300 Word Writing Challenge #44 -- VICTORY TO PHYREBRAT!

[Parson]

Life Changes in a Moment

Rebekah, daughter of the Earl of Norwich, stood at the stairs leading to the Nave. She was dressed in white, which bespoke the honor she had maintained. In moments her life would change. She was about to marry Charles, third in line to the Duchy of Cornwall.

Still, she was worried about what was to come. Of course, “everyone” was “so” happy with the match. But they wouldn’t have to live with the consequences. Father had declared it a good match. And, she supposed, on a political basis it had to be. If Norwich and Cornwall were allied, they would be a tough nut for any rival to crack.

Rebekah heard her father and the Priest talking in low tones. She guessed they were agreeing on the gift that should come to the cathedral from her father following the wedding. She cared little about that.

But would her match with Charles be good in the ways that mattered to her? She had seen Charles’ sire; a portly man with a perpetual scowl. What if Charles was also portly or, more importantly, had that scowl and what it portended. She had no desire to be ordered hither and yon and into bed for no other reason to please a petty tyrant.

Her father arrived at her side, took her arm and escorted her up the stairs. The door opened and everyone stood.

This was it. Ahead stood the priest and Charles. She was aware of the eyes on her and that everyone liked what they saw. But her heart beat with more fear than excitement. A woman, even a noble woman, had much to fear from a tyrannical husband.

Rebekah arrived and she found Charles’ face filled with love. He extended a gentle hand.

All will be well.

 

[Mouse]

Getting to Cloud 9

If you want to live on a cloud, you have to marry a dragon. That’s what everyone said. It wasn’t like you could just get a cloud on your own. You had to marry a dragon.

Sofia didn’t like the idea of marrying a dragon. Too many claws and teeth, not to mention the size difference. Just… ow.

Her friend Natasha had married a dragon. Then there’d been an “accident” in which Natasha had “mistakenly” been roasted alive. Before her death she’d boasted to Sofia about how great it was to live on a cloud. Soft and spongey and away from it all.

So, Sofia wanted the cloud but not the dragon.

Her parents told her there was no way she’d be able to even get near the clouds without a dragon. Unless she could fly now.

Her friend Barnaby had built a ladder and he had been so close to the clouds when tragedy struck. Maybe a little too close, seeing as it was the lightning which got him.

Ladders were out. Magic beans were out, too, after that incident involving her cousin Jack. No, if she wanted to live on a cloud, she had to marry a dragon. She had to go through with it.

Of course, she didn’t have to stay married to it. If the dragon could meet with some sort of “mishap” while she was up there then the cloud would be all hers. She pushed another dagger through her garter and thought about the advice her Nan had given her for her wedding night.

Dragons have a soft spot between their scales. Easy to find once you’re married. Once she’d offed the dragon, the cloud would be hers. She smoothed down her dress, and smiled.

 

[Daysman]

A Tiny Odyssey

A pinball in slow motion, my wife collides with every couple on the dancefloor, smiling, laughing, and apologising, as she returns to our table.

I sit and watch, similarly undone.

"What's up?" I ask as she drops beside me.

Draping her arm about my shoulders, she leans in to steal my wine. "Cousin Alice's wedding dress," she says, and giggles again.

Why are middle-aged women so sexy when they laugh?

"You said it was expensive."

"I did."

"Antique lace?"

"It is." She sips from her purloined glass. "Know where she got it?"

"Nooo…"

Barely intelligible, she blurts: "Neither does Alice!"

Checking the unoccupied tables around us, she acquires an unfinished bottle of red. "Grandpa Joe found it at a hotel he's clearing."

"Something a guest left behind?"

She glares at me, as she often does, when I can't see the end of a half told tale.

"Sorry. My legendary telepathic powers are glitching."

Her eyes narrow. "You do know what Grandpa Joe does?"

Her question takes a moment to permeate my mind. "Yeah… he refurbishes drones… sells them on, wheeled hotelier models that carry luggage and drycleaning."

"Mannequin drones too," she says, topping up her glass.

"Waiters, desk jockeys… yeah?"

She sits very still, glass in hand. "He just cleared Darkwater Manor."

I'm being tested, it seems. Why is it always when I'm drunk?

Finally, I remember. "That theme hotel? The gothic haunting? A lady in white wandering the corridors… oh."

She bites her lower lip. "Concierge drone… still recharging itself and wafting about. Joe found it trapped in a corner, headbutting a wall."

"She doesn't know?"

A scream from the far side of the floor overwhelms the vintage techno dance track.

Everyone turns, as do we.

She hands me the refilled glass, and whispers, sadly. "She does now."

 

[chrispenycate]

For Comfort in Captivity

Taking the final step into the dark,
The maiden sacrifice advances.
'Though monster ridden, forth she dances,
Acceptable socially, but must embark
Futureward, leaving behind romances
Accept this union for what it is,
To be organically herself, while socially his.

The Beast draws Beauty altarward
To drawing rooms of polite laughter,
No promise here of happy ever after
Emotion would be untoward
Future's controllėd by endeavour crafter.
No loving untruths, so abhorred,
A marriage of convenience, infancy abaft her.

The pristine white's a radiant untruth,
Timidity is invented, humility simulated.
She's tough, that one, and in no way aloof
Accepts predicted pain as fated,
Future advancing as it's been woven.
Her elemental heart may well be cloven
But, deep down virtuous, never the hoof.

Behind the doorway, nave leads to modern slavery
As much property wife of mediaeval potentate
Facing predestined tedium with ultimate bravery
He may take mistress, courtesan, she's celibate.
There may be violence, there will be pain,
A certainty of loneliness and isolation
Her role does not allow her to complain
Remaining inert to this desecration.

A lifetime losing all that she'd done best
No challenge, no needing new invention
A frigid deathtime, one of the oppressed,
Maintained perpetual detention.
No reasonable hope of intervention,
Diluting original dynamism to inattention.

There's music, books, computer or TV,
All that she's ever needed to produce distraction,
From isolation during boring years and apathy
Lack of stimulation, during underemployed inaction.
A promise of decades of 'all the sameness',
Slowly distilling her dissatisfaction.

Bells cease pealing, organ starts processional,
Too late now to change decisions made
Takes up bouquet, delay is infinitesimal.
Moves into aisle's cool, gloomy shade
The choice is fixed, future aligned,
Come, bridesmaids, following my doom.
Tomorrow's a lot like this room.
​

 

[M. Robert Gibson]

A Conversation With Walter Rego

"Hello, Walter? You'll never believe what's happened. My Muse has left me!"

"What! How did you find out?"

"Well, I invoked her in the usual way, you know, 'Sing in me, O Muse, Goddess-daughter of Zeus, and through me recount the tale,' that sort of thing, but there was no answer, no divine inspiration, no feelings of some supernatural force enthusing my very soul with creative desire. No furor poeticus. Nothing. I just got her answering machine like last time."

"What do you mean 'like last time'?"

"Well, you know, last time when she just upped and left half-way though that alien invasion by space-spiders and went on a narrowboat cruise on the Norfolk Broads. Remember that?"

"No."

"Well anyway, this time she's only decided to go and get married."

"Married! Who to?"

"I don't know, but when I find out, I've got a few choice words to say to him ...or her. In the message my Muse just said she's going to get married in a dark, foreboding cathedral midst the walls accursed and afterwards she'll be away on her honeymoon and therefore won't be available for a few months, maybe longer."

"Tough luck. What are you going to do?"

"Not sure. I suppose I'll just have to churn out some drivel, drop in a few uncommon words and flowery language, and add some classical allusions."

"Do you think you'll manage 300?"

"Nah. I reckon I'll only manage about 254. I just hope no one notices it's not a story."

 

[mosaix]

Talk To Yourself…

We came down hard. Too hard. Just the two of us made it out.

We’re some distance away from the ship in case the fuel tanks explode. I pray they don’t. It’s cold, very cold and soon we’re going to need some kind of shelter and more oxygen. Our only chance of survival depends on what’s left, damaged or undamaged, in the equipment bay.

I suggest we head back to start salvaging stuff, but she just stares at the wreckage and shakes her head. She hasn’t spoken to me since we got out. Maybe she blames me, the pilot, for the crash. Maybe she’s just in shock.

We can’t wait, it’ll be dark in three or four hours and then it really will get cold. We’ve little choice – either the certainty of freezing to death or the possibility of dying in an explosion. She’s sitting on a boulder now, helmeted head in her hands. I tell her I’m going anyway – nothing.

I start across the couple of hundred yards of Martian desert.

The equipment bay hatch has jammed shut in the crash, but I know there’s another way in through the crew compartment and that hatch hangs open.

The compartment is as we left it when we scrambled clear – a shambles. Everything’s come loose and there’s a mess of hanging wires and cables. And, of course, there are five of my crewmates in there as well – good friends who I’ll miss. Time for regrets later.

There’s a suited body partly obstructing the hatch. It’s Hendrix – visor smashed. I take a deep breath, climb over him and worm my way inside. Four more suits. But there’s another – a sixth!? – wedged under the flight console by a seat that’s broken free. The helmet label reads ‘Brody’.

I stare – that’s my suit…

 

[Starbeast]

Star Wars: A Rogue Tale​

Mos Eisley Cantina

“Captain Starbeast. I’m Reverend Alan. My droid, I-17797718675309 will lead you to the Death Star where Princess Anita Mousse is held prisoner. This is a desperate hour for the Rebellion. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I can pay you $2000, plus fifteen for gasoline.”

“You sound desperate. I’ll rescue her.”

“Here’s your money and the droid. Go with God.”

*

Death Star Detention Cell

“I’m Captain Starbeast. I’m here to rescue you. I’ve got Alan Parson's, I Robot with me.”

“Beep Beep.”

“17797718675309.”

“Put this Storm Trooper uniform on, so we can sneak outta here.”

“How did you get into the Death Star?”

“I posed as a pizza delivery guy. The droid was disguised as a soda dispenser.”

“Burp.”

“Eew.”

*

“Great pizza, Emperor.”

“Lord Vader. I didn’t order pizza.”

*

Wendy’s Fly-Through

“A double with cheese, large fry, two colas and an Asiago grilled chicken.”

“After we eat, I need you to stop at a convenience store.”

“Your Highness, your husband must be worried about you.”

“You're right. I’ll make it quick.”

*

“Sorry I took so long, Starbeast. There was a clearance bin of CDs.”

“Nice. Come on.”

*

“Fighter ships are approaching.”

“We’ve been hit! We’re gonna crash land on Tatooine."

*

“We’ll hide inside these ruins. They’re shooting at us. Get down!” BOOM! (cough cough) Princess! Princess! Oh God!”

Anita laid buried under tons of rock, only her bloodied arm protruded. “Princess…”

“Freeze! Don’t move.”

“We accidentally killed Princess Anita. Vader isn’t going to like this.”

“What about him?”

“Leave him weeping.”

*

“Are they gone?”

“Princess! You’re alive!”

*

Planet Coruscant

Prince Chris Mousse shook Starbeast’s hand, “Thank you for rescuing my wife. I repaired your ship, the Benevolence. How can I repay your kindness?”

“$15 for gasoline would be great.”

“Hah! I’ll give you fifteen million.”

 

[Bren G]

Princess Priscilla’s Glorious Day


Princess Priscilla, the young bride-to-be, froze at the bottom of a small stairway. They led up to a doorway, behind which her prince awaited. A marriage of convenience, made to heal the rift between two warring kingdoms.

Nervously, she made a slight step backward when an apparition appeared before her. It’s two eyes, like glowing amber orbs, glared from the darkness at the top of the steps. A slow hiss stirred a shiver down her spine. It was the snake again.

“You have come to ensure I go ahead with it?” she said. Her voice but a frightened whisper.

“My ssssssort are not of this world. I cannot compel your mortal mind.”

Her eyes dropped in resignation. “So, the decision is truly mine then?”

“Yessssss.”

“But I cannot marry someone I do not love!”

“And if you now flee?”

“The prince’s forces will destroy our kingdom and enslave my people!”

“Yessssss! The prince’s brilliance is unmatched. As long as he leads them, his forces will prevail. Unless of course - you wed him.” The snake seemed to relish in this stark truth.

“Oh! What shall I do!”

“A king’s crown weighs heavily, but the force of his will lightens it. A princesssss’s tiara weighs heavier, for she must submit her own will to the will of the crown.”

Priscilla considered the snake’s words carefully. She removed her jeweled tiara and regarded it for a short time, before placing it elegantly back on her perfectly coiffured hair.

Without hesitation, she climbed the stairs and thrust open the door. Standing brightly before the prince, she reached into her flowing bridal gown and grasped the dagger hidden there. Swinging wildly, she plunged the blade deep into his heart. She tossed the tiara high in the air, smiled, and waited for spears to come.

 

[Elckerlyc]

Careful What You Play

Yesterday

Frankenstein’s bride faltered briefly before entering the castle‘s gateway. Was it a premonition? But, just as all eyes on stage were turning her way, she stepped through the fake portal... and disappeared in the darkness beyond.
Curtains fell early that night. We seem to have um… lost an actress. Sorry.

201 years earlier

A young woman wearing a wedding gown appeared inside a circle drawn on the wooden floorboards of an otherwise bare chamber. She looked decidedly peculiar.
In the room where two, presently wide-eyed, persons welcoming her; a young man, seated in a wheelchair, and standing next to him a middle-aged man, who unexpectedly exploded with laughter.
“Erfolg! Fabelhaft! Und nicht irgendeine Junkfrau, sondern eine echte Braut!”
“What? Where am I?”
“Entschuldigung. Er... apology. Are you English? Remarkable! Now you are in Germany. Willkommen auf Burg Frankenstein!”
“Frankenstein!? What the…” The bride checked herself. “Is that real?”
“Bestimmt. You do not know? Frau Shelley has written a famous book about us, although it contains falsehoods.”
“Um… It does?”
“My son is not a monster!” The man half turned towards the wheelchair. “He was born without legs. I tried to attach limbs taken from deceased people. I failed.”
The bride studied the son. “Phocomelia.”
“What?”
“A rare genetic disorder.”
“Eh?”
“You are not a monster.”
The young man smiled, “Ah! Thank you. But what about you?”
“What!? Oh… I forgot.” She removed her wig and wiped across the theatrical make-up. It did not exactly improve matters, but nonetheless caused looks of relief on the faces of the men. “I study medicine, but I love acting in my free time.”
She stepped outside the circle and offered her hand, “Hi, I’m Elsa.”
“Angenehm. Boris.”
They were slow to release each other's hand. Father Frankenstein smiled secretly, “Fabelhaft!”

 

[Perpetual Man]

Ascension

Miranda stood before the door, knowing full well that although the entire moment seemed centred around her it was a personal thing, that everything else carried on, unaware of her existence.

She stood before the gothic doors, decorated in brass, guardian gargoyles staring with their hollow stone eyes, yet they seemed to look right at her.

Right through her.

Too late a gleam bled from between the doors.

Despite everything she felt her breath whisper away.

The Grand Mausoleum was greater than any palace or temple. The roof curved above, supported by beams of dark wood, carved by ancient talent into entwined tendrils.

Within the dome circular windows of clear glass allowed silver moonlight to fall in shafts of illumination, giving life to the shadows.

But the only life was Miranda herself in a dress of finest silk, her gown of matrimony to the life that was to come.

Life. The only other thing in the room was certainly not that. The Grand Lych in robes of dust, watched her steps over cracked flagstones, sunken holes that were once eyes.

Its neck creaked on dry bones as it turned, dry air passed through irregular teeth.

“Miranda Lethenerge,” the graveyard whisper filled the chamber, “You have been found worthy, claim what you have earned.”

At feet of bone a white cloak lay, in a skeletal hand a dark staff was presented.

She threw the garment on, feeling it consume that wondrous gown in shadow. Then, she took the staff, noting the chill that radiated from deep within.

Her head bowed to the Lich and a blue-black so dark that it reflected light, bled upwards into the cloak, and as she raised her head she knew that she had entered the mausoleum as an acolyte, but left as a Magpie Mage.

 

[The Judge]

Wedding Dressing​

​

​

She let the silk ribbon slip through her fingers, then the lace.​

​

Mere scraps, they were – all she could afford of the pedlar’s stock. She’d bought them to further embellish Big Bridie’s wedding dress, to ingratiate herself with the village, so she might belong. But she knew it was useless. She’d get no thanks, certainly no payment – only snide remarks, even accusations of theft from Bridie’s skinflint da.​

​

“Ah, true ’tis, Merle, my sweet,” said a voice as silken as the ribbon, though it issued from the beak of a blackbird at the open window. “There’s none of these benighted villagers as appreciates you.”​

​

The bird hopped down and changed itself into a handsome fae, resplendent in sable satin. Merle took up her needle and stabbed it into Bridie’s dress.​

​

“We fair folk know your worth and the magic in your fingers, Merle. We smell the perfume rising from those violets you’re embroidering, which these peasants never will. You don’t belong here. Marry me.”​

​

“Be off with you. I’ve a dress to make.”​

​

“And a fine dress it is, but needing itchwort powder. An entertaining ceremony that would be, as they rip the dress off her, so she doesn’t scratch herself to death.”​

​

Entertaining. And fitting revenge for all the pricks and stings Merle had suffered as the outsider, scorned and shunned, no matter how useful she made herself, how hard she tried to be one of them.​

​

“Merle, a year and a day it's been since we argued on our wedding eve. Come home, my love.”​

​

She considered, then set down the needle. With a flurry of chestnut feathers she was her true self again.​

​

She flew home with the ribbon and lace in her claws – they’d be perfect for her wedding gown.​

​

Bridie could make her own dress.​

 

[worldofmutes]

story of an uncle

My niece was an 8-Dimensional baby. I was proud to be an uncle from the very first, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I was there at the wedding. Far from a traditional wedding, for one thing we all danced to Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir on repeat, and for another thing, I was her best man. I wore my Armani suit, all of us wore blue. And on the grooms side, they wore tan leather. Who ever heard of the bride having a best man? Let alone her brother! I was proud to be the best man from the very first, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Now about the bride, my sister, well as it happens, the bride, my sister, is also her very own offspring. This is because, her 8-D baby transcended across the ætherical nether-space trans-dimensional time-warp, and became a very exact clone of her mother.

Now, this caused a lot of problems with the linear timescape. Now we’re all stuck in the same timeloop, while my niece, her name is Fiona, just like her mother- my niece, she- to put it simply, she lives out in precise detail the exact same life as her mother- her- er…

She marries her father, and on his side they wear tan leather, while I- I wear my blue Armani suit. I have written this out before actually. And then her baby, you guessed it, it’s her- Fiona the third, Fiona the fourth, Fiona the fifth. I think we’re at about Fiona the fourteenth now. We do not know how far or how long this posterity will go on. But they all live the same life, and we never die, well, we do, but when we die it’s like- rewinding the tape back to the beginning.

 

[Ursa major]

​

​

A Big Step For Damsels​

​

​

“Even the best technology is useless if not applied properly, as can happen if the objectives are misunderstood.​

​

“Many creators of technology both oversell its capabilities and mistake what can be done with what should be done. (I’m not, of course, referring to morals.)​

​

“So one could build what one wants from scratch – the SFW1 proposal – but how long might it take to even approach the desired result? My guess would be ‘forever’: the problem isn’t a nail, and this sort of technology is a hammer.​

​

“One could simply create pharmaceuticals to achieve what one wants – the SFW2 proposal – but it wouldn’t be simple and no one wants permanently drugged-up subjects. We want them to be much as they were when we first desired them.​

​

“Proposal AC1 was closer to what was wanted, taking away the unwanted physical attributes of SFW1, but adapting what was left to avoid the major downside of SFW2. Of course, what was left of SFW1 was difficult, if not impossible to achieve. And would it even deliver the required objective? A more constrained proposal, AC2, came along, but that too was a leap into fantasy.​

​

“Then someone had the bright idea of going minimal: using a little, though still very clever, technology to apply the required stimuli gently, to avoid producing obviously anomalous behaviour.​

​

“So that’s what we did, with no need for robot bodies, drugged up subjects, or ‘cortical stacks’ and sleeves à la Altered Carbon. Instead, there’s just a device that prompts the brain – chemically, electrically – producing the behaviour we want (and only when we want it).​

​

“New Stepford has never been better, and the risk of anyone noticing or doing anything about it is negligible, darling.”​

​

“She can’t hear you, sir.”​

​

“I know. This won’t hurt bit, my darling damsel.”​

​

 

[The Big Peat]

Darkness Sought

The war had raged for three seasons before Margraves of the Frost decided to treat with the Lord of Night, and that decision stirred up a rage to shame all of those seasons.

“Offer him the Seat of Ice,” said one saturnine lord.

“The Seat itself!” A hoary old man in furs and velvet pounded the table. “Have we no pride? Let us ambush him there.”

“He'd destroy us. We must offer something.”

A figure rose unnoticed at the table’s end.

“Offer me in marriage,” said Princess Skara.

The shock silenced them for a heartbeat, then the shouting continued threefold. What recklessness to trust her to such a monster. What shame to force their beautiful princess to do such a thing!

“There’s no other way,” she insisted. “A castle’s loss would weaken the Frost forever, nor can cold stone charm him like I can.”

They muttered into their beards the truth of this, but the old lord persisted.

“We would be shamed to send our greatest treasure.”

Treasure you’d hoped to have. She smiled sweetly. “What greater honour than one of our own, Queen of Night?”

They muttered louder this time.

“We accept your offer. I shall send heralds,” said the saturnine lord.

Three days later came reply; send her alone in her wedding dress.

So Princess Skara donned her mother’s wedding dress and left, and the Margraves wept to see such brave beauty go. She rode through the frost, peering at each church until she saw one with nothing but the faintest glimmers inside.

She sighed. At last. It had been difficult to provoke the war, and more difficult to watch it, but how else to persuade the stubborn Margraves but desperation?

Now she would be with her love, and frost and darkness would go together for all time.

 

[Abernovo]

Something Old, Something New


"We brought ancient traditions out to the space between the Main Belt and the Oort Cloud. Some held strong, others faded. Most, though, adapted to the circumstances. A bit like us, the people left Earth, our ancestral home, to extend into the darkness. Not just us small traders, the "Wee Boats", but every community who had left to start afresh out here. We adapted, grew, and flourished on our new lives.

"But, enough philosophising! We are here to celebrate the wedding of Zaynab and Kiril.

"Zaynab, I believe your sister and her wife are here as your supporters, and to bear witness to this union?"



"They are," she answered.

"And, Kiril, while you are unable to attend in person, due to engine trouble on your mining ship, you are here virtually. Your parents are here, and I believe Captain Morrison is there to witness on board with you?"

"He is."

"Very well. Let us begin. As Community Celebrant for the Jovian Moons, I request you gather to witness the declarations of this couple. Let their growth and joy pass amongst our community, and may we all support one another, in our good times and bad. May we promise to be there for each other, even if we are separated by several orbits.

"I ask this of you, for a community is not unlike a marriage. It requires us to work together, to help one another, and to compromise, to put others before ourselves."

I took a breath.

"So, I ask you, are you ready to take this next step within our community, and together, as partners in life?

"Zaynab?"

"I am."

"And Kiril?"

The connection died. Silence descended.

"It's okay. These things happen, and we c-"

"I am."

I breathed. Captain Morrison confirmed the witnessing.

"I pronounce you..."

 

[Ursa major]

​

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[The Judge]

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