and taps the driver on the shoulder, and motions to the blond haired recruit. The Captain takes the drivers seat, and the blonde scrambles forward to take the other. The continous, overriding sound of the vehicle in motions seems to vanish as the two take the seats up front, though the silence from the back seeps into the front as well.

The Captain seems to relax after taking the wheel, and begins to speak casually to his choice of co-pilot. “So, what are your thoughts? You and Superman back there have barely said a word. Not as if no one else is talking, though.”

The blonde staring out the window barely moves at the question, stuck in his own mind. Slowly, however, he replies. “I’m just wondering how long this war has been going on.”

Knowingly, the Captain states “One hundred-eighty-two years, two months, and seventeen days, with no end in sight. If you’re lucky, you might just live to see the end of it.”

The blonde stays completely motionless, moving only his lips, yet voicing nothing. For a minute, there is silence again. “Now I wonder; what could have started something like this? Whose appetite is so sanguine as to let it continue?”

“I’m not sure anyone knows that anymore. At some point in the fighting, I think both sides gave up trying to argue and reason and simply settled for the others complete destruction. Both sides were too stubborn to compromise, and too stupid to move on, and now we’re ensured almost permanent jobs on the tropical frontier.”

The Captain sounds almost happy as he explains it. The Blonde, seemingly satisfied with questioning, settles to continue peering out the window as the terrain fly’s by.



The iron gate fitted to the ice to protect the entry into the glacier complex splits apart as the AV crashes through, colliding with a wall twenty meters in. The soldiers burst out of the back, shooting down the two guards protecting the doorway. They encounter no resistance as they sweep the facility of its occupants. Darts with blue and yellow marks stick out of the bodies of a dozen scientist and staff, all lying nearly, or completely lifeless on the floor.

The enter the laboratory, and six darts fly from the doorway and into three of the four scientist. The Captain aims his weapon towards the last, and is pushed aside by the masked soldier. He waves the others down as he watches the masked one approach the scientist menacingly.

“Let him have this. Supers always put on good, bloody shows.” He says to the others, lowering his weapon to watch.

The scientist retreats as the super approaches, hands empty. He picks up random lab equipment and frantically throws them as the fear in his eyes increases. Everything launched at the super, however, is batted down swiftly, and he continues at a steady, deliberate pace.

“Please, don’t do this!” The scientist screams, “I have a family, a kid! I have to support them with this!” His back hits the corner of the room and his terror peaks. He continues to beg, attempting to scramble farther back in the hopes the wall would move an each further. “”Please, don’t kill me! I’m sorry for working with them, I’ll work for you now! Please, don’t kill me, I’m sorry!”

The masked super is barely a meter away, the scientist cringing against the wall. Slowly, he draws his hand from his side, and places it in-between them, palm open. From beneath his mask, a voice, soft, nearly childish, can be heard, “We’re sorry.”

The scientist opens his eyes form behind his arms, and surprised, sees the outstretched hand. “We’re sorry, for the war. We shouldn’t have.” Across the room, the soldiers are equally startled. “We’ll forgive.”

Skeptical, the scientist reaches his hand out, only for it to be grabbed swiftly. He cringes again, but observing nothing to happen, looks up again, confusion still painted on his face. “Uh..”
“Will you forgive us as well?”

The scientist soon comes to perfect clarity with what’s being said, and begins to shake the masked ones hand. An expression of joy overtakes his features. “That’s all I need to hear. Yes, you are!”

Before another word is said, a dart hits the wall beside the scientist shoulder, and breaks out into a blue gas. Within seconds, both the scientist and the masked one are on the ground, about to die. The Captain, weapon ready, stands over the two.

“I happen to like my job; can’t let fools like you go and ruin it.”

[DarkLightDragon]

Fat Daddy, are we supposed to judge these yet? I haven't but I don't want to leave it too late to read so many sure-to-be-interesting stories.

[Fat Daddy]

Wait a sec... are we supposed to be involving BOTH wiki articles?

(this isn't a problem as a church and a glacier would fit in oddly well with what I'm writing)

I had originally intended for both articles to be used in the story. That was supposed to be the challenge, incorporating 2 unrelated topics into a single cohesive story. However, I (apparently) failed to make that clear and therefore for THIS round the writers can use only one if they so desire (though both is still preferred).

Fat Daddy, are we supposed to judge these yet? I haven't but I don't want to leave it too late to read so many sure-to-be-interesting stories.

You can start reading and writing your judgements at any time. Please DO NOT post your judgments until after the deadline has passed though.

Now I have been posting comments all along just because I know how much work goes into writing for this type of thing and thought the authors would appreciate some (unofficial) feedback. I am not an active judge at this time (plus we have 2 reserve judges who would also have to opt out before I would actually be an active judge) so I didn't feel that it would be a problem for me to post my comments. Speaking of which I will post comments for anyone I haven't yet commented on either tonight or tomorrow. Right now I am actually supposed to be working so I had better get going. Also, authors, please feel free to comment on each other's work if you so desire.

[Tanon Sharpe]

Here's my entry about a horse and an activist

Sorry, I posted this late last night under my alt account, but it is me.

[Fat Daddy]

Sorry, I posted this late last night under my alt account, but it is me.

I was wondering who that was. Thanks for the clarification!

[Gengy]

...damn school. I've got a peice mostly written... but I won't be able to finish it tonight. I STILL want to finish it, and when I do, I'll post it... but I guess I'm out of the running.

[Maxymiuk]

Unfortunately, I have to bow out of the contest, on account of fickle muses who not so much failed me, as provided me with ideas on every topic except for the one I was supposed to write on.

Timberwolf, good luck with your next opponent.

[The Vorpal Tribble]

Unfortunately, I have to bow out of the contest, on account of fickle muses who not so much failed me, as provided me with ideas on every topic except for the one I was supposed to write on.

Timberwolf, good luck with your next opponent.

*guffaws*

Same here. I'm about halfway through with a rather uninspired one I'm afraid, but I'm too stubborn to go without at least putting something on here ;)

However, I now probably have a good several dozen other ideas for future stories.

[TheSilverKnight]

Ok heres my entry about Monopoly and film school
1,523 words enjoy.

Spoiler

Show

An Addict or a Champion

“How the hell do you manage to do this every time?” Sal asked, “There could be ten of us playing but somehow you managed to get every single property on the board you literally monopolized Monopoly.”

“Huh what did you say? I was counting my money.” Simon said without lifting his head.

Sal groaned and started picking up all the pieces and putting them away before Simon asked to play again.

“Do you honestly have to practice? I mean come on I have never seen you lose and the competition you are going to tomorrow is just a bunch of new competition players and a few pros what do you have to fear?” Sal asked frustrated, “You also interrupted my thinking making me play I have to come up with an idea for my film project the NFTS doesn’t just accept people willy nilly they think I am good and I have to prove it if I wanna keep my scholarship.” Sal angrily ranted.

“You know that was like three sentences crammed into one? How are you ever going to manage to write scripts I you can’t even speak right?” Simon said again not looking away from his pile of monopoly money, “Six million five hundred twenty-seven dollars. That was a bad game; I usually have more money than that after a one-on-one game.”

* * * *

Simon’s portable Monopoly game constantly beeped. Simon was so concerned with his professional Monopoly career (he played other board games professionally but only in the Monopoly off season) that he had the portable game installed into the steering wheel of the car.

“Ahhh watch out would you stop playing that infernal game and pay attention to the road, my blind grandmother drives better than you. That’s like the tenth time you almost crashed into something.” Sal said holding on to the dash board for his very life, “Also with your crazing driving and the incisive beeping of that game I still can’t think of an idea for my film.”

Beep beep beep bloop beep

Sal covered his ears and squeezed this eyes shut to block out the beeping. But even in the black abyss staring at the back of his eyelids he could hear it. Beep beep beep.

“I’ve got it!” Sal suddenly shouted accidentally punching the roof of the car while raising his hand in triumph.

“You’ve got what?” Simon asked absorbed in his game and still not looking at the road.

“An idea, for my film I mean. Ok, here it is a documentary about addiction. What do you think?” Sal blurted out these sentences in an excited hurried slur.

Simon laughed actually looking up at the road for a moment.

“Where are you going to find an addict who will let you follow them around and film them?”

“Right here in this car.” Sal said with a devious smile on his face.

“What!?” Simon slammed on the brakes (there just happened to be a stop sign or else he normally would have just ran past it), “I ma not an addict! I don’t do any drugs or drink or or watch obsessive amounts of adult films.” Simon shouted confused and angry.

“You’re addicted to Monopoly.” Sal replied in a contradicting voice.

Simon thought for a moment making an hmmmmm sound. “Well what do you know your right? Go ahead then film away I’m not ashamed of my addiction it makes me thousands of dollars a month.” Simon said content with him self as he floored the gas pedal and continued his game.

Sal quickly pulled his camera off of its belt strap and began recording Simon. Simon always had his camera on his belt or in his pack when it wasn’t glued to his hand filming anything for no reason at all.

* * * *

An hour passed in the car before it came to a screeching halt in a parking space at the convention center. A huge banner hanging at the entrance to the center read ‘Monopoly Professional Open Tournament’. Simon made an excited squealing noise and jumped out of the car and ran toward the entrance. Sal quickly got up to follow.

“This is great!” Sal said in excited joy as he chased after Simon, “I am so getting an A for this.”

Inside the convention center it was hard for Sal to follow Simon as he weaved in and out of the surprisingly huge amount of people (Surprising to Sal at least). It wasn’t hard for Sal to find examples of Simon’s addiction. One such moment he watched Simon sit and roll dice made of different materials with fancy patterns on them for an hour straight looking for a perfect set. But while Sal was filming another moment of addict gold as he was now referring to it a voice came over the intercom ‘All participants in the contest please report to the game floor’. Simon quickly grabbed the dice he deemed the best purchased them and raced off toward the game floor.

Simon sat on the sides and filmed Simon’s games trying to think what he would do with this footage. Some music began to play as somebody won a game at a table and Sal had a great idea.

“MONTAGE!” Sal stood up and shouted out loud as people gave him looks and shuffled away from him.

Simon turned from his game and looked at Sal. “Montage?”

“Montage.”

“Montage?”

“Montage.”

“Montage?”

“Yes!”

“Well then.” Simon said tuning back to his game apologizing to his opponent.

* * * *

Hours past and Sal ran out of tape just as the tournament finished. Simon won no surprises there. He made a big spectacle in front of the crowd but when they got out to the car he went back to being quiet and started playing the portable as soon as he got in the car.

“Drive fast home now go we must!” Sal said fast reviewing footage from the tournament excited, “I have to start cutting and editing this footage and I have to insert my dialog that I forgot to do while I was filming.”

“Was that first sentencing even English? Also how do you forget to speaking commentary dialog during a documentary.” Simon said uninterested playing his game.

It was a long drive from the convention center to Sal’s flat but he was excited so it went by fast.

“See you later.” Simon said as Sal rushed out of the car.

* * * *

Sal stayed up all that night cutting the footage and making his montage of the game footage. He actually managed to finish the whole documentary including his dialog before morning. At first light he saved his work and wrote it to a DVD and passed out on his desk the computer mouse still in his hand.

At about ten in the mourning there was a knock at the door. Sal stirred awake and shuffled over to the door.

“Who is it?”

There was no answer accept a beeping. Sal unlocked the door and shuffled off toward the kitchen and started making some tea. Simon opened the door and walked in.

“Up all night weren’t you?”

Sal replied with a groan and came out of the kitchen with a cup of tea and sat down on the couch in front of the television.

“You finish it?”

At this question Sal jumped up and ran to his computer and grabbed the DVD from the computers open disk tray. “Yes, I did what of it?”

“How do you manage to sort through six hours of footage and turn it into a documentary in ten?”

“Because I am the man!”

“Right, when is it due anyway?”

Sal looked at the clock. “In twenty minuets.” Sal said, “Hurry take me to class.”

“You have a car why can’t you drive yourself?”

“Because you are the only person who seems to be able to get away with driving like a maniac.”

“True, let’s go”

With in fifteen minuets they had driven to the NFTS campus.

“Thanks man. Hey, could you come pick me up in like three hours I just have to watch my film with the Prof and get it graded. I’ll get us dinner or something after.” Sal said as he climbed out of the car and ran off to class.

“Sure.” Simon yelled at Sal as he ran off.

* * * *

A few hours past and Simon drove back to the NFTS campus and found Sal sitting on the curb hunched over. Sal got in the car and sat there silent.

“So how did you score?”

“I got a C” Sal said depressed

“Why what didn’t the Prof Like?”

“One word, montage.”

“What! How can you not like a montage? What song did you use?”

“’You’re the Best’ by Joe Esposito why?”

Simon broke out laughing. “You used the song from ‘Karate Kid’ no wonder you got a C. Any way you promised dinner I’m hungry lets go.”

“Yah well you’re an addict.”

Simon didn’t answer he just started playing his game.

Beep beep beep.

NOTE: I coun't get the indents to appear so I uses enters hope nobody minds.

Also can't wait to see my opponents entry.

-TheSK-

[The Vorpal Tribble]

Talk about racing the clock...

_/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/ _/

The Northman

Spoiler

Show

A thin layer of frost glittered blindingly with the reflected rays of the sun, piercing as shards of crystal in the clear arctic sky. Huge, browned men in layers of furs that glistened with oil pushed and pulled the oars of their wide knorr tirelessly through the icy sea. The single large sail in the center of the ship lie flat and untouched by any winds, as it had for the last week. Three of the men and an older boy did not row, peering over the side into a cloud of tiny shrimp darting around the bow. Occasionally one of the krill would dart off from the main group and disappear for a time. One of these men abruptly lifted his head and pointed out to sea. The boy dashed off to the keel and redirected the course of the ship. A shadow of a single resting beluga just beneath the surface came into view some time later and all fetched their harpoons. The boy took a large, weighted net from a corner and squatted patiently by the boat side. At a gesture from one of the men, he tossed out the net with a practiced motion over its form and quickly bent to tie the attached rope to a hook. Inexperienced, he assumed the whale would be in deep sleep, and was startled to see it swiftly dart forward within its entanglement. As he was pulled over the side one of the whalers hurled his barbed spear into the side of the beluga. It thrashed about wildly and dived deep, dragging the boy deeper and deeper within the frigid waters. Moments later he slashed through the rope with his knife but as he swam for the far surface he felt his muscles slowing as the cold invaded his body. With the blackening sight of oxygen deprivation he forced himself to calm, slipping into the trance of prayer meditation. As his lungs screamed for air and all feeling faded, he prayed with desperate pleading, "Please aid me..."

-=-=-=-=-

"Magistrate, magistrate!" a voice called, knocking at the door. A thin man of barely middle age looked up from the scrolls upon which he had been writing and scowled. He continued in his work at his leisure for perhaps a minute more before slowly approaching the door.

"I assume you have reason for disturbing me in my duty to the holy scribes?" he questioned grimly to the short robed figure, which below the cowl showed a visage hardly more than a child.

"Yes magistrate, I believe so." the messenger replied. "There is a small company of men seeking admittance. Those at the dock"

Walking to a window the magistrate peered outwards. From his vantage point two stories up he saw upon the cobbles before the church was at least two dozen men. All seemed to be wearing furs and leathers of some kind, and all towered head and shoulders above the holy guards that blocked their admittance.

The magistrate's eyes narrowed. "Barbarian heathens!" he cried.

"But they sport no weapons..."

"It matters not. When last our shores were invaded I saw the blasphemers tear with even their teeth." the magistrate responded as he swept down the stairs to the lower levels. A number of priests were gathered on the terrace.

"Have them seized!" he commanded to a guard waiting anxiously.

"Your holiness, Ragnheidur, they have a boy with him. Badly injured. They are not as the invaders. Their eyes are soft and they do not wear the markings or scars."

Ragnheidur paused and cast a jaundiced look in the newcomers direction. After the old magistrate had been killed in the battle that last year only the circumstances had allowed his position. His reputation as a warrior and pious soul were a combination that was just what was needed. It would do much for him if he were to show compassion even for these filthy pagans from across the sea.

"Very well, but only the boy and two others may enter. The others shall sit upon the grass. If they are hungered give them soup." he said, his expression resigned.

The gates were opened and words exchanged. The leather-clad men forged forth and the guards shouted. The men responded in a tongue unknown to the guards and continued on. They halted however when blades were drawn and they were surrounded by a circle of swords.

One man stepped forward however until the point of the sword pierced slightly his clothing. In his arms was a giant of a child, but obviously youthful if not already surpassing five feet in height. His body was gaunt and his skin wrinkled while his leather robes hung loosely.

"Meg sønnen , ville du ikke del for seg?" the man said, his voice calm and gentle, though with a hint of buried anger.

"Move not one step further, barbarian." the guard commanded.

"Meg sønnen..." the man said, holding out a questing hand.

"I said back!" the guard said and lifted his sword when the magistrate's voice rose behind him.

"Let this man pass."

"Yes holiness." the guard replied as he stepped quickly to the side.

"Åge!" the giant man called, and one of the figures came forth, his hair streaked with white and his elderly face deep with lines. Despite this the magistrate was sure he could lift any of his men and hurl him over the gates.

The elderly fellow bowed his head to Ragnheidur and held out an enormous hand as leathery as his attire. Revulsion filled the magistrate but he grasped the hand quickly, pulling it away somewhat more swiftly than was polite, but the fingers caught it in an unbreakable grip. He felt a strange surge of something travel up his spine and a strange feeling of giddiness thrill through.

~I am Åge. My grandson, he has long slept after falling into the waters. A storm has kept us from returning to our lands and sent us here. He needs bed and food. My people saw this as a holy place. Will you grant him succor?~ the magistrate sensed was being said, though he was only vaguely aware that the sounds in their barbarous tongue was the same as before.

"Y...yes. We will provide for him. Hrafn! Find Jonas, we have a child for his care."

~Our thanks. May the one most high watch over you.~ the elderly man said, and released him. At once his feet seemed to replant themselves upon the ground.

Ragnheidur blinked several times and tried hard to recall what had just occurred.

As he tried to recount to himself what he had just experienced the two leather-clad men and the boy were shown inside. Along a hallway and up a ramp they arrived at a set of double doors leading within the hospice.

The man carrying the boy set him down upon a bed and stood up straight. Åge knelt down beside him and beckoned to the magistrate. Ragnheidur approached warily and the old man gripped his wrist.

~Please, have them bring food, he has slept very long.~ the old man's voice spoke, again seeming more to be felt than heard.

"It will be brought, but first he will be looked over."

~No, he will be fine. But hungered, oh so hungered.~

A man of truly advanced age then walked within. He did not walk with the limp or sliding stumble of one approaching the ranks of a centenarian, but rather one walking atop eggshells. One foot was lifted and brought down with considerable care and then the next. He approached the bed and looked the boy over and licked the back of his hand which was put before the boy's mouth. He pressed a hand against the thin chest and his yellowed eyes narrowed. He then straightened up as much as he was able and shook his head.

"He has departed to the next world..." the considerable elder informed them and bowed his head before beginning the arduous journey to the southern reaches of the room some ten feet away.

~No, no, this is foolishness, please, nourishment must be brought!~

The magistrate wrenched his hand away from the northman.

"I have already done more than wisdom encouraged. I will not give feast to a corpse of a barbarian!" he hissed.

Son and grandfather exchanged confused glances.

"Jeg ikke oppfatte, hvis du ville atter ta meg hånd..." the older man began.

"Speak no more to me in that tongue. Speak to me as before!" the magistrate commanded.

The old man reached back out to make contact.

The magistrate stepped back quickly, "Keep to yourself, barbarian."

The younger of the two men abruptly stood and tapped quickly the throat of his son and pinched the flesh between thumb and forefinger.

"Stige og riste du selv, stige nå og ta inn pust!" he whispered into the child's ear.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Mickle felt a jolt as his bodily functions slowly began to wake from the self-induced coma. Vague feeling and an awareness of self slowly came to him, along with the rush of memories of his life. His body came under his control and he opened eyes that saw naught but shadows that quickly took on the color and shape of his father.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The magistrate and others were walking out the door when they heard a sudden, shuddering intake of breath. The boy coughed hoarsely and tried to sit up though his father slowly pushed him back down. The man's expression of relief unreadable to any but the grandfather.

"Devilry, WITCHCRAFT!" Ragnheidur roared. "When I heard that voice in my head I should have known! Guards!"

The northmen didn't understand the words being spoken, but it wasn't a difficult task to get the gist of the situation. Mickle was scooped up by his grandfather and the two men looked about alertly, but still with the unflappable calmness that seemed to be the mark of their people.

The younger man glanced to his senior and nodded. Towards a window they began to run and the younger leaped, a jump that carried him through, wrenching the frame from the stone. The grandfather followed after through the cleared space. From two stories they fell, and though neither man could have weighed less than several hundred pounds, the shock was taken with only the bending down to one knee.

They both ran around the side of the church and down to the gates where their people waited. The northmen turned to look and all stepped to put themselves between the intercepting guards and the two men and boy.

-=-=-=-=-=-

They were to be pursued for several months, fleeing the city and deep within the wilderness of the island. They might have succeeded in going back to the docks by fighting, but many lives were sure to be lost, and none of the northmen could conceive of slaughtering merely to return home.

They eventually found themselves in an inhospitable place of great rivers and steep rocks. Near the volcano Katla in these frigid wastes they eventually eluded their pursuers, who in the end tired of the chase. They were trapped however, and knew that if they were to appear in any of the towns they would be instantly noticed, for few of the population stood well over six feet in height and none could quite match the girth of these mountainous men. With stone and nearby timber they constructed a longhouse where when they were not spending their time merely trying to survive they sat and prayed.

For the next eight years of his life Mickle was trained in the discipline of his people, in the meditative prayer that opened their minds to their god and to their inner selves that combined had allowed them abilities unknown to other mortal folk. Any possible fear of the rumbling, unstable land he may have had were conquered by his continuing trips out with his father. Once he was older he made many trips himself, studying the stars and exploring the coastline. His insatiable curiosity also took him to traveling for months through the mountain ranges that stretched out of sight. While out he would fast for many days, devoting himself to pure contemplation and prayer, seeking God's will for the future. The others saw within Mickle a well of fathomless depth to draw from. He was nearing his sixteenth year while on one of his many excursions that he heard a great thunder that rattled the very earth coming from the direction of his home. He spent the rest of the day traveling as swiftly as he could to find that the volcano had erupted violently. The house and the only family and friends he had ever known lie buried under a small, stone-filled lake of melted ice water and mud. The self control that had been taught him cracked ever so slightly and his body shook with wracking, silent sobs.

He took to wandering the land all his waking hours, living the life of a roaming hermit. Only his faith was able to console him, and it dawned on him eventually that no matter how far he walked, he could not move far enough to escape the pain of his loss. On one of his many hikes he had found within a nearby mountain the entrance to large cavern. Here he returned and with great dedication widened it. The insides as well he cleared and cut with chisels. From the fat of the animals he hunted he fashioned many a candle to light the interior.

Above the entrance was carved, 'For Your Glory.'

Unknown to him as he labored, a civil war had erupted across the island. Shortly many refugees began to pass through, desperation taking them where they would before have never considered. They were amazed to find the tiny church nestled within the glacial valley of Mýrdalsjökull. Here they were aided and given shelter and food by this strange giant amongst men. Many of those that came through with wounds or disease left whole of body. It was said that this hermit would take the pain of others upon himself, no matter how dire the disease or horrible the contusion. Within the course of the day however he would heal, the injuries fading away at a viewable rate.

As word spread, many made the pilgrimage to seek his healing and might spend months wandering in search of the cavern. It was several years later that a blind man, aided only by a staff stumbled in.

"Hello? Hello?" he called.

Mickle stood up from his bed of furs in a hidden section of the cave system. He squinted against the dim light come from outside and spotted the stooped man at the entrance. His eyes were cloudy with blindness and black lines were etched permanently into his face.

"How long have you been without sight?" he questioned, leading the man to a seat.

"Some number of years. I was caught within a burning building and the smoke took my eyes." the man replied.

"Then the smoke I will take away again."

"I am not certain that I am worthy. Perhaps it was a punishment from the lord, and I would agree that I have done much to deserve it. Tell me holy healer, should one such as me be blessed by your touch?"

"Why would you not?" Mickle inquired.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

"...and that is the whole of it." the man finished some time later as they sat around a table, sharing a simple meal.

Mickle's face was an ocean of turbulent emotion but he sighed and a faint smile came to his lips, one filled with unexpected relief.

"My friend, you are forgiven." the giant man said at last.

"Then the lord, he has spoken to you?"

"In so many ways. However, it is not He who has spoken of His forgiveness."

"I do not understand holy one."

"I forgive you Ragnheidur."

[averagejoe]

A little over two thousand words. Enjoy.

Spoiler

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Mystery surrounds me, and I wonder where I'm going
There's a cloud above me and it seems to hide the way

Paul Rodgers’ voice came sharply through the headphones, the beats and rhythm of the song bridging the divide to Kit’s ears. She swayed ever so slightly to the sounds, not wanting to call attention to herself, but wanting to get into the groove. The store’s florescent lighting cast an eerie glow over everything, and the sterile white walls were almost sickening to even look at. Even the station that let you sample CD’s looked pretty revolting, with none of the sleek style of store bought players. Kit’s eyes were closed, however, and her ears were covered by headphones. She knew that here, with her eyes closed and her mind focused on the songs, that she could almost forget it all, forget the oppressions and discomforts of life.

I'm going straight ahead, 'cos it's the only way I know
I wanna leave the past, and leave just for today

In fact, it sometimes seemed to Kit that her entire being was focused on forgetting life. It was not, after all, considered to be ether proper or attractive for young ladies to wear their hear short and spiked. The blue didn’t help things either. And don’t even get started on her fashion choices.

Now then tell me baby, do you need my love?
Tell me baby, are you thinking of me?
Tell me baby, what it is you need?
What kind of satisfaction guaranteed?

Really, it wasn’t so bad these days. Socially deviant behavior had been growing steadily, well, normal, and Kit wasn’t sure if she should be pleased or saddened by this. Even so, people had expected her to grow out of it, but she didn’t. Now, here she was, a weirdo college dropout living with her parents who would still rather screw around with her friends than get a job.

Sitting in the gutter with my head wrapped in my hands
I've been drinking all night, and I just can't stand the pain

"What’s that you’re listening to?" A voice brought Kit from the depths of her thoughts and back to reality. She opened her eyes to meet the sharp, intelligent eyes of her friend, Stephen. Most people thought of him as the smart guy who was a little off. Kit thought of him as the only other person crazy enough to act as childish as she did. She pressed pause and lowered the headphones.

"The Firm. It’s pretty good. You want a turn?"

Stephen snorted. "Please. Zeppelin was cool, but Page never did anything good after that. Firm reeks."

"Yeah, well you can go check out your, ‘Gnarly McDepressing," or whatever it is you listen to these days." Kit put the headphones back on and pressed play.

It took an awful lot of trouble just to make me understand
Now it's clear to me, but will it ever be the same?

Kit stopped swaying for a moment as a look of puzzlement crept over her face. She slowly put her hands to the headphones, now concentrating on the music intensely. There was something... A thought she couldn’t quite grasp. Just out of reach of her consciousness, floating there, like a lost wrench on a space station.

Now then tell me baby, do you need my love?
Tell me baby, are you thinking of me?
Tell me baby, what it is you need?
What kind of satisfaction guaranteed?

A memory floated up from the dank depths of Kit’s unconsciousness, floating up but not quite breaching the surface. She couldn’t quite place it, or even visualize it. She knew it was there, though, and a powerful feeling of deja vu swept over her.

Head upon the highway, just as fast as I could go
I rode through the night, and halfway through the day
I had no direction I didn't even want to know where I was going
The only thing I knew, was that I had to get away

Kit slowly lowered the headphones, staring out into space, trying to grasp that tenuous thread of memory. She must have looked like she had gone into a trance, or something, because Stephen came up to her and asked, "Hey, are you alright?"

The memories disappeared as suddenly as they had came, and Kit snapped out of her trance. "What? Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Yeah..." Kit trailed off, now examining the album cover. "Stephen, do you have any money on you?"

"Yeah, I have a few bucks. But why..."

"You need to buy me this."
"What? Look, if you want a new album I’ll spot you the money, but that’s just terrible. I can’t let you have that in good conscience."

"Stephen, this is really important, and I don’t have time to listen to your musical elitism. Please, I’ll explain later, I just need to have this album."

Stephen sighed and reached into his pocket for some money. He had his convictions, but knew when to act serious. He handed over the money without saying anything more.

Kit tore the CD case open as soon as she made it out of the store and hustled to Stephen’s car. "I need to use your car’s CD player," she said hurriedly.

"What? Aw, don’t make me listen to them too."

The half-realized memory flashed through Kit’s mind. Kit tried to grasp it once more, but it slipped through, forgotten. "Stephen, really, this is important." Stephen rolled his eyes and got in the car, turning on the electrical systems. Kit popped the CD in immediately and sat there, staring at the CD display and listening to the CD intently. She sat in silence through the first song. Then through the second.

"What..." Stephen began, but Kit cut him off with a "shhh" and a dirty look. She listened to the third, fourth, and fifth songs as Stephen paced around outside. "Look," he said finally, "this is going to run me out of batteries, if it hasn’t already. We’ll go back to my place and you can listen to it there." Kit nodded and ejected the CD. Stephen ignited the car and set off.

"What’s with you anyways," Stephen asked when they were on the road, driving out of the city and into the outlying suburbs, "What’s so important about this?"

Kit said nothing for a few minutes. Then she said softly, almost in whisper, "I don’t know." She spoke up, "I just get this feeling when I hear the songs. Like a memory, from long ago, that I can’t quite remember. Does that make sense?"

Stephen nodded and said nothing else for the rest of the drive. They both lived about half an hour out of the city, but there was nothing really to do out there, so they often drove in together. Kit watched the scenery go by; it was familiar, but it also seemed to Kit that she was seeing it for the first time.
The day wore on. Kit popped the CD into Stephen’s player almost as she reached the apartment, and sat still until well into the evening. Stephen went out grocery shopping and came back to find Kit asleep in her chair and the CD still playing on repeat. He covered her with his blanket and went to bed himself, troubled by the day’s events and worried about his friend. He stared at his ceiling for a long time before his eyes finally grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep.

The next day Kit was in a frenzy. She tore through Stephen’s books, looking through everything she could get her hands on. She looked through everything she could find, looking for something, anything familiar. She went through fiction, anthologies, biographies, literary journals, everything. Finally, she settled on a page in an atlas, turned to the state of Wisconsin. "There," she told Stephen, "I have to go there."
"Good luck with that," Stephen snorted, not looking forward to cleaning up his apartment after she had pulled every book off the shelf.

"Please, Stephen," Kit was nearly in a panic, "There’s something to this, just below the surface. It’s like an alarm in my brain, but I can’t tell what the alarm is for." She began to pace, lashing out with her arms to emphasize her words. "I’m telling you, this is important. I need to find out what’s eating at my brain so badly."

Stephen looked around and weighed his options. He thought about the hassle, and the cost, of driving to Wisconsin. Then he looked at the desperation in his friend’s eyes and gave in.

"Alright. Let’s go."

The drive there was quiet, except for the album Kit would play every once in awhile, to try to reawaken those memories. They ate and slept when the drive became too exhausting, then hit the road early the next day. Stephen tried to make conversation a couple of times, but Kit said next to nothing. As she watched the road it was if there was some grand transformation in the highway ahead of her. She neared her destination, and it seemed more and more familiar to her. Soon she started directing Stephen, telling him where to get off, which roads to take. She had never been outside of New York in her life, but there was an urgent familiarity to the roads, as if someone had laid out a golden path for her to follow. Finally, they came to a sign, and Kit knew she had reached the end of her destination: Welcome to Loganville.

Kit nearly ran through the streets of Loganville, ignoring the looks she got from people about her appearance, ignoring the shouts of, "freak," aimed at Stephen and herself. "This place is total hicksville. Lets get out of here, yeah?" Stephen whispered, but there was an urgent speed in Kit’s gait. Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. Kit stopped in front of a house, like most of the other houses, but somehow it seemed to stand out. It drew Kit. She trembled as she went up to the house, not sure whether to feel scared, exhilarated, or stupid, but the house seemed to call out to her, and it was too late to come back. As she reached out to knock on the door, Kit realized she had no idea what she’d say. Still, she had to know.

The door opened, and Kit half expected to see aliens, or men with shotguns, or something. She was wholly unprepared for what did open the door: the most familiar stranger Kit had ever met.

The woman who opened the door froze the minute she laid eyes on Kit; her face went white and her mouth was frozen into an "O." Kit was sure she had never seen this woman in her life; this much she knew. At least, that’s what her head told her. She had a feeling, though, that said that she was intimately familiar with this woman; that she loved this woman. Kit tried to subdue the feeling; there was no rational reason to think that she knew this woman. Even so...

Finally, after half a minute of staring at one another, the woman spoke. Her voice was nearly a whisper, as if she didn’t dare to hope that what she was seeing was real. "Katherine? Is that you?" Kit’s eyes widened; the woman knew her name. "You’ve come home," the woman said, on the verge of tears, and threw her arms around Kit. Suddenly, it all came back to her, the memories hitting her like a tempest wind.

Thoughts came into her head, and it seemed as if Kit’s world was split asunder, into two warring factions. There was all of a sudden these new memories, that Kit knew didn’t belong to her life, but seemed more real than any of the memories she had. This house, the woman, the town; she had grown up here. She didn’t live in New York with her parents; she lived alone, but thought it was her parents for some reason. Did she really live here, in Loganville, Wisconsin? Which of her memories were real? Were any memories real?

The world seemed to spin, and darkness drew around Kit. "Kit!" "Oh, God, what’s wrong?" "Call for help!" The words blurred together, indistinct. Kit’s eyes closed, and her last thought was to wonder if this conversation was even real.

* * * * *

The first thing Kit was aware of was the noise of an engine and the jostling of a dirt road, a jostling so oddly familiar to one who had grown up driving over asphalt. She forced her eyes open, and the world was blurry at first, but gradually it came into focus. There was a man standing over her. A doctor, or something, from the look of him. He seemed to be preparing a needle for injection. Kit realized that she was inside an ambulance.

The medical officer looked over to her. "Oh, you’re awake. No, don’t try to move yet. Just relax. That was quite an ordeal you went through." The medical officer picked up her wrist and felt her pulse. "I can imagine that you have a lot of questions running through your mind. Our subjects usually do, when they figure it out."

"Wha... What?" Kit managed to stammer, "What do you mean? What’s happening to me."

"You," the medical officer said, then stopped to think, "well, it’s so hard to begin. It’s always like this. You’d think they’d have make a pamphlet by now." He stopped to laugh, and then continued, "You see, your brain’s been, shall we say, broken into. Luckily, we were onto your attacker, and were keeping tabs on you. Abducting you would have seemed suspicious, so we waited until you have an episode. Sure, we could grab you off the street, but less questions are asked this way."

"My memories." Kit’s voice was very weak and slow, but the medical officer seemed to have patience.

"Fake. It’s likely that your memories of Wisconsin are fake too. They often create several false lives, to better cover their tracks if the subject happens to remember their old lives. It’s like the false memories are in layers, and you need to break through each layer to get to the next one. Such a thing can happen spontaneously, and is usually triggered by something that the subject had a strong emotional attachment to in their ‘real’ remembered life. But, enough of that for now. It’s time for you to rest. You will be put into recovery, and more of your questions will be answered. I should tell you now, though, that your memories may never be recovered."

Kit lay back, taking in all this information, suddenly doubting the reality of her life. She thought of the road behind her, and suddenly wasn’t sure if any of it was real. She thought of the road ahead. Perhaps she would find answers there.

[Fat Daddy]

Well it looks like Vorpal Tribble made the deadline with 10 whole minutes to spare. Unfortunately, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, averagejoe posted 1 hour 57 minutes past the deadline.

Judges, start your engines. Once all the judgements are in, I will post official brackets for the next round along with links and I will re-post the rules/guidelines with clarifications. Thanks everyone! I hope you all are having as much fun with this as I am.

[Bryn]

Did Amotis post a story? I don't think so, but I hope I don't win by default... Just because.

[Fat Daddy]

Did Amotis post a story? I don't think so, but I hope I don't win by default... Just because.

Post #127 on page 5. Amotis was actually the first one to post an entry.

[Bryn]

Don't know how I missed that. Thanks though.

Well, there goes any possible chance of me winning...

Amotis, good luck in the next competition!

[King_of_GRiffins]

Well, there goes any possible chance of me winning...

My thoughts exactly. If I do lose, at least I lost to VT

Well, pre-cheers for the winners, I hope the next contest begins earlier than Feb.

[DarkLightDragon]

My thoughts exactly. If I do lose, at least I lost to VT

Well, pre-cheers for the winners, I hope the next contest begins earlier than Feb.

That would be nice. I'm having trouble deciding wether I want to enter the next one or stay a judge though!

[averagejoe]

Well it looks like Vorpal Tribble made the deadline with 10 whole minutes to spare. Unfortunately, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, averagejoe posted 1 hour 57 minutes past the deadline.

Oh, shoot. I forgot about the whole eastern time thing. I thought I was a good hour before the deadline. Blah. Ah, well, there's always next time.

[Yawielas]

I haven't read all of the entries yet, but I must say I'm deeply impressed by the writing talents of the other participants. Very nice work, people:)

[Timberwolf]

Sorry guys, RL hit me massively hard last week. This is (1,20am, thawing my hands out after driving the last 3 hours) the first uninterrupted 5 mins I've had to myself since monday. Bah, life sucks sometimes, better luck next time I hope.