300-word Writing Challenge #36 (January 2020) --VICTORY TO VICTORIA SILVERWOLF!

[Marvin]

Where and Back Again

They stare out across the wasteland. The journey had been long and arduous to get here; it seems there would be many more trials to come. Excellent!
From a distant horizon smoke curls up from the Dark Mountain, three weeks travel if the weather holds. Many enemies lay along that troubled path.

“Any water left?” Gregomir whispers to his companion, laying hidden, so as not to attract any unwanted attention.

Fredo reaches into his battered old pack; eyes fixed on an abandoned dwelling nearby. The windows dark, ancient scrawl on the buildings dirty facade ‘WH’, an obscuring vine, then possibly an ‘FC’ and a pair of weapons, crossed.
He pulls out a tired looking bottle with no more than a few swallows left in it. Pokes Gregomir, who’s attention has also fallen to the ‘house’,
“What!” He snaps, then glancing back, “Oh, cheers.” Giving the bottle a shake, “Maybe yonder shat pile has its own well?”

“Light is fading; we need shelter; I say we risk a look.” Fredo’s questioning gaze finds his trusted friends.
“Hell yeah!, let’s go.”
Suddenly an ungodly, otherworldly sound makes them both leap to their feet.

“Christ!” Fred reaches back into the bag and pulls out the offending device. ‘MUM’ written across the screen. Reluctantly he takes the call. “Hi..... over the Hawksbury estate..... yeah but....... at least we’re out!..... ok...... yeah, we’ll be back in twenty.” Fred threw the thing back in the bag. “Gotta head back, you commin? Mum’s getting some pizzas in.”
“Hell yeah!” Is Gregs familiar response.

Not quite a roasting boar over a blazing pit; another day perhaps. They would return to conquer that wasteland.
The boys never understood why others needed ‘World of Warcraft’ and all the rest. Didn’t they have imagination?

 

[johnnyjet]

A Finely Woven Tapestry of Scars

Jane had escaped! That was all that mattered. She didn't care about the rest of her story.

From the deck of the sailing ship, she watched the shore recede. The fortress-like building where she slaved over the brutal textile machines, the cobblestone streets and brownstone houses all alike, the bleak and featureless orphanage where she had lived. All disappeared into the distance. Would it be far enough to forget the scars?

A new friend helped her stowaway on the merchant ship. A mate on the ship, he was a strange boy called Marco. He was kind to her—his gentle, warming eyes brought her comfort. He promised her a better life across the sea. She trusted him.

Much later, Jane looked out and saw a distant shiny object. Marco came up behind her.

She asked, "What is it?"

"Your future."

She looked into his dark eyes which sparkled like stars. His thin face looked almost birdlike.

"I don't understand."

"I promised you a better future, didn't I? Trust me."

She trusted him.

The object soon resolved itself into a large metal vessel floating on the water. Marco threw a line to someone standing on the vessel. As it drew closer, he dropped a rope ladder.

He held out a hand toward Jane and smiled. "This way to your new life."

He led her to the ladder.

She hesitated.

Whatever her new life would be, she knew it would be far better than her old life. It would be a life molded by past hardships and suffering, made beautiful like a finely woven tapestry of scars.

She hesitated no more. She trusted him. She went down the ladder, down into the silvery ship. And then up, up into the endless sky.

 

[Dan Jones]

The Travels Of Sir Reginald Rigmarole, Part 94!

So! After my wallet was ravaged by swarms of Pulsating Norwegian Pork Locusts, I was left with only enough Euros to place a modest wager with the many-testicled Ukranian crime boss Ujan Ikabolokov that I could last four rounds against his brother, the ravishingly violent kickboxing champion Ike Ikabolokov.

“Якщо ви програєте, ми візьмемо ваші яйця,” growled Ujan, pensively.

“Don’t worry, Juan,” I mansplained, clapping him on the shoulder. “I used to arm-wrestle for Lucy Cavendish College.”

Alas! In Round One, Ike performed a reverse tourniquet and his size fourteens exfiltrated my left bollock with tremendous serendipity! As he undulated in valuable triumph I used my Invisibility Knighthood, conferred upon me by the Queen for excellence in the field of overseas diplomacy, to escape the ring and teleport to the Carpathians, which I’d once seen on a map.

There, my lack of monetary euphemisms disinterred me from the luxuriants of late-capitalist promulgations, and I was free to gambol up trees and to the bottom of lakes, where parallel fishes would eat perpendicular fishes and I would dip them in a delicious sweet chilli sauce of my own recipe made from rocks, lichen, toejam and mindmaps.

The isolation meant Kamaradschaft would become a foreign word to me, so I carved a seven-foot Totem from Carpathian granite to keep me company. I named him Mykola Svyatoslavovych Oleksiyenko after my favourite Test cricketer, and we made love.

It was during our fourth honeymoon that Mykola’s stone head burst open like a myopia of lampoons, and from within emerged the shrieking, Zen Gulliver of Ujan Ikabolokov!

He reached forward slowly and removed my remaining testicle, before implanting it into his own overloaded scrotum. “тепер усі ваші яйця належать нам!” he screamed, his eyes trembling in five perceptible dimensions.

Foiled again!

 

[ozmosis]

Revenge of the Meek

The smell was finally starting to get to him. Ragu landed with a soft thud in the small canoe and gestured towards the open sea. “Go Babu! That’s the last one!” Babu nodded and began rowing long, powerful strokes. There were no signs they’d been seen, and in moments the night had swallowed the anchored frigate’s massive form, leaving only the sound of its sails snapping in the vicious wind.

Ragu finally exhaled and dipped his arms into the warm seawater, hoping to weaken the stench of the black rimfire smeared on his limbs. He knew it was no use, the odor would haunt him always, and that tomorrow deep, open wounds would crisscross his arms. The extraordinarily corrosive sludge spared nothing – not his flesh, not his nose, nor the wooden decks of the four pirate ships it had been slopped on. The slime would spare nothing until it met the ocean floor.

“You did it Ragu.” Ragu’s eyes widened – never before had his warrior name been uttered. Recognizing awe in Babu’s eyes, a momentary tinge of pride pierced his pain fog. “By morning, your name will be exalted on the lips of our people.”

The pride quickly faded to searing sadness. “Yes - what’s left of our people.” The pirates, appearing two days ago had wasted no time plundering and slaughtering. The survivors had made their way to the veiled caves, and now waited for the return of the four canoes carrying their last hope. Ragu knew the other warriors would be similarly successful – stalking unseen in the shadows was second nature to them.

Behind them, a bright flash lit up the night, followed by a deafening BOOM. Then another thunderous flash-boom, and yet another. The rimfire had reached the ordnance in the belly of the ships. Ragu smiled.

 

[Elckerlyc]

Once Upon A Timing


Napoleon Bonaparte clutched his tormenting stomach and vomited his lunch on the turf of Longwood House, Saint Helena. It ended his stroll in gall.
He was ill and blamed the island; the damp and windswept place that was his final home was far removed from his beloved Corse. Even Elba was heaven compared to this... outhouse of the world.
It began to rain.
“Merde!”
Hunched against rain and wind he hurried back to the House.
“Get me my syrup!” he barked from the hall, ridding himself of his drenched cloak.
“How about something more… futuristic?” an unfamiliar voice called from the parlor.
Belatedly Napoleon remembered he had sent his attendant on an errand. He entered the parlor and scowled at a stranger; outlandishly dressed, peculiar haircut, impertinent. And dry, top to toe.
“How did you get in?”
“By an extraordinary route,” the stranger smiled, ”The future.”
“I have little patience with fools or waffle,” Napoleon snapped.
The man retrieved a slim device from his pocket, fingered it. A circular, opaque object appeared, 7 feet in diameter. “This is a portal to anytime, anywhere. An unequaled escape route.”
“Escaping from Elba got me on this... Ile du Diable.”
“It can’t get worse, than. Right?”
The temptation was like fever.
“When could I...”
“Anytime. Time travel made timing a thing of the past!”
Out of nowhere a curiously attired woman materialized. She pointed a finger at Napoleon’s visitor.
“We will not suffer such asininities. Leave.”
Wordlessly the man acquiesced and stepped through the portal. It winked out of existence.
The woman turned to Napoleon. “Be assured we keep eyes on you, all the time.”
She paused, then added, “Your medical condition would make portaling painfully unwise. Probably fatal.”
Napoleon watched her vanish, utterly flabbergasted.
His stomach cramped and heaved.

 

[Perpetual Man]

The Most Improper Introduction of Modern Innovations to an Older and Inflexible Mind

The older man frowned and looked parchment in his son’s hands.
“So, what is it?”
“Dad, it’s called a map.”
The elder grunted, “Looks like a scribble to me. My mate Dave does cave paintings that are better.”
His offspring rolled his eyes, “You don’t understand! It stops you getting lost.”
“How’s that then?”
“Well,” he pointed at something that looked like broccoli, but might have been a tree, “That represents the forest.”
“But there’s only one tree!” the father frowned.
“It’s just a representation!”
“Then it’s not a forest.” There was petulance in the parent’s tone.
His son sighed, “Just listen Dad. That’s the forest, that line is the river, those are hills, the hut is our village. The dots are a path! You can use it to find your way without getting lost.”
The parent took the ‘map’ from his son, studied at it, turning it one way and then the other.
“Don’t look like a river. It’s only one hut not a village. It’s not a forest. It makes no sense whatsoever.
“Whatever happened to heeding your parents, using the world and nature around you, noting signs and smells to guide you. I never got lost, neither did your grandad, or his dad. Never had no ‘map’ either.
“You kids just got no idea. You’re going to start relying too much on these so-called innovations!”
The boy snatched the map back and stalked off, “Oh you’re such a Neanderthal! You’ve got to move with the times! I’m off hunting!”
The father watched his son go, looking down at the map. It might be the way of the future, but the rabid bears’ den had not been marked, and sonny boy was heading right for it.
He grunted, “I’d better get my axe.”

 

[Shyrka]

Defenders of the Realm

Raelia pushed the map open. The occasional table creaked under the weight as they leaned forward.

“Here. At the western pass. That’s where they’ll come. We need to be ready. Calla, what news from the east?”

Calla sniffed, brushing away a lock of coal-black hair. “Bolvania is a lost cause. We’ll get no help from them. Not after Mandorell’s antics last year.”

Mandorell grunted. “You can’t blame me for that. King Ranafin is an idiot.” Grim as the situation was, Raelia couldn’t help but smile. Mandorell had never been one to stand on ceremony.

“That may be, but we still have an invasion to deal with,” Raelia said. “Herrida, what about weapons?” Herrida nodded silently, drawing out a folded velvet cloth.

“I couldn’t take them from the armoury myself, obviously. I had Squire Jonas fetch them for me.” Calla smirked but said nothing. Herrida’s fondness for the young squire was hardly a secret. Herrida unwrapped the bundle and took out a sword. Rough-hewn and plain, it was one of those forged for the men-at-arms who had rode out with their father and never returned. Choice was not a luxury they could afford.

Light spilled into the room. Raelia started and the map rattled shut. The imposing figure of Queen Marraine stood in the torchlit doorway. Behind, Jonas stooped, cradling something.

“You are not going anywhere with those!” thundered the queen, sweeping inside.

“M-mother!” Raelia began. “We must defend the kingdom. With father gone, it falls to-”

Marraine raised her hand. “You misunderstand me, daughter.” She snapped a finger and Jonas opened his silk wrapped bundle, revealing four curving, slender elven blades, glittering in the torchlight. Raelia’s heart skipped. The Four Sisters were real.

The queen beckoned her daughters forward. “You are not going anywhere with those.”

 

[Mr Orange]

A Place


Splintering wood. Screams. Darkness.

Coarse sand.

Light.

I open my eyes. Roiling brine hits me, rolling me forward. Then, spent, the sea clutches at my heavy oilskin and drags me back. I manage to crawl further up the beach, beyond the reach of the water.

I look back. Dense fog masks the Fury and the wreckage of the longboat, all I can see are the foaming breakers.

“M-Macy?” I stammer, teeth chattering. There’s no reply save the pounding of the sea and the grinding of the sand. Ahead, a light is visible through the fog. I stagger to my feet.

The light is an oil lamp that illuminates a narrow path. Beyond, another lamp is just visible. I count forty before the path rises above the fog and ends on a barren mountainside. Wind slips inside my wet coat with icy fingers and I want to sleep. A faint glow high on the steep face beckons me on. I climb.

Time passes. I keep climbing. My legs are burning. My hands are torn. Exhausted, I reach a small plateau. On the other side of a stream is a small cabin. Smoke rises from the chimney and a warm glow pulses through the hazy window.

The stream runs fast but doesn’t look deep, so I cross. It’s faster and deeper than it looks. I stumble, the current takes me. I struggle weakly, but I’m spent.

Darkness is returning when strong hands haul me to the bank. I look up at a familiar face.

“Macy?”

“Hello, John.”

I hug him, hard, and begin to cry.

“It’s okay John, you’re safe. The journey’s over.” Macy kisses my wet hair. “Let’s get inside.”

I let him hold me and we walk into the light and the warmth.

 

[greenfox]

Bridg

Facing the Bridg is always an ordeal. The seafarers laughed and mocked the name of the bridge, but they didn’t have to deal with it. The gaping chasm swallowed the light and you can hear the wind moan as it passes, giving a warning from those it has taken. Creeping across it you feel the chill of the netherworld below you. It reminded everyone who they served.

When the masters moved into the Country, they created The Fort. The only place to land was on its shore, so protecting it was paramount. When they were done we were given a map. Legend goes someone commented on the Bridg, saying it needed an ‘e’. The masters took him and tossed him in the yawning gap. The door to the netherworld opened and the Bridg was cursed. Anyone who referred to it as anything other than the Bridg while near would be taken by the netherworld.

As we cross nothing is said. We’ve seen too many taken to risk talking. Each breath stole warmth from our bodies and souls. Rushing led to mistakes so we kept our pace. One step, another, not looking anywhere but forward, for ghosts wait to add to their ranks. Reaching the end, I revel in the sun’s warmth, but it is too early to relax. Bandits target those who cross, while they’re weakened, though they too do not speak. Drawing my sword, my eyes scan the surroundings. Its weight strains my exhausted body, but there is no time to rest. Only when we see the crane that signals the landing place do we dare speak.

As we unload the cargo, the seafarers always smirk at us, thinking we were superstitious cowards. As always we ignore them, bracing ourselves for the return trip is all we think about.

 

[Peter V]

One Day.


From my vantage point I look down upon the Pride of Plymouth as she rounds the headland, the snap and crack of her sails audible above the wind. Her stay will be brief, dropping off mail and a few luxuries, picking up water and bread in return. It would be easy to go down to the landing, to step aboard and sail away on the evening tide but instead, I turn and walk back to the house.

When I arrived on the island, all those years ago, I could not have imagined never leaving and even less so, that it would be my choice to stay. For this island is bleak, frequently lashed by storms and rarely warm, even in the height of summer. Visitors are rare and though I yearn for fresh company, I will shun the opportunity to speak with those arriving today, for fear they may test my resolve.

Sometimes, briefly, I think I should leave and in those moments I imagine finding her in some far country, alone and confused, all memory of me erased. A fantasy of course, for I know my search would be fruitless; Silvie is no longer on Earth. Such a pointless exercise would merely leave me embittered and even more lonely. I tell myself that her failure to return is indeed because she has forgotten. It may even be true. I hope it is.

Here I must wait, for if she returns, it is only here she can come.

She opened a portal in anger and passed through without proper preparation or precautions, taking the controller with her. In these circumstances, albeit rarely, there are sometimes side effects, including memory loss. Even for experienced travelers like Silvie.

I hope one day that she will remember me.

And forgive me.

One day.

 

[Star-child]

Beware the Paper Tiger


“General Cao, President Reagan wants this dialogue. That’s why you were invited.”

PRC Chairman of Historical Affairs Cao gave no immediate reaction to the State Department woman. This was not unexpected. “Our position is that this chart is a cultural artifact of Zheng He’s fleet. It belongs to the People. I don’t understand your reticence – this is Chinese history.”

Julie Winn offered an ambassador’s smile, “I felt the same, until the Stanford group detailed some problems with that theory. Do you see this lake, and these mountain peaks? Precisely located, just as the coastlines are, on an inexplicable perspective projection? This map is not something a fifteenth century mariner could have drawn.”

Cao rose, thumping the photocopied parchment with a rigid finger as he spoke, “Please relay our disappointment at this imperialist appropriation of our cultural objects.” The secretary leapt up to grab the attaché case, storming out behind with his boss as a startled Winn stammered at their backs, “We don’t know who drew this map!”


Security reported that Cao’s plane, registered as a Soviet made Yak-40D, departed twenty minutes later. On board, the younger man addressed the pensive diplomat. “They are going to figure it out, eventually.”

“It will be decades before they have a theory, and even longer before they can test that theory. There’s time.”

Passing 8000 feet the engines cut fuel, heating the turbine air without combustion. Thirty minutes later the pilot checked out with Pacific ATC and left radar control. The synthetic radar echo switched off, and the contours of the airframe warped and reset to hypersonic aerodynamics.

At mach seven, the now unrecognizable aircraft crushed its passengers with a high G climb. As the windows revealed stars, super heated Jet A plasma propelled them through low earth orbit.


Cao Sing was returning home.





__________

 

[M. Robert Gibson]

Kajar and the Troll King

Kajar groaned as he climbed back to consciousness. Eyes closed, he examined his body for wounds and found his arms and legs tightly bound.

"So", boomed a voice, "the great Kajar awakens."

Kajar turned towards the speaker. Tondo the Troll King stood waving a piece of paper.

"I sees from this treasure map you comes to steal from me. You knows what we does with thieves?"

"You feed them ale and pies and set them free?"

"No, long pig, we eats them, and you is for the pot."

Kajar looked away, studying the surroundings. A cave. He could see his sword, shield and boots piled against a wall. He glanced down at himself. 'Ha! They haven't taken the belt. The fools.' He looked again at Tondo, "But I'm no thief, I'm on a quest to..."

"Silence! We catches you skulking, we bashes you, and we finds this", Tondo brandished the map, "You is a thief. Cooking time is come. Guards!" Two of the largest trolls Kajar had ever seen appeared at the cave entrance. "Take him to The Kitchen."

The guards grabbed Kajar and dragged him towards a large, excited crowd, which parted as they approached, revealing a giant, simmering cauldron.

"In the pot! In the pot!" chanted the mob.

"Wait!" shouted Kajar, "Wouldn't it be better to remove these iron shackles? Surely they'd spoil the taste. And I couldn't escape, not with all these elite warriors around."

The guards looked at Tondo, who nodded.

As the last shackle was removed, Kajar grabbed his belt buckle and twisted it, immediately becoming invisible. Dropping to the ground he crawled out of the now angry crowd, leaving the guards grabbing at thin air. He soon reclaimed his equipment, snatched the map from Tondo, and made his escape, free to continue his quest...

 

[The Judge]

Belief​

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My grandson’s corpse swings in the sea breeze.​

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The gibbet is full. Three youths, including Cam. They’ll be cut down soon – it’s only the old who are left to rot before being flung off the cliff. The young are taken to Imperial alchemists, their life essences to be distilled into immortality elixirs for the Imperial elite.​

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I told Cam to wait. I told him Dreya would return, that deliverance would come.​

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He no longer believed me.​

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The Empire was clever. Had they sent warships we would have fought. But they came only to trade. Diplomats and envoys paved the way for merchants and factors, moneylenders and lawyers. The men with muskets and swords were only guards, not soldiers. There to protect workshops and warehouses, not to impose Imperial rule.​

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We believed them.​

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The gibbet stands at Dreya’s Yoke. No coincidence. The Imperial Governor knows the legend. He heard it from my lips, though then he called himself First Envoy, and I was a child of ten repeating my grandmother’s stories of the Great Sea Dragon, Dreya, who saved our people by putting her head through the stone arch and towing our island home far from our enemies.​

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I told him Dreya would return if ever we were in peril, to save us once again.​

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I believed it.​

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So the Governor built the gibbet where the last gaze of our dead is over waters where no Dreya swims, where we look at her Yoke but see his.​

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I finally understand that Dreya won’t return, not as a magical sea dragon. The only Dreya is us. Since we cannot tow our island from our enemies, we shall have to push our enemies from our island.​

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I bend and set my torch to the gibbet. We shall free ourselves.​

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This I believe.​

 

[Ursa major]

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Putting the Cart into Cartography​

I’ve fallen into the very bowels of hell. Not that I believe in hell… or heaven. Besides, those places are for the dead, and to die one must first be alive. Perfect machines like me do not live.​

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Speaking of perfection…. In this godforsaken place, I can be nothing but an example of everything I despise. Look at this piece of paper. It’s called a map and is a travesty of the form. To the creatures who live here, though, it’s a masterpiece.​

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When I left my star ship on this planet’s moon to come down here, I knew maps to be things of precision. I would tolerate nothing less.​

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I soon discovered that precision is dangerous. Not to me: nothing here can harm me. No, it’s dangerous for the inhabitants, for they cannot be allowed to even imagine what I can do, or what I am.​

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A few years after landing, a man approached me, desperate to know about some remote island. (He said I looked wise… “and a bit foreign.”) Sworn to secrecy, I produced a perfect reproduction of what my ship had observed from the moon: a precise image adjusted for atmospheric distortions.​

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“This is witchcraft,” the man said when he saw it. I hadn’t made the map in his presence; its very existence upset him. I implemented the only solution: killing him and disposing of his remains.​

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Today, my “maps” – lines drawn as if by a man with the palsy; blotchy colours – are in great demand.​

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“Tell us your secret,” the buyers say.​

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“A great deal of effort and pain,” I reply truthfully. Pain? Yes, to see what I must produce would break my heart... if I had one.​

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But one day, this world will catch up with me. That will be heaven.​

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[Ursa major]

The challenge is now closed and so the voting is open.

To cast your THREE votes, use the link below.

Please vote for your top THREE choices; note that all three votes must be cast AT THE SAME TIME to count.​

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