300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #29 (April 2018) -- VICTORY TO PHYREBRAT!

[Heijan Xavier]

Guide for the Perplexed

Darkness.

Darkness sheds the physical artifice. Energy becomes reality.

Energy defines the physical briefly, so long as they remain in proximity.

Light reflects and inspires a moment of relevance for the physical. The relevance is short lived though, as the light will ultimately pass. The physical will then recede to mundanity, to obscurity and eventually, to nonexistence.

To traverse the physical. To see the revelation and the relegation. To know that these artifacts are merely place holders defined by energy that, if we are lucky enough, will accompany us through the journey.

The long and aimless journey through this labyrinth. We wonder. Has this energy been our companion before? This light in the endless darkness. These echoes in the endless maze. Have they known us in another place, another time, in another life?

The irony. As long as the torch stays lit, as long as the energy persists, the physical will remain relevant.

But when the torch goes out, what will guide me?

I wonder. Do I even exist?

I must know.

“Hello!” I scream into the darkness. Praying through time and space that my very existence will be confirmed.

“Hello?” a faint voice answers. “The tour of the caverns ended 15 minutes ago. Do you need the lights on, so you can find your way out?”

I answer only in befuddled silence.

“Are you having an existential quandary?” the guide asks.

“I…I don’t know.” I respond, still perplexed.

“Oh bother,” the guide sighs and irreverently continues, “listen, we are a dream. We are simply the collective imagination of our collective selves and free will is an illusion.”

“That’s it?” I ask, aggrieved by his disdain as I am embarrassed.

“No there’s more.”

“What? Tell me!”

“Your wife is waiting for you. She looks angry.”

 

[M. Robert Gibson]

The Portal

A knocking roused me from my dozing. I lumbered over and opened the door to two dishevelled humans.

"Is this the Cavern of Eternal Salvation?" enquired one.

Not this again. "No, this is the Cavern of Infernal Damnation. Eternal Salvation is the mountain next door."

"Oh. Sorry." mumbled the other. Crestfallen, they turned and trudged away.

I closed the door and had barely laid down and closed my eyes, when there was more knocking.

They probably want directions. I opened the door "Take the Path of Lost Souls back down and... Oh!"

These new visitors were two creatures in dark suits. The smaller one spoke "Are you the guardian of the Cavern of Infernal Damnation?"

"I am. And you?" Looking at them, I suspected I knew.

"We're from the Bureau of Mythical Portals." I was right! Bompers! "We've had some complaints."

"Complaints? What complaints?"

"Several adventurers have submitted formal complaints about the confusing name for one. Also, have you a permit for the outside seating? In fact, the whole entrance..."

"Permit? No. Why? And what's wrong with the entrance?"

The larger one referred to his clipboard. "Under the terms of your licence, as a threshold guardian, you're required to maintain a terror inducing portal. One to make grown men quail. Any alterations or deviations require a permit from the Bureau. Lace curtains do not induce terror."

"But..."

"No excuses. We are issuing a warning. You have three months to transform this portal into one of forbidding menace. Failure will result in your licence being revoked."

The smaller one tore a page from his pad, handed it to me, and both turned and marched away.

I closed the door. Permits? Not terrifying? Permit me to show the next hero terrifying!

There was a knocking at the door...

 

[RJM Corbet]

THE LAST STORYTELLER

What IS that place?

Well, first they took away our mysteries: they measured the sun and boxed the wind; they counted the stars for ordinary things and discovered all living creatures to be unlovely and mechanical.

But our storytellers lived on.

Next they took away all our divinities -- our worshipful ones and all our holy books. Then they took away all our other heroes and burned all our other books too.

Of nature they made a purely functional machine. They burned our joys to ashes. But some storytellers still lived on.

And next they took away the colours from our eyes. They burned our arts and creativity of soul; they buried our flowers beneath a concrete monochrome. And then they took away our eyes.

But a few storytellers still lived on.

Now they took away our music -- replaced it with the hum and drone and thump of their machines -- and then they tried to take away our ears. They took away our dancing and free movement, and then they took away our sense of touch.

And still a very few storytellers lived on, although they had retreated to remote places and we had to journey far to hear them.

Next they took away our differences. They took away our standards, so we could no longer judge mud from diamond or star from cinder. They mixed all into one homogenous, thoughtless substance. They made all people look and dress and talk the same. And next they silenced our tongues, leaving us only to nod agreement.

But still they could not take away our hearing. And one storyteller still lived on atop a rocky peak in a little stone house grown from dark crags that echoed voices.

But yesterday the storyteller died, and today the benches are empty.

 

[HazelRah]

Old Mother Mountain


A couple stared at the door, while the old man approached them.

“Ahh, here for the myth, eh? Came here myself once.” He bashed his stick against the mountain side. “Seventeen we were. In love like nothin’ else. She were beautiful... My Clara could stun a room with half a glance, not that she knew it, of course.”

The couple edged away politely, but he was too lost in his story now to notice.

“It were her parents see, wanted more for her than some lovesick fool with hardly no dime for his worth. She never wanted to go. Said she belonged with me, wherever I were. So we wished on Old Mother Mountain.

“‘If your love is true, she will let you through.’

“Dumb nonsense rhyme. All them stories can mess with your head somethin’ special, give you hope. Guess I just wanted to believe it too bad. She left the next day, of course.

“Her parents wrote me then, not a year later, sayin’ she had passed... Mumps, it were. Thought I should know... That letter though, damn near killed me too.”

Tears pooled in his wrinkled eyes, as he turned away from the memory. But the pain grew stronger in his chest, and he collapsed against the door that never opened.


“Micky?” Clara stepped into the light, as young and beautiful as seventy years ago.

“I don’t understand...”

“It’s me.” She wiped her eyes and smiled. “We’re in Old Mother Mountain. She came through for us after all.”

“Oh Clara. But... I hardly got no life left to give you.”

She cradled his head in her lap, brushing away his tears. “Worth the wait,” she whispered.

“Next life, I will wait for you.”

“And I will find you.”

He closed his eyes.
And Old Mother Mountain smiled.

 

[Ashleyne]

THE TASTE OF DEATH

Gary never felt satiated. They had to feed him milk formula 2 days after his birth; he’d sucked his momma dry.


At a month old, his parents needed a hydraulic lift just to carry him up and down stairs. They couldn't get nappies that fit, so decided to let him do his business on the floor, then shovel it into the toilet.


Then he got his teeth.


Eggs, chocolate, drywall, biscuits, chips, worms, cakes, bees, televisions, pastries, ovens, mattresses, doors, pigs and chickens (dead or alive), you name it, he’d eat it.


Age 5, he was the size of 20 blue whales. That’s when he ate his parents.


Being an orphan never bothered him. He’d roll around the street, eating houses, unaffected by the screams coming from his throat.


The queen sent an army to stop him. He swallowed the missiles, bullets bouncing from his many chins. Thousands of tanks, helicopters and military ships disappeared down his gullet, the remains of which were found in his feces. Millions of brave soldiers lost their lives.


No one can stop him. England, France, Sweden, Germany and many other countries are being digested as we speak.


His jaw’s stretched passed the equator. The only thing left to do is enjoy each other’s company, because sooner or later, we’ll see his teeth on the horizon and we’ll join our fellow humans, burning to death in his stomach acid.

 

[The Big Peat]

A Door to the Country Unknown

The uneducated observer would think the woman before the door terribly nervous. Behold the downcast gaze, the bright red shoes scuffling in the dust, ringed fingers twisting round and round. They would wouldn’t notice those fingers tracing sigils created by John Dee. Miss the circle of protection she was creating.

But they’d still be right.

“By-” Karen licked her lips before trying again. “By Gabriel’s grace, let eyes awake. I present myself humbly.”

The door swung open, revealing stygian gloom. Then the lights flickered on, making her flinch. When Karen looked back she saw a stout woman with a smiling wrinkled face. And no light switch.

“Bugger off.”

Karen continued wringing her fingers. “Please, Mistress Gorman. I’ve come from Australia to-”

“I said bugger off.”

“Mistress, I seek the secret of contacting ghosts. Reaching beyond death’s door.” Time to try flattery. “You’re the best, Mistress Gorman. Please?”

Mistress Gorman tsked as she nodded. But she’d nodded. Karen breathed out everything all at once before straightening up and following in. Soon she’d have the knowledge to contact her father. Sure, Gorman was a hardass, but all the best teachers were.

“All this way just for me,” Gorman muttered to herself than anything as she produced a white wand. “Very well. Talking to the dead. I’ll demonstrate the two best ways.”

“Oh, thank you! How long does it take to master them?”

“Hardly any time, actually. Hark to me, Apollyon! Send me what’s mine.”

A horrendous cold formed behind Karen’s back, tendrils of it gripping to her skin - like fingers.

“The second easiest way is to send someone you control through - like someone you murdered.” The fingers tightened round her throat. “The first? Go through yourself.”

Karen collapsed to the floor, a dim vision of Gorman’s face over her.

“Bloody nosy kids…”

 

[Moonbat]

My Next Door-Ogre​

Jack was nine when his family moved into the farm house on the edge of Piddlehinton. He spent that summer running through the nearby fields, paddling in the river Piddle and exploring the caves. He found secret places where the worlds he created and played in were his alone. He would spend his afternoons stacking rocks along the river bank. He liked stacking rocks. He was good at it.

One sunny afternoon, when he was trying to create an arch but couldn’t find the right key stone, some boys rode up on their bikes. They kicked down the cairns he had built and threw his rocks into the river. They threw rocks at him too. They smiled when he cried and laughed when he bled.

Later, when they had gone and his tears and blood had dried on his face he saw the perfect keystone lying by the mouth of a cave. He went to pick it up and a voice spoke to him.

‘I could eat them for you if you want.’ Came the voice from the darkness. Jack stepped back, but he didn’t run.

‘Would you like me to eat them?’ The voice asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ Answered Jack, ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I’m always hungry. I saw what they did. That wasn’t nice. They deserve to be eaten.’

Jack thought for a moment. He knew he shouldn’t agree with the voice, but the boys were horrible. The ringleader was fat and ugly and had really enjoyed hurting him.

‘Maybe just the fat one.’ Jack said hopefully.

When the voice chuckled it sounded like great boulders rolling and sliding over one another. ‘I think he might fill me up.’ It said. Jack laughed. He sat down at the mouth of the cave and started stacking rocks.

 

[The Judge]

If You Wrong Us…


Here we are, the Stone Garden. Feel free to walk the paths. Beautiful, isn’t it? Worth that hard climb.

Not what you expected? Some boulders set in gravel, is that what you thought? Not rock sculpted into trees, gemstones carved into flowers. Not lapis butterflies balancing on amethyst petals, topaz blossoms nestling within peridot leaves.

Yes, that’s a typical troll house set into the mountain. Do go inside. Again, not what you expected? Thick stone furniture, that’s what your storybooks show, not oak dressers and cherrywood chairs. That's because your books don’t talk of wood-trolls.

Stone-trolls and wood-trolls don’t mix as a rule. Not because we’re different species, simply because we live in very different places.

“Species.” Did that gave you pause? Because we think before we speak, you call us slow, stupid. Because we’re mineral-made you believe our hearts as cold as our skin. You’re wrong. We’re just like you on all counts.

Shylock said “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” Well, no, we don’t as it happens. But you do. And will.

No, the gate’s shut now. Let me explain.

Two hundred years ago a stone-troll woman wanted to explore the world. On her travels she fell in love with a handsome wood-troll. She stayed in the lowlands three years, but without the cold clean air of the mountains and chalcedony in her diet, she was never well. Her husband brought her – and their furniture – back. But on their journey he and their children were killed by troll hunters. Though heavily pregnant, she escaped.

This garden she made over the next century in memory of him and their love.

This garden we, her grandchildren, show to the hunters’ descendants, before we push you off the mountain. Thank you for coming.

 

[Shyrka]

Broken Promises

Matlide pushed on through the chamber’s twilight, past stone benches still scattered with the detritus of their long-gone patrons, her armoured boots disturbing a century of dust and decay. Here and there she caught a sight of disturbance – a misplaced urn, a scuff in the dust. Tracks too hastily masked. His work, no doubt. Sloppy.

The thought of him brought the bright burn of hatred to her breast. Anger brought with it a clarity of purpose. After what he did to Sister Esme…

She tightened her grip on the mace sitting heavily in her hand, the corded shaft worrying her flesh even through the leather of her gauntlets. Good. She focussed on the pain. Comfort was the root of decadence and decadence was the reason she was here in this long-forsaken place.

A noise. To her right, the scuff of metal on rock. She turned, flattening herself against the stones, a blade cutting through the air where she had stood scant moments before.

It was a clumsy lunge and it put her assailant off-balance but she expected nothing less from him. She caught the desperation in his eye as he stumbled past. An animal panic, that of livestock before the slaughter. Rightly so. Matilde brought the mace up in a great arc and his head snapped back, neck broken by the force of the blow.

A cry of horror snapped her attention away from his crumpling corpse. Ahead, huddled in the shadows, she saw Esme, cradling a bundle to her chest.

“Mother Superior, please! You c-can’t!” the would-be paladin stammered. The neophyte’s eyes were brimming as she turned her back in a last ditch attempt to protect her offspring.

Matilde shook her head. “I’m sorry child.”

She raised the mace.

“You took an oath.”

 

[LittleStar]

Double Life

“Since when do you cook?”

Markus turned the bacon. “I’ve picked it up.” He smiled at Annie in her dressing gown, hair in a messy bun, their child wriggling in her arms; perfect as the day they met. How he always remembered.

“The day you cook, is the day I die happy.”

His eyes flicked to the door.

Luci grumbled, reaching out, with a snotty smile. Annie put her down, distracting her with a slice of apple.

“I’m the provider.”

Annie pressed her head to his chest like always. Sweet, day-old shampoo; fingers linked behind his back. It was the little things that got you through. “Can you provide a nappy change, I’ll finish here.”

“You’re lucky I like you.” He darted towards Luci. She gave a great giggle, dropping her half-gummed apple. “Come on, Peanut.”

The phone rang. Markus closed his eyes. He wasn’t going, not this time.

Annie never ignored it. “That was Harry. Another street butchered. Are we safe?”

“Hey, I’d never let anything happen to you.” The lie was easy, he’d meant it a thousand times already. He hugged her, wiped away tears.

“You’d better stop it then.”

“Harry’ll do without me.”

“No he won’t.” She ushered him to that damn door. He couldn’t face what was beyond. Not again.

“But…”

“We’ll be fine.” She took Luci. “Badge, sidearm, keys? Hat?” She kissed him, warm like tea. The door pulled him through. She smiled one last time.


Gone.


The day was dark with char and smoke. His hat vanished, his clothes dirtied, tore. Nothing from that world lived here.

Only him.

He hammered on the door, calling them, but it wouldn’t budge. That wasn’t how this worked. Only old pain lived there now; until morning, then he’d relive what he’d lost.

What Harry took.

 

[Starbeast]

Outlaws on Salishan Mountain​

"Sheriff. Find them police car keys, or I'll shoot you with your own gun."

"You three men, will have to help me."

"Jake. We got GPS."

"You want to walk hundreds of miles? Help find them keys. You'd better pray we find them, Chief."

"I'm not a Chief."

"What kind of name is, Clearwater?"

"I'm, Nlaka'pamux."

"You're just another Indian to me. You shouldn't have thrown those car keys out the window. I wasn't going to kill you, I just wanted you to drive us far away. Now we gotta waste time searching this dark forest."

"Desperate men, do desperate things."

"Shut up, red man."

"Jake. We still gotta git rid of these prison uniforms we're wearing."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep looking........ What was that noise?"

"Sasquatch. We're trespassing on his land."

"Superstitious idiot. It's a bear."

".............Hey, Jake. That second howl sounded closer."

"That was our last warning."

"Clearwa...HEY! Come back here!"

"He runs like the wind." BANG!

BANG! "Missed him again."

"He's headed for that door on the mountainside."

"Jake! He's inside!"

#

"Dammit. It's made of metal. Open this door, Clearwater!"

"Jake..... Who's that walking up here?"

"Hey, you! Get lost. I've got a gun...... What, the, hell?"

"Clearwater! Open the door! Open the door!"

"JAKE! JAKE! AAAAAHHHHHNNNnnnnnn........"

"SHOOT IT! NAAAOOOOObluukghh......."

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! "YAAHHHHHHhhgukkmrgnmnn......."

Inside, Clearwater sang to the Great Spirit. Moments after the screaming stopped, he heard a heavy, deep voice from the other side of the door.

"Clear-wa-ter."

"Yes."

"Bad, men, dead. I, go, now. Peace, for-rest, bro-ther."

"Thank you. Peace be with you forest brother." When the Sasquatch departed, Clearwater contacted the local Native Canadian, Tribal Police.

 

[Ursa major]

​

The Whole Truth
Or, Nothing Succeeds Like Succession​

“I’m editing the Royal Chronicles,” I repeated. “Instead of a dry record listing names and dates, a narrative approach resonates with a modern readership. I need the testimony of all those involved. I’m currently writing about the Great Deception, as you’ve called it.”

“It was class prejudice,” said Lord Dicken. “My father may have been the King, but I was a farm boy with a mother who worked in the fields when she wasn’t working on her back.”

The Lord Chancellor had told a different story, of someone who couldn’t follow simple rules, who’d be at sea with court protocol; who couldn’t be allowed to mix with other heads of state.

“And I was the only direct heir,” he said.

The old King’s manservant had painted the picture of a king besotted with a farm girl – she was no whore – who had fathered at least four other children with her. Hard to believe though this was, Lord Dicken was by far the best of the bunch. There was every chance he’d sired more heirs. “There were all too many heirs and spares of the ‘wrong sort’,” the manservant had put it.

“Then there were moves to have a female monarch,” he said. “That I was big, strong and all male was against me.”

The Royal Constable had described a man who was, indeed, big and strong, and had few compunctions about revealing his manhood to one and all.

“Most of all, they wanted a willowy weakling to marry that fool second son of the king of our largest neighbour.”

Lord Dicken could have married King Erlander’s daughter… except that she’d told me that she’d have rather killed herself. “His manners! On top of everything else, he was always sucking his teeth. ‘Seeds stuck in them,’ he’d said.”

​

 

[Ursa major]

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[The Judge]

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