300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #16 -- VICTORY TO THE JUDGE

[Sancho]

The Death of Innocents

The tall, square-jawed young Commander combed his blond hair in the mirror wall. Nestra bounced in, brown eyes gleaming. She jumped on him, kissing him
"Quit messin up my uniform!" complained Shepherd,
"Did you get your orders?" asked Nestra
"Yup! Got the 1300s!" he readjusted his uniform, "You?"
"Yes, but... I've never killed anyone before!"
"Ain't about killin, Ness! It's about savin the gene pool."
"It's still terrible for them..."
"It's still orders for us!"

Nestra fired the Time ship's retro-thrusters, "Computer! Confirm date!"
"FEBRUARY 2015"
"Execute program YUTH-N8",
"INITIATING RE-ENTRY!"
The ship criss-crossed Eurasia, seeding cloud cover, finishing in Geo-synchronous orbit.
"SCANNING DISPERSION RATE..."
Nestra watched people emerge from their homes as the sun rose...
"SPACE-TIME DISTRESS BEACON DETECTED"
"WHERE?" she shouted.

Nestra exited her Time ship, strode up and touched her security tags to the Continuum symbol on the petrified tree stump. It shimmered open...
A bent, wrinkled old man tumbled out. Nestra dived to catch him.
He looked up, "Thank you Ness."
"Shepherd?..."
She cradled his head, "...What happened to you?"
"Crashed in 1300's!... Had to watch millions die from bubonic plague, THAT I SEEDED! Children... whole cities erased!" He rasped, "Couldn't face it! Tried to kill myself but...I met someone.
"Who?"
"Someone so innocent, so good! Ness! Over the years she showed me how to help survivors."
"You only left this morning...?"
"After she died..." he coughed toward the stump. "...built dimensional stasis field... Knew you'd find me."

"Ness!... I was wrong. WE do have a choice! Don't activate virus! Save... us!" He thrust something into her hand, sighed and lay still!
Opening her hand, Nestra found her own, timeworn security tags. She compared it to the shiny ones around her neck. They were identical? Except for one word scratched on the back, "INNOCENT!"

 

[holland]

Maybe Tomorrow

I close my eyes and find myself in her backyard once again.

There they are, her and me, sitting on her garden swing. It’s a warm summer’s evening and we're looking at the stars. I hesitate to come any closer as I’m afraid they’ll see me, but I know what they’re talking about anyway. I'm telling her the names of constellations.

I stand behind the tree as I always do, and just watch them. This was the last time I ever talked to her, the last time I held her hand.

Two hours go by and I go home. She goes to bed early, as she has a long drive ahead of her in the morning. We kiss good-bye, one last time.

I’m reluctant to go back to the present, I always am, but I decide I’ll stay a little longer this time. The light in her room goes off. I miss her so much. Maybe tomorrow…

I take the medallion in my hand and close my eyes. I’m back in the present. The storm is still raging outside, just like I left it. I take a sip of the cold coffee left over in my mug and check the AI for any progress. Nothing. I fax over to her room downstairs.

Don’t worry honey, one of these days the AI will figure out how to bring you back, just like he’s figured out everything else.

I curl up in front of her stasis tomb, plug in and fall asleep, just like I’ve been doing for centuries now. He’ll figure out, he must. Maybe tomorrow.

 

[Glen]

a moment of madness

wood carving takes me away from all this. the smell transforms me. i found the tools during demolition. pulling down the old north quarter to put up the new hives. each stroke of the blades over the whetstone a moment of madness that could give me away.

this world is so different to the one she knew and even then we had lost so much.

they will put up a hive here soon and there will be nowhere to hide the chess men i made. like secret agents themselves. they are hidden in unlikely places that won’t exist in the new cell.

the police came here. i wanted to scream. hit them. but i bit my tongue. made them a koffler brew. made out I was desperate. that it was the last of my stash. until they left.

all our freedoms taken away. like the shift and punctuation keys on this keyboard. when we think there is nothing else left to take. they take more.

more than once i have found myself razing the skin of my wrists with the edge of a chisel

she knocked on my door. heart in her mouth. waiting wide-eyed. scared. to present me with a small block of hardwood she had found. a trophy. that moment was a triumph for her. a selfless act of love in a locked down constrained world. I moment of love that is the core of me.

i can not see the keyboafx

this diary is madness. but the carving is madness also. i will miss her forever.

the agents do not know. but i am building a third army. not another army of chessmen. an army of people who each hold memories like mine. human memories.

we will not let them go.

 

[Moonbat]

The Whimsical Nature of Scientific Megalomania

“Booglarian Ants have all the mandible dexterity required, but they don't have the artistic flair of the Hajungan beetle.”

“So what did you do?”

“I bred them.”

“How did you breed an Ant from the Booglarian desert with a beetle from the Hajungan forests? They are completely separate species, they evolved on different planets.”

“Well it wasn't easy I'll tell you that, it took an inordinate amount of smooth jazz and not a little alcohol. But eventually I managed to get a fertile pair into a situation with just the right balance of temptation and danger.”

“So the obvious question....”

“You want to know what position they used, well.....”

“No, no. Not at all, although. No. I just wondered why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you do this?”

“Because that's what people like me do, we probe the universe and answer the unfathomable questions. Questions like what is the square root of all evil? What do shadows really want and why do they lurk? What does defeat taste like? What colour is a banana and how did it help Einstein dance so well?”

“I can understand that some people answer useful questions, but I don’t even know what the question you've answered is.”

“Well then you wouldn't be ready for the answer.”

“What is the answer?”

“What is the question?”

“Why?”

“Because if I don't know the question then how can I give you an answer?”

“No, the question is why? Why do all this? Why breed two totally unrelated insects-analogues in an effort to create one with dexterous mandibles and a flair for the artistic?”

“Because when they plague a planet they will carve things like this.”

“So there isn’t a reason then?”

“Nope, but I had to spend my grant on something.”

 

[JoanDrake]

The Stone - Arrival​

Karl, it’s here”

“What?” the big man looked up from his pigs at his wife’s call, a bucket of slops still in hand, “you mean they sent it anyway?.” He threw the bucket down and stalked off around the barn to his front yard, where a group of five men were struggling with a large object. “Ho,” he shouted. “Stop that, no, take it away”

A man all in red looked up, “Karl, this was decided at the Althing, it’s an honor, and a tradition....

“Tradition my blue butt,” shouted Karl.”Send it to Jorgi’s or Eric’s, they want it, I don’t”

“They each had it in years before,” began the red man.

“Aye, and each had disease, dead animals and strife with the wife for the entire year. It curdles milk, makes the pigs sick and my wife has headaches all the time now. It’s a curse, take it away”

"We've been over this, it’s your turn” The other men heaved and there was a thump as the large object slid off the wagon and stood upright in Karl’s yard. They all tilted the wagon back level and began to haul the vehicle away.


“I’m telling you, I’ll throw it in the sea.”Karl shouted at the retreating men.

“You’re welcome to if you can, that’s the agreement” replied the red man.

Karl turned back to the stone, muttering darkly, It already looked as if it had been in his yard for years

 

[Remedy]

Fencer

As a young lad, Samol learned the craft of his father; fence making.

He’d built tiny fences for witches to coral their toads. Huge fences for the dragon-mages to paddock their beasts. And standard barriers for farmers’ livestock.

He loved his work more than anything, but no one seemed to appreciate it.

After Samol’s father died, he continued fencing alone. Stake by stake. Rail by rail. But Samol grew bitter.

Folk approached his fences but never took time to admire. They only ever wanted to see what was within and beyond the fence. Children climbed his works, rocking them, bending them… dirtying them.

*​

In later life, Samol took up stonework and metalwork. He strengthened his gates with stone pillars and ran barbed wire between the stakes. Samol’s fences became stronger, yet nobody seemed to care.

See my beautiful creations! He found himself saying within his thoughts.

Darkness engulfed Samol. He started hating the townsfolk.

They take me for granted. My fences have become mundane; a background noise, invisible.

*
​

At night he worked furiously, not on fencing, but on a huge stone carving. He bought a simple plot of land and set about building a magnificent fence during the day.

He despised the stone carving at home.

Oh they’ll come see it. A fascinating trinket to find within a fence. They’ll see…

Fence complete and the statue done, he moved the caving to the centre of his paddock.

Drawing a knife across his open palm, Samol bled over the stone, chanting ancient words.

He vanished.

*​

“Jane look! What a wonderful carving, let’s go and see.”

“Ok, quickly, we’re late.”

“The detail is magnificent, I wonder if it’s as smooth as it loo-“

What!? Jane? JANE? Don’t touch it! I’m stuck in here!

…

SILENCE! YOU WILL LOOK AT MY FENCE!

 

[Sakarabru]

Heritage

»Say, how old do you think it is?« Gareth's voice echoed of excitement as he admired the bizarre monolith .

Vanys sighted. »Don't know, don't care.« He reached into his saddlebags for a canteen of wine. »Let's move on, we agreed to reach Winter's port before the sunset.«

Geret chuckled through the bush of his dense, grizzled beard, as he dismounted. »That filthy town can wait, don't you realize we stumbled across what just might have been work of the Old ones.«

He made his way towards the pillar, sliding his hand across an ancient carving, examining an ocular hole which dominated the pattern.

Vanys took a long sip of wine, its sweetness washing pleasantly down his throat. He'd never understood his friend's passion for antiques, though he enjoyed listening to him telling stories of yore by the campfire, tales of forgotten realms, of heroes and villains of old, but his favourite have always been those about the Old ones who had ruled the world, long before men came to be, dealing with demons and practicing lost, bedeviled arts.

However, as much as he loved nights spent by the campfire, he longed for a restful sleep.

»Gods, you're going to gawk at this damn rock for whole night?«

Garet glimpsed at Vanys, his eyes glossy. »I saw them,« he croaked »they're here...«

Vanys frowned. »What are you talking about? »

Geret's face went pale and empty as he made his way towards the mounts. »Voices ... whispers ... I must obey...«

He moved faster Vanys could follow, looking groggy a moment before, he suddenly lurched forward, blade gleaming in his hand.

»What the...« Vanys wasn't given time to respond, he just sat in his saddle, eyes wide as polished metal slid through his guts, red and silent and cold.

 

[Phyrebrat]

The Project Manager's Diary

Project: Bowenhenge - AD 700 (ish)
Site: Amesbury (off the A361)

Week 98
Got a new designer today after the last one was eaten in Earnanæs: Godric Llewellyn-Bowen; give him a white robe and a big stick and he thinks he's King Arthur. He pointed at the big Sarsen stones and said to Aetherlred, ‘No, no, no, I said BLUE, you mooncalf,’ then told him to take them back to Cardyffe, saying, ‘They aren't Bohemian enough, can’t anyone find me some Bohemian stones?’ He’s just a racist anyway, which is why he didn’t like the Welsh ones; they looked pretty blue to me.

You wouldn't think one little stone circle could create such drama but you know what these interior designers are like. It's all alchemy; lately he’s trying to lay the stones out with something from across the waters called feng shui. The Heel Stone needs to line up with the orange floaty thing, but it comes up in a different place every day, The flouncing old cockalorum failed at maths (he can only count up to ‘many’) and his intern, Niconachus, won’t help.

They’re so bloody heavy and he changes his mind three times a day. Aetherlred suggested putting the stones on a Lazy Susan and Bowen went bubonic; ‘Do you have any idea how much they cost? You think this is the Cotswolds?' then waltzed off to his Portakabarrow.

Not looking forward to tomorrow; it’s the ditch.

Week 156 - Final day.
We’ve run out of stones and guess who has to source more? Luckily the ice up the road’s melted and a load of Dolerite Bluestone erratics were left behind.

It’s the best I can do at short notice. God help me if they come from Wales.​

 

[Mr Orange]

Annihilation of the Gods

I stretch across the aeons,
I am here and I am at the beginning of time.
My ken seeded this rock;
We were, are and forever will be the chosen.

In the darkness before dawn we fly
Across deep, empty spaces
And infinitely deeper time,
Fleeing the ruin of our kingdom.
Pitiless forces would destroy us.
In the depths there is haven.

We are the creators,
Our wings rupturing the ether.
Gas and fire where there was none.
A unified, instant thought,
Breathing life into the swirling mass.
It is a mistake.

We watch as it takes hold.
Waiting. Idle but ever patient.
In the oceans, the forests,
The deserts and the mountains.
Content to lie in the shadows.

Something looks up to the sky.
A blink, and we are exposed.
And we are exulted.
For a time we welcome it.

But Gods are known in heaven.
Faith rings out across epochs
And reaches beyond galaxies.
And they hear.
And they come.
On the wings of darkness,
Bearing death.

I am the last.
Belief gave us strength
And we fought them for millennia.
Once, victory was near;
Now the faith, our lifeblood,
Has bled away.

I am the last.
Unheeded, blasphemed, betrayed.
A forgotten God at the end.
Breaking, scattering
To the ends of time and space.

This is the end of our age.
We were here.
We were at the dawn of time.
We have no future.
All that remains is our gift.

 

[Starbeast]

Blue Eyes and New Eyes
​

Somewhere on Earth, in the middle of nowhere. An elderly alien appears from another dimension.


"Greetings, Mr Grimm."

"About time you showed up. It's nearly sundown."

"I was delayed. However, you've protected my obelisk, and I'm here to reward you. As I agreed, I shall give your fiance, the gift, of sight."

"Thank you."

"I must say, you are a remarkable person Mr Grimm. You wanted nothing for yourself, but something for the one you love."

"Alicia means everything to me. I'd do anything for her."

"That's why I chose you, to guard my device. You're not selfish, you're honest, peaceful, and so much more."

"Yeah, I'm a nice guy. Now, how about Alicia?"

"Using my great powers, I shall send you to her."

*************************​

"Yikes. I'm right outside her apartment. I still can't believe I trusted a mysterious alien with magic powers. With powers like his, I could have become human again, and not a guy made of stone. But I'd rather have Alicia see. What better gift to give to a person who was born blind. I wonder what she'll say, when she sees me? I'm too nervous to knock on Alicia's door. She'll be able to see my granite puss for the first time. Yeah, the Thing, from the Fantastic Four. Big hairy deal."

(door suddenly opens)

"Ben?! I can see!!! Wow. You have the most beautiful eyes."

"That's the color blue. And I'm orange colored...and rocky...."

(she embraced him) "I love you."

"I don't scare you?"

"Oh, Ben. I have sense of touch, remember. I know what you look like. I didn't know my skin is so dark."

"Honey, there's a world of color I'd love to show you."

"Let's explore it tomorrow. Tonight, I want us to explore, each other."

 

[The Storyteller]

The Alien Gate​

The alien’s prison was nice enough; smiling ladies served him food, kept his cell clean, and took him for little walks about the enclosure. But Forester didn't care; he wasn't about to let those body-snatching villains conquer Earth without a fight.

Forester had played his part, pretending to be content and harmless. Now their guards were down, and he could escape. The moment he was left unattended, he made his move; stealing a car he sped off, soon arriving at his destination.

He only had a few minutes, but that was all he needed; pilfering supplies from the shed, he then hurried to the wooden totem through which the aliens’ souls came to Earth and invaded human bodies.

Forester doused the carven device with gasoline. His captors arrived, yelling at him to stop.

“Too late Space Fiends!” he cried, and lit the carving.

Forester was dragged away. Flame consumed the wood, and the gate was ruined.

* * *​

Becky stared at the charred remains of her sculpture. Grandpa had always loved her work. Now he was breaking out of the Home to burn it.

“He really believes that alien invasion stuff, doesn't he?” asked Jordan, incredulous. “I knew he was senile, but I can’t believe he thought your carving was an alien transporter!”

“Dr. Morrison said he was improving…” Becky sighed. “I better call Mom and tell her what happened.”

* * *​

Frowning, Dr. Morrison watched Forester through the observation window. “So, he still remembers…”

“Not where the real gate is, luckily for us, or this invasion would have ended before it began.”

“We can’t risk that happening; drastic measures must be taken. Making Forester senile clearly wasn't enough… I think it’s time the old man had a heart attack; don’t you Nurse?”

“I’ll see to it Commander.”

 

[jastius]

Spice


In the crowded human brothel's smokey air, Dream's song rang out.
He crept close, wings hidden behind his seeing shield.

Soul blind in song, this Lost could not taste his deadly spirit.

His shield poised for capture, Dream looked up into his eyes...and he was caught.

Her lips opened. Not to song. Breathing in. Tasting his soul.
His death blade went slack, he fell to his knees.

She exhaled, releasing him. Leaving him tasting... the spice of her soul.

Her wings raised, enfolding him in pure white light.

Hadn't he felt before? This... peace? Enfolding him.

He felt darkness drip from him in rebirth.
It wasn't... a tear?

Assassin Angels couldn't weep. Tears killed an assassin..

Slavishly he knelt within her eyes embrace, wanting her mercy kiss, that Death touch.
To release this soul's torment, letting his spirit find refuge in hers.

They were... tears.
Hers. His.

The womb of her wings remaking him.

Her spice surrounding, bathing him.
In ... love. Grace.

Then she freed him.

Their twined spirits snapped apart, sending him reeling.

He could see now. Truth.
There was a war among the Host.

And the Deceiver had held him and his brother assassins as unwitting vassals.
Blinded weapons attacking the Most High.

But now he knew himself forgiven. Renewed in bonds of Grace.

Her death mark was not for the theft of souls... But their return.

His master's foul works uncovered by truth, had intended him to eliminate that truth's source.

He watched her lips.

"Bring the others." She charged him.

Racing into the night upon fiery wings, he cast down his assassins shield and sword,
mute testament to his renewal now standing in a farmers field.

He would bring her his brothers to free.

Then perhaps she would allow him another taste of her spice.

 

[BigJ]

The Warrior's Twilight

The path is winding and my gait is slowed by the weight of years of combat
The wind howls through the barren trees, wailing a mournful lamentation
My sword burns with hunger on my back; the steel knows only thirst
Finally I brush aside grey hair to see the stone standing proudly alone in the glade

In the fading twilight I see the stone adorned with runes carved to her memory
So long forgotten, the memories flood over me without warning

Her auburn hair blowing in the north wind
Her slender figure glowing in the setting sun
Her emerald eyes dancing over midnight fires
Her toothy smile captivating my wicked mind
Her warm breath caressing the nape of my neck
Her milky flesh ensconced in my calloused hands

My tired eyes snap back to see the sun disappear over the trees
I cannot abide the weakness of the emotions and whims of the child I was
Yet here I stand, in the twilight of my life still tortured by the cruel hand of Fate
Yet here I stand, at the end of my time still bound in servitude to the cursed touch of Love

So many years had passed, would she be waiting for me beyond the shadow of this life?
A life spent in a maelstrom of steel and fire, could she forgive me for all the blood I’ve spilled?
When the beasts took her from me and left me alone, I swore my life to the Knights Errant
To live and die by the sword, for the steel knows only thirst, and this night one more soul to take

I lie alone with my sword by my side; life is pouring out of me
As the world fades to black, slender fingers grasp my hand

 

[TheDustyZebra]

Ode


Maybe this is the time.

Billie jumped a year ago, and my life ain't been the same. I see him everywhere, every time I turn around. Mama says it's just a tree, just shadows, shades of grey, but I know it's him. It's got his carvings. He's coming for me. And he's getting closer.

Billie was the stranger in town -- all the girls wanted him, but he wanted me. I'd had nobody for the longest time, but then it was me and Billie.

We did everything together. Mama wouldn't let him come around much, but we slipped off every chance we got. We'd hide in the woods, skinny-dip in the river, and Billie would carve in the trees. Then we'd pick some flowers and throw'em off the bridge. Billie always said, “Make a wish,” but I had my wish. I had Billie.

And then, oh God! I had Billie's baby. Well, I didn't have it, how could I? It wouldn't be just me and him no more. So I took care of that.

I thought Billie'd be happy, me keeping him out of trouble like that, but you should have heard him when I threw it off the bridge. He cried and cried. Then he picked a bunch more flowers and threw'em after, and he went and made a new carving in the big tree and said it was for the baby, and for life. But he walked me home, and when he kissed me he said everything would be ok.

The next day, he jumped.

Everywhere I look, I see that tree. “For life,” he said. Famous last words. He's dead, and I'm alone. I don't want to be alone anymore. I want Billie to come for me.

Maybe I'll jump today.

 

[Rafellin]

It Sings

Inspector Simon Legrand ducked under the awning that the soldier held open for him. Inside, a scene of careful chaos was playing out around an object that seemed quite at home.

“Inspector. How do you like our visitor?” The crouched figure didn’t even look up at him.

“It looks ancient, yet the ornamentation is atypical for Albion. Which leads me to conclude it’s a plant. A very good one, but a fake nonetheless.”

Ashyne Baker stood up with a groan, nodding in agreement as she kneaded her lower back: “Are your incisive conclusions in any way shaded by the fact that you live less than a mile away, run past this spot every morning, thus knowing this artefact wasn’t here before last night?”

Simon grinned: “As a civic-minded member of the early morning exercise crowd, I may have called it in, then trotted off home to shower and change before the circus arrived.”

Ashyne cast an arch glance his way: “Knowing the alert would have me out of bed and away before you got home, thus saving the last of the bacon for your breakfast? You are Machiavellian.”

He spread his hands in mute admission of guilt before waving at the ensemble about them: “What prompted the military presence? Aren’t our little white tents good enough?”

She stepped close, lowering her voice: “This isn’t the first. But it is the first that has appeared in a place that proves it just appeared. The marquee is temporary until the container arrives.”

“Containment?”

“When wind passes through the ornamentation, it sings. And what these artefacts sing is deadly to anything that can hear them.”

Eyes widening, he stared at her: “It was a still morning.”

“You owe your guardian angel a stiff drink.”

 

[The Judge]

Pillar of the Community


Old man Yu was dying. Master Yu. Patriarch Yu. Judge, arbiter, settler of disputes; sage, advisor, oracle, prophet.

Li Min wept in fear. For the village.

“How old is he?” she asked Yen the blacksmith, meaning “Who shall be our master and leader when he is gone?”

“Who cares?” answered Yen, meaning “Me. And everyone will do exactly what I say.”

“How old is he?” she asked Ch’ien the clerk, meaning “Who shall be our judge and settler of disputes when he is gone?”

“Who asks?” answered Ch’ien, meaning “Me. And everyone will pay dearly for my judgements.”

“How old is he?” she asked Hsueh the spinster, meaning “Who shall be our sage and oracle when he is gone?”

“Who knows?” answered Hsueh, meaning “Me. And everyone will listen to whatever nonsense I choose to tell them.”

“How old are you?” she asked old man Yu, meaning, “I’m frightened, Great-Grandfather. Why must you die?”

“Older than the birch, younger than the mangrove,” answered Yu, meaning “I will still be here when your great-grandchildren are old.”

Old man Yu died. Li Min wept in sorrow. For herself.

Yen the blacksmith demanded the village council meet in the village square. Ch’ien the clerk delivered his verdict that one was necessary. Hsueh the spinster said she had foreseen it.

But in the village square a pillar of wood had appeared, an outline of a man upon it, old man’s beard draped around it, holes carved into it. Wind blew through the holes and the pillar spoke. Spoke in the voice of old man Yu.

“I am master and leader. I am judge and settler of disputes. I am sage and oracle. And I shall be here when your great-grandchildren are old.”

Li Min wept in delight. For everyone.

 

[Culhwch]

An Ending

We didn’t know it was there when we bought the land. We found it one overcast day, walking the lower fields.

‘It could be ancient,’ said Maddy.

‘Looks about ten years old.’

‘Who d’you think made it?’ She was clearly more impressed than I was.

‘Some hippie with a chainsaw.’

‘Don’t be such a stick in the mud!’

‘I’m not a stick in the mud,’ I said. ‘That’s a stick in the mud.’

#

That night I dreamt about it. I woke knowing it was a marker. A grave marker.

#

I took a pick and a shovel down to the field, and I started digging.

Maddy found me halfway through the morning. She wore a puzzled expression. ‘Whatcha doing?’

‘Digging.’

‘I see. Why?’

‘I think there’s a body buried here.’

‘That’s … disturbing.’

‘I dreamt about it. Last night.’

‘Also disturbing.’

I grunt, shrug. Eventually, she goes away.

I keep digging.

#

That was Sunday. By Thursday, there were holes all over the field, and I could tell Maddy was getting concerned. Friday, I stopped. On Saturday, we visited Maddy’s parents. On Sunday, we had lunch in town. Monday, Maddy went back to work. I started digging again.

#

I must have been eighteen or twenty feet down when I hit it. First I thought it was bone, but it was too hard. Smooth. Cold.

I tried to find an edge. I couldn't. Moved to the nearest hole. Hit it there as well. Hit it everywhere.

As I stood above ground, leaning on the shovel, the ground began to rumble.

Thank you, child. The words echoed in my head. You heard my call, and have awoken me.

I ran, and as the monstrous thing rose behind me, I knew what had been buried there: the death of everything.

 

[mosaix]

Romancing The Stone.

Morgan was an unattractive man – he had the red, swollen nose and bloodshot eyes of an inveterate drinker, yellowing teeth and a nauseating body odour.

“It’s fifty years since you discovered the stone, Mister Morgan. As I said when I rang, we would like to run a feature about its discovery in our April edition.”

“Call me Erik, m’dear. Fifty years? Really? How time flies. I was just up from Cambridge. Barely scraped through, but I had connections,” he said, laughing and tapping the side of his nose with a bony finger. I leant back to avoid, unsuccessfully, his particularly disagreeable brand of halitosis.

“What prompted you to visit that particular area?”

“Well, there was this female archaeologist I’d taken a fancy to. She was off to South America on some field trip and I thought I’d tag along and chance my arm. Shame about the accident – I could have done with her help dragging the thing back to civilisation.”

“Then came the book?”

“There were some radio interviews first and during a phone-in someone mentioned extraterrestrials and I thought why not? Then, as you say, came the book, then T.V. rights and more books.”

“So you don’t really believe the alien stuff?”

“Good Lord, no. But if the suckers want to make me rich who am I to stop ‘em?” he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“So what is it?”

“It took a while to decipher its glyphs but they’re a mating incantation. Want to hear it in the original Aymara?”

“Well…”

He started chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

Then he came to a sudden stop, lent forward and laid a hand on my knee. “Suppose we discuss this over a spot of dinner back at my place?”

“Why not?” I said.

 

[Ursa major]

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Arrangement in Dark and Shade​

Flaghead’s always strange: the rugged headland doesn’t really match the humpback island below; the statue’s outlandish.

But today, everything’s weird. When Dad and I left the house this morning, Mum was sobbing. She’s never liked me getting close to the sea, but this time I won’t be alone.

“What was that about?” I ask as we head for the coast.

Dad shrugs. “Mothers worry about their sons. So do fathers. I’m concerned you’ll stumble during your recitation.”

“The test’s today?”

“I hope you remember the words.” Easy: all of them are in a foreign language....

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I hear the statue before I see it; a horrible dissonant noise. “The wind’s strong today.”

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” Dad says. “But it wasn’t always so.”

“When was that?”

“When it was played.” The twinkle in Dad’s eyes is nowhere to be seen. “Can’t you see it’s an instrument? You know, like a fifty-foot penny whistle?”

“With far too many holes.” All the wrong shape.

Dad walks towards the statue. “Not for a monstrous player with scores of tentacles.”

“Is this part of the test? Are you trying disconcert me?”

“Whistler – that’s what they called it – played the instrument before scooping up villagers and eating them. It knew no better: despite its size, it was but an infant.”

“That’s a new one.” I’ve heard many odd stories about the statue.

“A very old one. A powerful wizard saved us, turning the monster into solid rock.”

“The island, I suppose.”

“Correct. Take a look.”

I do, and become rooted to the spot. Beyond the island, a huge grey shape is swimming towards Flaghead.

“The wizard told us of the day when we’d pay, child for child for our rescue.” Dad looks sheepish. “She wants to hear the words of adoption.”

“Who does?”

“Whistler’s mother.”

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[Ursa major]

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