300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- VICTORY TO SPRINGS!

[The Storyteller]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

The Burning Totem​

I walked through my village as I had every morning for two years, but nothing had changed; the village remained lifeless.

Familiar tears burned my eyes; it hadn’t worked. It never worked. Filled with aching emptiness, I returned to the jumble of metal scraps hung on their pole, the result of endless scavenging and arranging. The Totem of Life; the darkest and most difficult of magics. Every day I tried to master it, and every day I failed. But I couldn’t give up; I wouldn’t.

I pushed away my mother’s silent voice, knowing what she would say. She would tell me to move on, to let them go. You don’t understand; I can do this! Gazing at the totem, I struggled to think of an arrangement I hadn’t tried yet.

A sudden voice shattered the endless silence, and I whirled around in startled shock to face a group of travellers. A woman stepped forward, concerned. “Are you alone here?” I stared at her mutely, and her expression softened. “Plague took a terrible many. But not all. Come with us lass.”

“I…” My throat constricted, and I couldn’t speak. People. Living people. I didn’t have to be alone anymore. Torn, I turned back to the totem pole. The mask met my gaze with hollow eyes, frightening yet compelling. You will resurrect them, it promised.

But I knew what I had to do. “I will come,” I said. “But there is something I must do first.”

Facing the pole, I willed my fire to consume it. Flames blossomed on the wood, and I coaxed them into a roaring blaze of intense heat. Wood burned, metal twisted and melted. The spirits trapped in their iron totems rose into the sky, free at last.

Then I turned back to the living. “I am ready.”

 

[martin321]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Some Assembly Required

The shattered tower floated in the void, a thousand fragments glittering with a reddish hue under Betelgeuse's baleful glare.

The chief artificer threw down his control crystal, tentacles quivering with disgust. His third eyestalk swivelled as he looked for someone to blame. When his gaze alighted on Xark, he realised that he could sever two tentacles with a single cut. The squidling was of the Nerethar Consortium, a constant source of grit in his orifices. Here was a chance to disgrace that shoal of malcontents before the triple-eyed Emperor.

"You." The chief artificer pointed a tentacle at Xark.

"Sir?" squeaked the squidling.

"You misread the blueprints and this is the result."

"But I didn't-"

"You dare to contradict me?"

"No," said Xark, too flustered to avoid the obvious trap. "That's to say, I believe there's an error in the blueprints."

"Nonsense. They came from the Emperor himself. Is he at fault?"

"No," said Xark, quivering.

"No. Of course not. The assembly must be done again, and this time no mistakes."

"Yes, sir."

"I have a meeting to attend, so you'll have to complete the construction without me. The tower must be finished before the arrival of the Emperor's flotilla. No excuses."

"Yes, sir."

The artificer glided out of the control room, leaving ripples of fear in his wake. If that idiot, Xark, took it upon himself to reinterpret the blueprints then nothing would save him from the maw of the great leviathan.

**

Having spent two cycles in the steamy pleasure baths of Caricaduli, the artificer was almost jovial when he returned. He'd soon see the mess that Xark had created. Complete chaos with any luck.

But a view screen showed the ornate sculpture hanging in space, fully assembled, with no pieces left over this time.

 

[Phyrebrat]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

The Job

Eric twisted away from Sonja’s grasp.

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Just shut up.’ she said, dragging the wailing child along the waxed hallway floor.

Outside: sirens, tyres screeching, car doors slamming. She could hear firearms being prepared and furtive movement as the police positioned themselves around the curator’s rambling three-storey Dutch Colonial.

She passed an open window and caught a momentary lick of gardenia, so thick it was almost liquid in her nose. Someone outside asked, ‘Any sign of her?’

‘Let me GO!’ Eric’s last word extended in a scream as Sonja yanked his arm to bring him close. She thought of the sweet gardenia, the patchwork shadows on the sunny front lawn, and the chuckling waterfall in the garden pond. How the hell did things get so bad so quickly? Why did she take this job? And where were the brat’s parents? They were meant to be here by now.

A muffled thud from downstairs: What was that? The police trying to get in? She hesitated, thankful Eric was snuffling back his tears, and moved onwards to the stairs. The house was littered with the curator’s anthropology treasures. Probably one of the relics had fallen from its stand during her struggle with Eric.

‘Is the child okay?’ someone called; a different voice than before.

Now she was passing the front room with that hideous moving statue. She didn’t look; in her mind she saw its flat face and seaweed hair, the metal apron and hooked cleaver.

The front door burst inwards. The curator and two policemen tumbled in.

‘Are you safe?’ he asked.

‘YES! What’s going on?’

‘On the phone, you told my wife our moving statue scared you.’

‘Yeah…’ She turned to point at it.

Gone.

‘We don’t have a statue in the lounge!’

She never babysat again.

 

[JoanDrake]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

The Denver Totem


“Well?” The General said as they stepped into the tent


“Fascinating,” Lieutenant Barbie stepped forward and stood entranced. Her green eyes were intent and sparkling in a way the General had never seen. He let her stand in silence for long time, but finally spoke, feeling like he was interrupting a nun in deep prayer.


“It is interesting, no doubt, but what does it mean, Lieutenant?“.


Brenda Barbie looked at her commander. She shook her head, blonde curls bouncing, like someone just awakening from a trance.
“Yes, well,” her voice was still hushed, as if she was speaking in Church. She hesitated again, until finally the General cleared his throat.


“The bottom is Pan, that clearly indicates Classical influences, I’d say Radnax. The top is a horseshoe, but these people have never seen horses, so it’s a Celtic symbol. Again, typical Radnax eclecticism. There’s a boathook and a chain so we see Lakes cultures effects. Also what appears to be an actual can opener so there are overtones of Past Worship.” She stopped.


“And the thing just above Pan?”

“I can’t figure that at all, “ the Lieutenant stepped forward and viewed the pole from several angles. “It seems vaguely like something from the really ancient Southwest Asian civilizations, maybe Babylonian or even Sumerian, but that would make no sense here.”


“And of lesser significance?” the General’s voice was becoming brusque, damn these inconclusive scientists, even if she was his niece.


“Oh no, the central position indicates who the god being worshiped actually is, the mask of Pan below may indicate he’s a relative or just has a similar position in the pantheon. The things above are what the Central god rules over. This pole is all about him, or her, little else.”

 

[Droflet]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Heavy Metal

“It’s artistic value is beyond measure.”

Colin gazed at the, the, whatever it was. Unlike his girlfriend he knew nothing about artsy things. I’ve got more art in my –

“Don’t you think it’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, boy, that’s really something, alright.”

“And we know next to nothing about it except that it is old beyond carbon. Found in a cave in the Ural Mountains, last year. It defies all current thinking on the state of ancient artifacts. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“What?”

“I agree absolutely with you darling.”

“Yes, well, right. She tapped her finger against her cheek while studying the artifact. You know this reminds me of something.”

A car wreck?

“But it’s so different so obscure. I can’t think of a word to describe it.”

Shi –

“What do you think.”

“Me? Hey you’re the art buff not me.”

“Come on, this could be fun.”

“Okay. Ah, mysterious? Ambiguous? Enigmatic?” A load of crap that someone thought was art so everyone got onboard the same wagon. Bloody artistic snobs.

“Yes, it is an enigma. Hmmm.”

“Maybe I should ask it what it is?” He chuckled but Sarah, as usual, didn’t appreciate his keen instinct for stand-up comedy.

“So, big guy, what’s your story.” He grinned at Sarah who’s face now resembled a living scowl. Desperate to extricate himself from an every deepening hole he reached out and touched it.

Then it spoke to him.

You are the one.

“I’m the one what?” He pulled his hand back as if he’d been patting a crocodile.

In the first second he understood the origins of this life-form. The intellect, the knowledge, the crushing power. In the next second he ceased to exist as the entity consumed him.

 

[mosaix]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Root And Branch


Old Joe washed dishes at Rita’s Bar. No one could remember a time when he wasn’t at the sink, suds up to his elbows. Sometimes, after closing on a Saturday, he’d sit in a corner and enjoy a quiet drink with Frank the barkeep and Sam the pianist, before making his way home in the dark.

“There’s a face out there.”

“What?”

“A face. Out there in the bushes behind the bar. I seen it a couple of times before but now it’s there most nights staring back through the window, just as dusk comes on.”

“You feeling alright, Joe?”

“Fine, Sam. Still not sleepin’ too well even though the inquest was months ago. Can’t get it out of my head. But there’s nothin’ wrong with my eyes – had ‘em checked over a week or two back.”

“So what’s this face like?” asked Frank

“It’s her. Wind moves the leaves and stuff around, the face comes and goes. I was never a one to believe in these things but I know it’s her.”

“Her?”

“The kid. She’s watchin’ me.”

“Can’t be her. Besides, why you? You weren’t to blame, everyone knows that.”

“You mean well, Sam, but you weren’t drivin’,” said Joe getting up from the table and shuffling out the door.

“What can we do, Frank? Any ideas?”

“One or two. I think I might visit a friend of mine who has just the thing.”

– – –

“Joe seems a bit brighter.”

Frank shifted uncomfortably. “I thought so too.”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with me seeing you round the back of the bar on Joe’s night off, would it?”

Frank shifted some more. “Maybe.”

“Can’t you sit still?”

“Not with a sharp pair of pruning shears in my hip pocket I can’t. About time I returned them.”

 

[Boneman]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Lucifer
​

They say it was a timepiece, a way to track the sun. Or a watchtower. Or a defined barrier between the desert and the forest.

What do they know?

They know it doesn't rust, doesn't degrade. They know birds will not alight on it, insects will not approach it.

So they fear it, rightly.

The man came out of the desert, aboard a machine of fearsome complexity and the villagers drew back as it roared up to them and fell silent mysteriously.

"At last!" breathed the man. He sat astride the machine, his gaze fixed on the object and those who looked upon him saw his triumph, his avarice and the desire on his face. Rough beard, leather clothes and muscles made up the rest of him.

"Am I the first?" he asked.

"Aye stranger, you are," the headman replied. "None have crossed the desert since the Days of the Red Sun."

"Has any dared touch it?"

"Only foolish young men," the headman replied. "And then only once."

"They survived?"

"Nay."

The man nodded. He dismounted and studied the column.

"Whence came these artefacts?" he asked, pointing to the horseshoes and the carved metal faces.

"We know not. Our forebears hung them, perhaps."

The man drew a length of wondrous rope from a saddlebag, Sinuous, like a snake, blue and yellow and green coils, and shiny. He pushed one end into a receptacle on the machine and all the villagers fell back as he approached the monolith.

He knelt and thrust the other end into the base of the structure. People fled as the tower shook and rattled.

The diagnostic programme corrected the fault, the short-circuit righted and the lamp post blazed light again after two hundred years.

 

[chrispenycate]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

I am magnetism.​

Bipolar, I cancel out at distance, but close I overwhelm gravity.

I dance in the aurora, shield the Earth from cosmic particles, and hold your shopping list to your fridge door.

I teach iron to cling, to bind, to adhere. Oh, I stir the plasma in the heart of stars, twist nebulae into birthing stars, and spin round neutron stars at vertiginous speed, but you planet dwellers will always see me as tied to a solid, the cusp in the atomic energy curve: iron. I can be stroked in with a lodestone, hammered in hot, or lightning generated, but always in iron, and always attractive and repulsive at the same time.

So iron is what I use as a symbol. Iron, bane of faerie, symbol of all progress from bronze pricing itself out of the market until the industrial revolution, where steel became omnipresent. And with the rails traversing continents, their magnetism, my essence, spread.

Horseshoes, symbol of the farrier, so often the incarnation of Smith. Even in the rare periods between wars, where weapons were hung on walls slowly rusting, rather than being broken on battlefields, horses still threw shoes, and wore them out, and ships went on losing anchors and chains.

But the collection contains weapons, too. and hinges and catches. I collect, from all around, and the symbol is me. Layer on layer, attraction is not shielded by the objects already drawn by me, drawn to me; it is focused, intensified

And the last focus of all is a face. Humanity, the concentrator of the flux, mining more ore to strengthen me every day, for four thousand years.

For I am magnetism.

 

[The Spurring Platty]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Final Struggles

Our Elders teach that life is a struggle. After death, one more struggle must be endured. It is this final struggle, of the soul freeing itself from the body, that allows the soul to truly achieve rest. A rest with no struggling and pain, only joy.

We buried him face down, the large timber marker crushing down on his back. Just in case his soul turned around, the pole was greased. Nothing marked it otherwise. Better he be forgotten. The grave we filled in with dirt and any heavy rocks that could be found. The earth can have his soul, let him claw and scrape deeper and deeper. It still doesn’t seem enough for what he did to an innocent child.

Her body we placed in a climbing position, arms wrapped around the pole. For her the struggle should be easier. No child should endure what she did in life. The pole was marked with good memories in the hopes it would draw her to her destination. Just one more small struggle to overcome. Soon her soul will feel the warmth of the sun again. Soon her soul will smell the flowers and taste the summer rain. Soon her soul will find peace.



.

 

[jastius]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Even Angels Scream

There were wonders in the marketplace if you had gold. Or were willing to pay in other ways.

Arlo had gotten a gun. A good one. Strong enough to make even Dark Angels pay. Hidden now in his vest, Angels couldn't see it and scream. Arlo wanted one to scream for him. Slowly. Like the way those children were killed. Taking their souls after ripping away their joy... their hope, then taking their lives as an afterthought.

Arlo didn't care that someone else had sold the kids to the market. Made the price. Even as he and his brother were sold into darkness.

Mordechai 'the butcher' had done his work too well this time. Mordechai had made a Desolation. Stinking of hell spawn and corrupted beyond foulness. The screams of angels still echoed within. Smaller guardians caught trying to rescue those souls from the butcher.

All that was left were the tools of Mordechai’s trade. The chains to bind, the iron to burn, and the Soul Eater’s mask. To take the innocent to hell, child and host both.
Now it was Arlo’s turn.

The giggling lunatic, Arlo’s mirror image; still awaited Arlo, thinking himself unassailable. Arlo took out his gun. Fired. Ruthlessly Arlo watched the fire of Mordechai's unmaking began.

Arlo listened. When Mordechai’s screams were barely a whisper, Arlo detonated the God’s Eye. Then the Lost were unwoven. Mordechai released those trapped souls, riven into a salt pillar along with his cursed tools.

Arlo smiled. Then stumbled. Each soul he saved took a price of his own. This bankrupted him. “Something worth the cost,” He laughed, as the children took flight, the last thing Arlo saw as he was riven into the salt pillar along with his brother.

Today was a good day for Dark Angels to die.

 

[The Judge]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

My Father’s Daughter


Cold lies the forge where my father worked his magic of fire and metal. Cold and grey like the ashes of his funeral pyre.

Once this was a place of wondrous colour – flames of red and gold, of azure, turquoise and virgin white, the shimmering ochres and amber of bronze and copper, the pearl and granite of steel and iron. Noise rang, steam rose. Now all is still. Dead.

He died at the hands of his sons, my brothers. They had grown impatient with his teaching, his peace, with making ploughshares and pruning hooks for the mortals. They wished to forge weapons, great swords of power, glaives and spears, to set the mortals to war with one another. So they killed him, then ate his flesh and drank his blood to gain the knowledge he had kept from them.

Knowledge they gained, and I see how they have used it. War and famine stalk the peaceful land my father made, the mountains he cast up, the fields and orchards his craft tended. My brothers have been busy in the years since his murder. But so have I.

Earth and wood, air and fire and water, all submitted to my father’s will; that knowledge my brothers have not learned.

A word, a sign of hands, and flames erupt from the long-dead charcoal hearth, the bellows breathe, the anvil frees itself of soot and soil, the water cask refills, and the earth gives up its ribs of ore to me.

I am no smith as my brothers are, broad of shoulder, strong of limb; my withered arm will never wield a hammer, my misshapen back can bear no heavy load. But I am a smith as my father was. And I will forge anew his land, his peace.

.

 

[BigJ]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Testing Faith, Embracing Fate

“If you enter that ring, he will kill you.”

“He will only probably kill me.”

“Lieutenant . . . “

“I’m aware of the odds.”

“It is not too late to save your soul, my son.”

“Father, please.”

“I seek only to guard you against damnation.”

“You are aware of my beliefs, Father.”

“There is an ancient saying, Lieutenant; ‘There are no atheists in foxholes.’”

“Yes, but what good are a man’s convictions if he abandons them at the earliest convenience?”

“Not much good, Lieutenant.”

“I know you act out of love, Father, but though I sometimes envy your faith, I do not share in it.”

“I understand, Lieutenant. I will pray for you.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

With that the priest left me alone in the staging room. I had been delivered here an hour ago, naked, alone save for the clamour of hundreds of thousands of spectators filtering down through the stone and sand.

I was somewhere deep in the bowels of an amphitheatre that reminded me of the Roman Coliseum of ancient times, long before the War of the Apocalypse, and the Scattering. This planet was a Lost Colony our diplomatic delegation had been sent to coerce into the fold of the Galactic Commonwealth, but we had been met with aggression and a display of unprecedented martial prowess.

Negotiations would only proceed pending the outcome of my duel with their champion. Evidently victory was unnecessary; an honourable death would do.

The bell chimed from overhead. I approached the weapons rack, passing over the sickle, the daggers, taking the ******* sword and the buckler; the partial face mask was mandatory.

The bell chimed again, and I stepped onto the platform in the far corner of the room. It began to rise, carrying me into the sunlight to meet my fate.

 

[TheDustyZebra]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Passing of the Torch



As they approached for the first time, the sculpture smiled.

It was a good sign. Lots of people loved the house, but didn't like the garden.

Some liked the garden, but the garden didn't like them.

We'd nearly despaired of ever finding a buyer, though we knew when the time was right, one would come.

Then came the Wilsons.

Henry loved the library, and the views. Michael adored the kitchen. Both loved the garden.

They approached the sculpture. This was make or break.

“Interesting lines -- what is it?” Henry walked around back, admiring every angle.

“We don't know, exactly, but it's been here for centuries.”

“How do you know?” Michael asked, interested, reaching out to feel an intricate turning of copperwork. As his fingers touched the sculpture, he froze; I watched intently, and sure enough, he flickered. His eyes widened.

“Oh!” he said, and “oh!” again. He took Henry's hand, reached for the sculpture with it, and this time they both flickered. This time, Henry's eyes went wide.

“How can you possibly sell this place?” asked Michael. “You have to know what it is. You're selling a portal to another world -- to that world?” They had spent several days in the other world, together, and had come back to precisely the same moment in this one. “How could you give that up?”

But Henry realized the truth. “They're not giving up that world. They're giving up this one. Aren't you?” He turned to us.

“Everyone who has owned this place does, eventually. There's a journal in the library with all the records.”

They took the place, or it took them. We signed off in the journal, and they signed on.

As we approached for the last time, the sculpture smiled.

 

[Ursa major]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

Spoiler

.

Broken Peace​

We worship our swords. All the petty kingdoms of our Empire fear them, for no other weapon can match their strength. They’re rare. Only the Imperial Armoury can craft the metal from which they’re fashioned, and our soldiers guard them with their lives. Survive losing one and we put the whole family to death.

Our Empire is one of tribute, not direct rule. Our petty kingdoms send us food and luxury goods; in return, we do not lay waste to their lands. Many of our subjects, dissatisfied with our peace, call on gods, or myths – particularly one about an empire that fell millennia ago – to free them from our gentle yoke. None has answered.


We sent a small force into the mountains, following rumours of an ancient mine reopened. The force found a hidden valley, peopled by folk who worshipped a dead tree covered in scraps of bent metal and intricate pottery. They had nothing but food, shelter and clothing. We took their only valuables, their High Priestess and her dead tree. She’s held in the palace, awaiting interrogation.

As I enter, all seems well. The High Priestess stands before her tree. But something is wrong: her prayers sound like commands. On my hand signal, my guards gather round me.

The scraps leap from the tree, bending, flexing, changing shape, encasing the woman. Now in full armour, she runs at us. I fall and black out.

When I awake, the palace is intact, save for the armoury. It’s a smouldering wreck and all its workers are dead. Its secrets are gone. In its place stands a dead tree, on which hangs a plaque:

Our common ancestors came here to escape conflict on our home world. We shall not permit you to recreate that world here.​

Spoiler

.

 

[Ursa major]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #13 (April 2014) -- READ FIRST POST!

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