EN World Short Story Smackdown - FINAL: Berandor vs Piratecat - The Judgment Is In!

Dlsharrock said:

Note to self: don't ever ever *ever* volunteer to judge a future Smackdown! I honestly don't know how you guys are going to differentiate. I don't think I've seen such a great collection of stories, even in a book of collected short stories, in a long time. What a bunch of show-stealers!

That said I do definitely have two favourites, one of which I believe is worthy of some kind of prize, if not a publishing deal. At this point I think I'll keep my specific opinions to myself

EDIT: just in case that was misleading, I'm not in a position to offer a publishing deal

Click to expand...

You know, writing these things is a heck of a challenge! Judging is a very different challenge. Writing has rewards because once you have beat yourself to a pulp with the stress of writing the story, you have something you can look back on with some source of pride. I fully believe that everybody writing a short story like this, under these constraints, should end up proud of the effort. Even if the story has flaws, the work is something to be very proud of. Judging has a completely different payoff for me. Judging has a different payoff. It has the payoff of watching these people sweat and work to get a story out there, and then providing some feedback.

Being a spectator is just pure enjoyment - though I sometimes miss not being a participant in the smack talk.

EDIT: Dang, I left out a whole sentence, which left half my statements being nonsensical. The kids are distracting me...

This is going to come right down to the wire. I forgot I was visiting my folks this weekend and the trip's taken a little time away. D'oh!

About 80% done. I should add that I've got roughly 3800 words so far. There's not hard and fast limit set right? Anyone know if I might have trouble posting a story of this length?

Edit: This is what happens when you mix an overly fertile imagination with hopelessly optimistic goal-setting.

awayfarer said:

This is going to come right down to the wire. I forgot I was visiting my folks this weekend and the trip's taken a little time away. D'oh!

About 80% done. I should add that I've got roughly 3800 words so far. There's not hard and fast limit set right? Anyone know if I might have trouble posting a story of this length?

Edit: This is what happens when you mix an overly fertile imagination with hopelessly optimistic goal-setting.

Click to expand...

Shouldn't be a problem. I've had stories approaching 6000, and I'm sure Carpe David had ones longer than that.

In the olden days, we used to have word-limits on the stories, but it wasn't usually a problem, so it sort of fell by the wayside.

We have seen some very long stories! Sialia cranked out some immensely long tales under these timelines. It was after her stories that we started bantering about the ideas of word limits. That was mostly to make it easier on the judges.

Personally, I prefer to refrain from hard limits. If a story is engaging and flows well, even a very long story feels like a short read.

The Contest of Harmony and Invention
By Ryan Nock

The power lines shook like violin strings being bowed by a dying man. The streets were well past rain-slick, and now had currents of their own, pushing flotsam of both the trash and the citizen variety away from the great river. Sewage and sea brine splashed beneath Jordan’s feet as he stumbled through the storm, pistol and fiddle case in hand, calling out to his brother.

He could barely see ten feet, and the crowds – all fools as bad or worse than Jordan to have waited this long to evacuate – threatened to trample him into the rising flood. Cursing God, Jordan turned and cut across the street to the dark shape of a two-story building. A motel, he realized, as he staggered out of the rain and under the carport awning.

The door was locked. He kicked in the glass, cleared out the remains with the barrel of his pistol, and clambered inside. The flood had preceded him, and in the near black interior he sloshed through ankle-deep detritus. Roaring gusts blew rain in after him, and he tucked his pistol into his pocket so he could flip open his cell phone for light. At the far end of the lobby was a staircase, and he climbed a few steps up so he could sit out of the water. He lay back on the steps and caught his breath, glad to be out of the rain, at least for a while.

Jordan and Nathan had thought they could outlast the storm, wait until the weather cleared and then be on the ground to fight off looters and squatters. Their mother had owned a historic house on the edge of the bayou. Jordan now wished they had sold it, because the storm would probably turn it into a playhouse for alligators, but if it didn’t, he and his brother were going to protect their property.

Or so they had planned. But the disaster radio’s governmentally stentorian proclamations of doom had convinced them they needed to find sturdier shelter. They’d grabbed their most cherished possessions – mom’s fiddle and dad’s rifle – loaded the truck bed with supplies, and taken off for the stadium.

They had been taking the road that cut alongside the north levee when the water poured over, the truck hydroplaned, and they crashed into a store that was in the process of being looted. Nathan tried to drive them off with a few blasts of his rifle, but the looters had guns of their own, and they had to flee. Jordan tried to follow the sounds of his brother’s gunshots, but the storm roared louder, and soon he was lost.

Now Jordan had no idea where his brother was. He tried to call his brother’s cell phone, but reception was almost nothing, and the call just went to a static-riddled voicemail. It was just as well, Jordan thought. He would rest here tonight, wait for sunrise and clear weather, and then go to the stadium to find Nathan.

Reverently, Jordan checked the fiddle case. The outside was drenched, but almost no water had seeped in. The antique instrument and bow were safe.

Sirens wailed, an ambulance flashed by outside, and the flicker of its emergency lights gave Jordan a glimpse of the lobby. It was a motel, like any other, but a plastic tray of fruit had somehow miraculously been knocked off a counter without flipping, and it bobbed nearby the base of the stairs.

He closed the case, then reached down and grabbed a fruit, barely able to see in the reborn gloom. It felt like a pear. He was about to take a bite when a lamp flickered on above him, and he saw a wretched worm-like thing with white strands of hair crawling out of the fruit. [imager]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34127[/imager] Grimacing, he threw it into the water.

“That’s just a sign of what’s to come,” a voice said.

Jordan tensed and looked in the direction of the voice. Standing in the storm-blown waters just ten feet away was a young woman in a white dress. The lamp seemed to illuminate only her. No light glinted off the cheap motel decorations. The tiny waves were black. There was no wake in the water from the woman’s passage.

“Who are you?” Jordan asked.

“I need you to play a song for me, Jordan.”

The building shook in the wind and Jordan grabbed his pistol.

“Who are you?” Jordan asked again.

“You need to get out of here,” she said, “quickly. Our city has been rotting for years, though we have survived through the blues. But something wretched has been feeding on our decay, and child, this storm and the death it brings will give it the strength it needs to be born.”

“What are you talking about?” he shouted. “Listen, I have a gun, woman, so don’t you come any closer.”

She had not moved since he had seen her, except to talk. She didn’t seem frightened.

“Your brother, your friends, this whole city is in danger. If you want to save them, think not of your safety. Follow the currents. They flow to its gnashing mouth.”

The lamp died, and the room fell to darkness. Jordan squinted, but he couldn’t see the woman anywhere. Wishing that asylums would know better than to let their patients out in the middle of the apocalypse, Jordan grabbed his mother’s fiddle case and led the way with his pistol as he went for the door. The woman didn’t accost him, and once he got out on the street he heard the deep, unsteady creak of shearing metal and cracking stone.

The motel began to shift in the force of the wind, and Jordan ran clear as it crashed down behind him. Thunder boomed overhead, and Jordan came to a stop beside a tilting metal pole, a blackened street light lurching sideways. He caught his breath, then looked down as he noticed something floating past him in the current.

The bowl of fruit, barely visible but seeming to writhe in the shadows, drifted away from the debris of the collapsed motel.

Jordan glanced around, and on all sides he saw trash and refuse carried on the flood, flowing westward, toward the swamp. Along with it stumbled confused people, nearly blind from the rain and from their tears at what they knew they would lose. The stadium was south and east, but Jordan was more afraid to go there than to ignore the unearthly warning he had received. He began to run with the current, while all around him the city was pummeled by winds and rain from the sea.

He felt like he had walked for hours, and the streets turned into rivers, and then vanished entirely as homes stretched out, letting the bayou dominate. Broken swing sets, upturned tupperware, wrappers of Popeye’s chicken sandwiches and plastic daiquiri cups congealed amid the knees of cypress trees. Dark shapes, not moving, floated face down, and hungry teeth and snouts pulled them under the murky water. Once teeth bit at his leg, and he had shot down into the swamp, and the creature had released him.

The sky was threshed with tempest and thunderclouds, but above its roar Jordan heard a sound, like a hungry voice, or an ancient horn, coming from straight ahead. The current began to quicken, and Jordan knew he had to be close. So he wouldn’t be swept away, he leapt onto a half-toppled tree, then climbed to the next, through branches that tried to shake him loose. He scrambled from tree to tree, watching everything that was dying in his city be dragged toward something that spoke in the gloom.

Finally, he knew he had to be right above it. Witchfire hovered above the swirling flood, and below he saw a vortex of refuse.

[imagel]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34128[/imagel] “My God,” Jordan said. “What is that?”

The deep murmur stopped, the vortex slowed. A voice called out, rumbling from every direction.

Under a hard Season, fired by the Sun
Languishes man, languishes the flock.
We hear the cuckoo's voice; then sweet songs of the turtledove and finch.
Soft breezes stir the air.
The shepherd trembles.

The fear of lightning and fierce thunder
Robs his tired limbs of rest
As gnats and flies buzz furiously around
And the nests of songbirds are silenced.

Alas, his fears were justified
The Heavens thunder and roar and majestically
I am born.

Jordan felt revulsion at its every word. He had heard many stories of demons and ghosts and sin in his youth, had heard his mother play the fiddle in church like her music alone was all that was keeping evil from claiming her children, but never had he believed in raw evil as he now witnessed.

Balanced dangerously in the branches, Jordan drew his pistol at fired at the center of the vortex, but the bullet vanished into the gnashing froth of garbage, and the swamp laughed at him. The tree beneath him shook, its roots snapping at the flood threatened to pull it from the ground. He fired more shots in a swift, desperate cadence, but it was futile.

Then, over the din, a tinny song called out, digitized, muffled. In Jordan’s pocket, his cell phone played “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the ring tone for his brother Nathan, and at the sound of the song, the thing beneath the vortex coughed in pain. The flood paused and the ground shuddered.

The ring tone repeated once, then ended, and the evil thing murmured again, insistently. Hurricane winds pulled at Jordan, and his tree’s trunk was sundered. He threw his pistol away and leapt for the next farther tree. Still holding his mother’s fiddle case, he caught a branch, swung badly to the surface of the water, and then grabbed onto this new tree’s trunk, holding tight as the current pulled him toward the vortex.

He braced himself against the roots of the tree and steadied himself, then turned and faced the devouring entity. All it existed for was to consume, not to create, but his city was one of splendor and song. He opened the fiddle case, and in the thrashing rain he held fiddle and bow high. A memory of childhood and church guided his hands as he pulled the bow across the rain-streaked strings.

The current stopped and the ground trembled. The sound of cello strings rose up behind him, and then to his right and left guitars called out from the darkness. Violins hummed from the distance, and Jordan saw other men and women, silhouettes accompanying his fiddle in a symphony, their every note causing the thing pain.

They played for minutes, and that which sought to devour their city fought against them. The ground bucked at their feet, but they all held steady. Beasts of the swamp snarled, but the music kept them at bay. The hungering thing roared and cursed at them, but Jordan raised the song to its crescendo and their enemy screamed and fled.

Echoes of strings faded out under the still rumbling storm, but the vortex vanished, and the ground was still.

Lashed with rain, Jordan tucked his mother’s fiddle back into its case, then set out into the night. He met the eyes of some of the other musicians – men, women, children of the city’s many races; poets and doctors and thieves and vagrants, fools all – but none of them spoke. It wasn’t necessary.

It did not take long for him to find his mother’s old home, though he could not see his way. Stairs elevated it above the flood, and it had survived a century of storms. It would survive this one. The door was already open, but not by wind or looters. He walked inside, made his way through by memory as the great storm continued to shake the city to the east.

In the kitchen, the young woman sat at the table. Jordan sat down across from her.

“It’s a good fiddle,” he said, “though I don’t think I play it as well as you.”

“You drove it away,” she said. “Now the storm can pass. Darkness hovers over the waters, but let there be light again.”

[imager]http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34129[/imager]The young woman lifted her hands beside a candle on the table between them, and a flame blossomed at its tip, filling the room.

“Don’t forget to play from time to time,” she said.

Jordan nodded, stood, and picked up the fiddle case. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, just like his mother had always kept, and Jordan took one as he left. As he stepped out onto the porch, the sky was just turning a light shade of gray.

He stretched, then pulled out his cell phone. He had one new voicemail, from his brother.

“Hey Jordan, where the hell are you? I’m praying you get here safely, but hey, you’re my brother. You’re probably off helping old ladies cross the street or something. Not like I can complain. I helped a bunch of people who were lost tonight. Would you believe, they were headed to the swamp? I’ll tell you all about it when you get here, but dad’s rifle sure came in handy.

“Well, we’re all safe now. Safe and dry, at the stadium. Where the hell are you?

“Be safe, okay bro? And, assuming you don’t die, do me a favor. We need to celebrate when you get here, so if you could loot some beer for us, that’d be great.”

The message ended, and the first light of day broke the eastern horizon, pushing away the storm’s gloom. Jordan smiled, and began to walk.

Eventually, he reached the great stadium, fiddle and beer in hand. The waters were receding, and there, amid crowds of flooded tents, he found his brother, surrounded by a flock of drunken, foolish people, already celebrating that their city had survived.

madwabbit said:

Firstly, to all, but most specifically to Starman and the judges, I apologize for being a complete loser.

Click to expand...

Eh, no hard feelings. At least you did show up and let us know what happened.

It is amazing, though, how quickly the time flies. I started almost right away and still barely finished in time. Damn Real Life!

Ernest Stibman as Penelope Dondelinger in The Other World. PT-1

Ernest Stibman endured the chittering clacks of the cameras as reporters, advertisers, stage crew and others swarmed the set of “Penelope Dondelinger”. He felt like a queen bee at the center of a hive, only without a way of exerting control over the brood. The getup they insisted on was a ridiculous admixture of yellow and pink that only an openly gay bee could appreciate.

“Penelope, over here! Give us a smile” Shouted a portly man, his little sausage-like fingers barely grasped the too-small camera. Ernest flashed his teeth to the man. He scuttled around for a better angle and tripped on a cable left lying haphazardly on the ground. The others kept their cameras clicking. A nearby agent half-heartedly walked to the flabby, fallen man and helped to pick him up.

Five more minutes of this and Teddy, the lone studio exec assigned to oversee the proceedings, spoke up. “Alright, that’s a wrap ladies and gentleman. There will be no more pictures today. I think we’ve got enough promo material. You know what to do from here. See you on opening night!” The swarm buzzed merrily to one another about how successful “Penelope Dondelinger” was going to be. Ernest was on a roll, no doubt, and his fan base was grew with each high-heeled step and each drop of the inane catchphrase “Go fish!”

The white ottoman was needlessly tall. Ernest nearly tripped over himself as he stepped down. Admittedly he was prone to clumsiness. In fact it was one of the keys to his success. That and the fact that at 23 Ernest still looked like a gangly 14 year old. His ridiculous appearance and awkward motions had won, if not the hearts, than at least the moviegoing bucks of millions. All in all he had begun to tire of these same insipid roles.

“Teddy, we need to talk.” Ernest said

“Ernest, Ernest I don’t like that tone. Talk to me Ernest, what’s going on?” shot Teddy

“I need a vacation.” The exec shook his head vigorously “No, Ted, listen to me for once. I NEED a vacation. They’re making me a doll here. I get dressed up and spout the same crap over and over again like somebody’s at my back pulling a string. Next thing they’ll have me…”

Teddy interrupted “Ernest babe, I know how you feel. I haven’t had a vacation in seven years myself but it’s the business. You gotta just suck it up and play ball for a while. You’ll get some time to yourself after you’ve finished filming” he clasped Ernest on the shoulder. “We’ll be done here in no time. Hey you’re practically finished with it already.”

Ernest shook his head “I just need a week. I need to clear my head. Just a week and I can do this.”

Teddy gazed skyward and threw his hands in the air. Any pretense of warmth of was thrown out. “Fine. Let your agent know. We’ve got deadlines to meet. Make sure you come back ready to film because this is going ahead whether you’re ready or not.” The irritated exec left without a goodbye. Ernest sighed with relief as the man left.

The getup was pulled off with all haste. Ernest hailed a cab and hoped the cabbie didn’t recognize him. He tipped the driver, went into his apartment, packed his bags and went to bed. As he closed his eyes that night he remembered Lake Sapphire. “The lake. That’s the place. Can rest…there.” Sleep came over him.

Lake Sapphire was dazzling in the sunset as Ernest’s little yellow bug pulled off the dirt road. The overgrown gravel driveway was in sore need of maintenance and he promised himself he would get to it by the end of the week. The Stibman family cottage had seen lot of use in the twenty-three years that Ernest had been alive, but much less so recently. The lake had taken on a kind of cold pallor since Ed Stibman, renowned Hollywood agent and Ernest’s father, had gone missing eight years ago. In his will he had left the cabin to Ernest. It was a surprise to everyone. Ed Stibman was a huge, impressive man, just as comfortable outdoors as he was in a studio and possibly more so. Ernest didn’t share his frontier spirit or sportsmanlike attitude.

And so for eight years a Stibman would come to the cabin and air it out, generally stay there a day or two and leave. It was a far cry from the fond memories of the cabin in his youth. There was one year in which the bodies of several drowned swimmers had surfaced, but that was at the other side of the lake, and in a month the Stibmans weren’t using their cabin. Lake Sapphire still mostly represented peace and quiet to some extent. Ernest had come here primarily due to nostalgia and the hope that maybe he could relive some of it’s past glory: fishing in the morning, swimming around lunchtime, barbeques around dusk. This time though, all alone.

It did not take long to unpack the single scruffy duffle bag that the young actor had brought. There was still a little sun up. “Yeah, why not?” Ernest thought to himself. He changed into his swim trunks and walked down the hill behind the cabin. A mayhem of weeds had grown over the dirt path and a lot of time was spent ripping them out. Mosquitoes bit Ernest as he walked. Flies droned in his ear.

It was exhausting work. By the time he had reached the lake he barely felt like swimming, and the sun was practically gone. “I’ve come this far.” Ernest thought. He rubbed his arms. It was surprisingly cold for a summer evening. His limbs shook. He waved them around to get his blood flowing and dove from the short dock into the dark water.

It was cold. Ernest shot back to the surface, gasped for air and swam to shore. Even this late, even this far in the hills the water shouldn’t been this cold! Come to think of it, the air was getting a bit chilly too. A small fire at the cabin seemed in order.

But… no. No! Damned, stupid Penelope Dondelinger would have done that. He’d come this far and he’d be damned if he were just going to turn back without a proper swim. Even if the water, the deep, dark blue water was cold. But wait, it was really, really cold and…

There was a splash as Ernest dove headfirst into the lake, interrupted in mid-thought. The water surged past. Deeper and deeper he went, past fish (Go fish!) and watery weeds until there should have been a sandy bottom. But the weeds just kept going. No lake plants should be this long. And Ernest kept swimming faster downward. The surface light vanished.

No, there it was! A small star of white was visible in the distance. Ernest swam towards it but his lungs ached. His stomach twinged with the effort of holding back breath. The swim was hard, like he were fighting buoyancy rather than going with it.

Penelope Dondelinger’s alter ego kicked as hard as he could and with some effort reached the light. His body was pulled toward the surface. The end was in sight, but only a few strides towards the surface his breath resumed. Ernest breathed in the water. He began to panic. Movement became erratic and in a few moments slowed to a halt.

This was it then, he reflected. The light didn’t seem much closer. What was that? The girl swimming towards him could only have been a hallucination. It seemed pointless to scream to a hallucination to help. Ernest went under. “Go fish!” swam through his mind over and over, grew indistinct and suddenly stopped. He was not awake when a small, feminine hand grasped him and pulled him to the surface.

Light flickered. There were moments of conscious thought between inky pools of oblivion. A woman’s voice sung in his ear only from far away. Only the plaintive tone was understandable, the words lost. The last slip into blackness felt like days.

It was a large, candle-lit cave that Ernest awoke in. A heap of warm furs had been placed under him. A song was heard not far away although the words were not discernible. A pair of censers hung from hooks in the walls and sent a mild but sweet scent into the cavern. Ernest at once attempted to prop himself up for a better view, but his chest ached at the attempt. He caught a glimpse of two halls leading away from the room he lay in, but that was all. Mere moments later the woman he thought a hallucination entered the room. She was tall, auburn-haired and wearing a long green dress with a pattern of yellow flowers. A golden cross adorned her neck.

“Gri? Sne ta ia ta oijaga!?” the woman exclaimed. She nearly dropped the loaf of bread she held in her rush to actor’s sickbed. She knelt by his side.

“I’m sorry?” Ernest coughed. “I don’t understand.”

“Ah, then you’re an otherworlder! It’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone. Here, eat. You’ve been unconscious for two days now. You need to regain your strength.”

A fit of coughing interrupted Ernest’s protests, and the woman entreated him so earnestly that he felt compelled to try and eat. The bread was coarse and heavy. Ernest felt full after only a few mouthfuls.

“I’m sorry but the bread is all I have. There’s a lot of it. It keeps for a very long time too. I’d like to go out and perhaps gather some fruit but the ogres have been stirring in this area again. It’s not safe to venture far from here.”

“Hold on.” Ernest exclaimed, “Just where is this? What is going on here? What ogres? And who are you?” Something else about her bothered him, something familiar.

The woman wrung her hands. Her eyes shimmered as if she were on the verge of tears. “My name is Tarentia Alvaz. I’m sorry; it’s just been so long since I’ve seen anyone else. The ogres have slain them all, put them all in the Ossuary.” She let her face fall into her hands and began to weep. The cross caught a glimmer of light from the other side of the dark room.

“That necklace! Where did you get that?” Ernest exclaimed. That was what was so familiar. It was the necklace his father wore. The Stibman family always tried to tell their father that it looked gaudy on him. Ernest had never been so ambivalent about it in his life as now.

“This…” Tarentia said through tears, “…belonged to the last person to come here. It was a man, many years ago. I was only a child and the last of my people. He washed up on the bank of the cave-pool. I did what I could and he was healthy again quickly. Uncle Ed stayed here for three years, I’m sure he felt homesick but he wouldn’t abandon me. He finally decided he would go out and fight the ogres but…”

There was a heavy clicking sound from somewhere in the cave. Tarentia gasped. “Quickly! Get up, there’s no time now!” she hoisted her slim patient up and ran towards one of the openings in the cavern wall. An enormous shadow loomed as Ernest looked behind, but it seemed like it must belong to several creatures for there were two large arms, a spider like body and long, long neck. A slow series of clicks moved behind them.

Tarentia led Ernest to the side of a dark pool. “I’m sorry to do this to you but we must dive in! Just hold my hand!” “Wait a…” she dove and dragged him under before he could finish his complaint. From behind was the sound of objects being thrown about. There was a terrible chattering yell. There was barely enough time for Ernest to hold his breath.

They didn’t go far. Just under the edge of the pool was a small alcove only a few feet tall and maybe four across. It was shallow enough here that both could stand on the bottom albeit, with little more than their heads above the surface. They waited.

And waited

A few long minutes later came the sound of a slow clicking, like someone striking metal poles against the earth. They stopped at the edge of the water. There was a quieter clicking noise. Then there came the scream. It was an unearthly howl of rage; a combination of a shrill, piercing yell, a low bellow and a distinct chattering beat. Something heavy pounded on…on what? It must have been the rock. Small waves washed over the shaken pair as they stood in their minute sanctuary. The pounding got more and more insistent for several minutes, and then was silenced.

The clicking noise echoed into the distance. Ernest attempted to speak but Tarentia waved him into silence. She motioned for him to stay still, and dove under the water.

Moments later she returned, and brought Ernest back to the surface. Each shivered on the edge of the pool; Ernest due to the chill, Tarentia for other reasons.

“What…was that?” Ernest asked

“An ogre.” Came the stifled reply.

“They don’t swim I take it?”

“Far more. They cannot enter water. It represents an impassible barrier to them. They react to it as if it were solid. They can push it around, deform it, but never move past the surface.”

“Go fish!” popped into his Ernest’s head. His eyes went wide as he threw his hands in the air. “This is insane! I must have tumbled off that Ottoman. I’m on the set of Penelope Dondelinger. Teddy is freaking out that I’m in a coma, but not this.”

“It is real.” Tarentia murmured. “We lost our war to them long ago. We were never very many but I’m the last. There are only three more of the ogres as well.” She turned quickly to him. “I want to leave here, but you know yourself how difficult it is going between our two worlds. Few have come from your world to ours and likewise. Although during the war many of ours did try.” Ernest reflected on this. Of the bodies they found on the shore of Lake Sapphire years ago none could be identified. The authorities wrote them off as illegal immigrants but couldn’t explain what they were doing on the lake.

“So what do we do?” He asked. “I can’t spend the rest of my life here. I’ve got important…well, I’ve got things I need to do back home.”

“You can stay here with me, and try to avoid the ogres.” Tarentia crossed her arms. She looked at the floor. “You can try and swim back. Or you can fight them.”

In spite of himself Ernest laughed. “Fight? I don’t know what the hell those things are but I know I can’t do anything about them.”

“Then you will swim or stay. Those are your options.”

The thought of staying here with this woman might not have been a bad choice if it weren’t for the “ogres”, whatever they were. Swimming back was basically suicide and would be risky even if he knew which direction to go. He made the decision.

“Tarentia.” He sighed, “Could those things even BE killed?”

Her eyes brightened. “Yes but, only with a certain kind of weapon, and only by piercing one small part of their body. The ogres have destroyed most of the weapons. I believe a pair of them still exists. They’re in the middle of The Ossuary. That was the rumor at least. When there were still some of us left to pass rumors.”

“Why didn’t they destroy them?”

“The weapons fell into the courtyard fountain. They cannot reach them there.”

“And the one spot, the weakness?”

“There is a spot on their throats. It is difficult to reach as their necks are long and constantly in motion. They are not terribly bright creatures, but smart enough to recognize when something is a threat.”

Ernest nodded. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“I’ll go with you. There’s little for me here.” Tarentia blurted out. “You’re my last hope. If you die in the attempt I may as well.” They stared at one another for a while. “I haven’t even asked your name yet.” She said.

“Penel…um…Ernest, Ernest Stibman.” Said Ernest as his face reddened. “Go fish!” said Ernest’s subconscious. “Shut up” thought Ernest.

They spent the next few hours discussing the details. The Ossuary was once the royal palace but was taken over years ago. It was only a day’s travel from the cave, at most. They rested for the night.

Ernest Stibman as Penelope Dondelinger in The Other World, PT-2

In the morning they packed some of the coarse bread and a pair of canteens but little else. If they survived this, the trip back to the cave would be minimal. If not, they wouldn’t need anything else. The pair set out shortly after sunup.

About midday they passed through the remains of a quaint village surrounded by heavy woods. “My hometown.” Tarentia said, mournfully. Most of the houses were cottages. Some only had thatch for roofing and few had more than one floor. A stone pit sat at the foot of a water tower. “It’s no good to drink. I’ve tried.” Terentian mentioned. “The pit was once a pool but it has since dried up. I imagine the tower water is still there since it’s not exposed to the sun.” They sat at the pools edge, took out their bread and ate.

“Srr..” Ernest swallowed before continuing, “So, you never told me how it is you know English?” He queried

“We know…we knew several languages. Your father was not the first to come here. There were seven others. Five of them came to live among us and we recorded their ways and their languages. One was…what was it? Spanish, many hundreds of years ago. There was another even further back than that, Ojibwa I believe it was called. Anyway, your father was the last visitor we had.”

She blushed at these words. “Well, the last since you arrived.”

He gulped down the last mouthful of bread. It felt like a pool ball going down. He took a sip of water.

There was a clicking noise.

Out of the woods twenty feet away emerged a pitch-black creature on four thin legs like pool cues. It was vaguely scorpion-shaped in that it had a long tail, a corrugated, chitonous body, two long arms and a giant mandibled maw.

It was not like a scorpion in that a dark grey, malevolent human face dripped acid from a tiny “o” shaped mouth at the end of the tail. The two arms were not like an insects claws, rather they were enormous, brawny things with hammer-like fists at the ends. The body was elevated several feet off the ground by its long legs.

“Ogre!” Tarentia screamed. She threw down her bread and leapt away. The ogre pursued. Ernest barely had enough time to get to his feet. “Hey you!” he cried. “Oh .” he thought “Go fish” said his subconscious.

He got the ogre’s attention. It charged Ernest and the actor, in his haste to get away tripped. He fell backward; his canteen spilled its contents in the air.

The ogre tripped o the airborne water, straight into what was once the pool. It crashed squarely into the opposite side. Both Ernest and the hideous thing got up slowly.

Tarentia stood nearby, looking around wildly. “Find an axe!” she shouted.

“What good would it do!?” cried Ernest. The Ogre slipped on the smooth pool bottom. It was having trouble getting up but this probably wouldn’t be the case for long. Ernest rushed around to the rear of a small cottage. As luck would have it a large, albeit rusty, woodsman’s axe stuck out from the trunk of a long dead tree. As Ernest pulled it out a hunk of the blade snapped clean off. He grimaced.

Tarentia was already at the edge of the water tower; hacking away at one of the supports with a small hatchet she’d found somewhere. The ogre was up and skittering around the pool. Ernest rushed around the deep side and it pursued, waving an enormous fist at him as he passed. Man and woman hacked one each at two of the rotted beams of the tower.

On Ernest’s third stroke the rusty axe broke and embedded itself in the beam. The ogre was up now and climbing out. “Tarentia, go!” Ernest shouted. She was still only halfway through her beam and would never finish in time. She ran. Ernest stood in front of his beam and waited.

The ogre was mostly out of the pool. It swung a huge arm and connected with the half-chopped beam with the axe still stuck in it. Ernest dodged, who’d have thought walking in high-hells could have made him so nimble?

The axe head was pushed the rest of the way through the beam. The tower crumbled, smashing into the ogre on its way down. The old, stagnant water filled the pool with a loud rushing noise. The waves subsided. Frozen in place in the middle, one fist still sticking above the surface, was the ogre.

Ernest’s breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. His heart felt like it would burst from the stress. Tarentia came over to him. They embraced, tightly and sunk to their knees.

“We got one.” She cried, quietly. “I can’t believe it.”

Ernest nodded. They knelt there for a while, one supporting the other.

They stayed for a little while to examine their handiwork. “Is it?” Ernest began.

“I think so. I’m sure they need to breathe like anything else.” Came the reply.

They moved on.

It was late in the day when they reached the woods surrounding The Ossuary. “Their lair. They’ve spun some strange silk around it. It doesn’t stick, like a spiders would, but I think that they know if it’s been disturbed. Try to avoid stepping in it if you can.”
It took time to get through the web-like material. Ernest had always been thin and limber and training to be Penelope Dondelinger had pushed him even further. He had next to no difficulty in avoiding the webs. Tarentia made do as best she could, but she lagged behind him.

They emerged from the woods into a stone courtyard overgrown with weeds strewn with bones, and a few animal corpses in different state of decomposition.

“Quickly now. If we can take them by surprise we’ll be that much better off.” Tarentia whispered.” Ernest nodded. Something brushed Tarentia’s sleeve as they left the woods. “Just a strand.” She gasped “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Her look suggested that she wasn’t so certain.

The gate of the former royal palace, now the ogre’s nest, was wide open. By the look of the dust aside the two enormous iron doors they hadn’t been opened in some time. The left one hung only off its lower hinge, the upper hinge completely torn away. The door on the right had numerous dents. Each was orange-red, marked by years of decay. The sight beyond the door was even less inviting.

The front hall of The Ossuary was full of bones, but much less haphazardly placed than those outside. Bones were stacked in neat, even rows. Bones were arranged carefully upon an alter that was obviously not created for the task. The death in the room clashed with its original purpose as a sanctuary. Ernest was surprised to see a figure hung upon a cross it’s complete details blotted out by the light from the window behind it. He was going to ask Tarentia how her people came to know of Christianity when he realized that the figure was really the husk of some apelike creature nailed to a pair of wooden slats. Ernest felt his stomach twist. They moved on. Tarentia remained silent, her head bowed until they were out of the hall. “They’re beasts, but they do…they do such intricate things with the bones. We never knew why. We’ll never know why.” Her voice wavered. Ernest thought that she suddenly seemed very small.

Past the cathedral of the opening hall was a large, circular courtyard some two hundred feet across, an immense stone fountain at its center. There were three other doorways that led into it such that they were lined up like the directions on a compass. The fountains till ran, although only at a small trickle of what it must have once been capable of. The center spout was easily twenty feet tall or larger.

The two quickly crossed the courtyard and the sounds of clicking began when they were only halfway there. “The weapons in the fountain!” The two remaining ogres clicked their way into the yard on their lance-like legs. The two roared with the same unearthly bellow Ernest heard before. All four being in the courtyard: Ernest, Tarentia, the two ogres, charged for the fountain.

All arrived at nearly the same time, such that the two ogres collided into one another and the two people had to dive into the fountain to avoid them. It was surprisingly deep but half empty and Ernest banged his head on the bottom as he fell. He momentarily felt nauseous, his vision blurred, and then he saw them as if in a fever dream.

Two silver spikes sat on the bottom of the fountain, which waved ferociously as the ogres pounded the surface. The spikes glistened in the little light that reached this far down. Each was attached to a small slanted platform as if…

“Oh no” Ernest thought “You’ve got to be kidding me” Either he’d hit his head harder than he thought, or the weapons Tarentia mentioned were a pair of the sharpest stiletto heels he had ever seen.

They couldn’t hold their breath forever, and the ogres were striking the surface of the water so fiercely that Tarentia and Ernest were nearly uncovered when the trough of the waves moved over them. Ernest scrambled over the stone fountain floor, grasped the shoes and hastily slipped them on. His leg stuck out of the water as he did so, and just as he finished slipping the last shoe on, a gargantuan fist grasped him by the ankle and tore him from the brackish water.

There was a popping noise as Ernest was tossed head over heels into the air and pain shot through his leg. He had one confused glimpse of Tarentia, curled into a ball and desperately holding her breath as the other ogre tried fruitlessly to reach her. It seemed like forever until Ernest finally fell on the back of the ogre that tossed him.

He sat up on the beasts back. A horrid, venomous face hissed at him, a drop of liquid fell from its mouth, burning his skin. It reared back to strike. Ernest shut his eyes and threw his hands over his face. He reflexively kicked his leg up and felt the force of the thing’s head slam into his foot, resulting in another loud pop and a worse pain than before.

There was a sudden sensation of being lifted. Ernest opened his eyes long enough to see one of his heels jammed directly into the creatures throat. A thick, grey ichor spewed from the wound. The ogre thrashed, whipping the attached actor violently. With one final whip of its neck Ernest was released. He came crashing into the fountainhead. The ogre fell over dead.

The last remaining ogre bellowed a shrill, ululating death-cry for its comrade. It ignored Tarentia for the moment and clacked its way around the fountain in an attempt to destroy Ernest, who lay conscious but crumpled around the fountain top.

“Tarentia?” he muttered. The star of Penelope Dondelinger was barely awake. His head swam. A massive dark blur approached him, a small segment of it whipped back. He was barely able to roll out of the way when a viscous greenish gray slush splattered the fountainhead. Smoke poured from where it hit.

The roll put Ernest on a lower portion of the fountain, and he found himself once again in the grip of an enormous fist. It drew him back and was going to batter him against the stones of the courtyard when a voice came from the other side of the fountain.

“Leave him alone! Come and get me!” Tarentia yelled. She had found a spear somewhere and was waving it in the ogre’s general direction. It dropped Ernest on the stones with a thud and walked ever so slowly to the opposite side.

The actor was in a bad way. His breath came rapidly but each gasp hurt. He could see Tarentia, her dress an emerald blur, being swallowed up by a large black shadow that crept towards her. With an anguished groan Ernest began to climb the fountain.

Tarentia kept as much of the spear between her and the ogre as possible. She hadn’t thought of what to do once she had the things attention and it dawned on her that when she died her people as a whole would cease to exist. The ogre spat from its tail and the sludge caught a portion of her dress, dissolving it instantly and marring a patch of stone behind her. She dodged but one of the ogre’s enormous arms caught her. It began to draw her to the enormous mandibles between its gargantuan limbs.

Ernest had barely reached the halfway point of the fountain, but he didn’t need to be at the top for this to work. Pained and bleeding he crept around just behind the ogre. This was to be the end. He wished he had been an action star, not some stupid cross-dressing geek. He wished he could spout some catchphrase and slay the bad guy and get the girl all with ease. None of this was easy. He wished he had something witty to say.

“Hey, you!” he shouted. The ogre whipped its tail around. The tail narrowed its eyes. There was a hiss.

“GO FISH!” Ernest shouted. As witty lines go it wasn’t the best. He leapt from the fountain as best as he could with one broken leg. The heel was planted firmly under the ogres jaw. There was one last screeching, chittering bellow. The ogre stumbled around on its little legs and fell over dead. Ernest toppled over with it.

Tarentia freed herself from the massive arm and ran over to the fallen hero. “Oh god! What were you thinking! You’re insane Ernest!”

“What?” he replied. It was not the thanks he’d expected.

“Trying to kill two ogres with a pair of shoes! You’re mad!” Tarentia paused “but…but you did it!” She embraced him: a wonderful but painful gesture. Ernest winced.

“Those weren’t…those weren’t the weapons!?” he bawled.

“No! Er, I meant one of these spears. I can’t believe you missed them! They were right there on the fountain bottom!”

Ernest chuckled, then laughed. He laughed loudly though it hurt like hell. Tarentia joined him. They laughed, and laughed and laughed and it echoed through the halls of the now monster-less Ossuary

A month passed, uneventfully. They lived in the cave for now but would move into one of the houses soon. Ernest’s wounds were healing nicely. He still had some trouble getting around but Tarentia fabricated a makeshift crutch that helped immensely. It was nice just to lay down for a while anyway.

She entered the room just as Ernest awoke, carrying with her a little coarse bread, some fresh water and some strawberries that were picked that morning.

“Morning Hon.” She smiled. The ex-actor gladly took the food and took a large swig of water from the mug she proffered. “I think I’m nearly ready to start burying the bones.” He stated. “I don’t know that we can find him, his remains that is, but I’d like to have some small ceremony for my father if we can. We can do it for all of them.”

“I’m hoping now…” Tarentia replied; her azure eyes positively shimmered “…that we might find some others alive. Maybe some others hid from the ogres. It’s a slim hope, but it’s all I need. No I don’t hope, I’m sure we’ll find someone.” She lay by his side, placed her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

Ernest smiled. Somewhere out there in another world was a movie called Penelope Dondelinger that will never, ever be finished.

I realize now that I forgot to post the pics in with the story. Not sure if the spoiler tag is necessary but figured I'd include it anyway. Sorry folks. I have the organizational ability of a potted plant.

[sblock]Pic 1 (The nerd) shows up right at the front. First sentence.
Pic 2 (The naked lady) during the swimming portion "The girl swimming towards him could only have been a hallucination."
Pic 3 (The creepy woods) near the end. "It was late in the day when they reached the woods surrounding The Ossuary."
Pic 4 (The church) nearer the end. As they enter The Ossuary) "The front hall of The Ossuary was full of bones"[/sblock]

Round 1, Match 4(?), awayfarer vs. Berandor

Make a wish

It felt wonderful. In the mirror, Manfred saw how the high heels straightened his back and made him appear almost three inches taller. His feet looked delicate as they were pushed into the tight tip of his new stilettos. It felt so good Manfred wanted to dance. He did a little improvised tap, finishing up with his hand thrust toward the mirror and his imaginary audience.

There was a knocking at the apartment door. Manfred almost fell over himself in his rush to pull off his shoes and roll down the legs of his trousers. Barefoot he walked to the door and opened it.

»Manny White?« a cheery female voice asked.

It was friday, April 23rd, 1982, 5:03 pm, and Manny’s life had just taken an unexpected turn.

-

The cheery voice belonged to a stunning woman. She had green hair, golden eyes and wore slippers fashioned from autumn leaves. She also had gossamer wings and was about 2 feet tall. She was also accompanied by two cameramen blazing their lights into Manfred’s face.
Manfred squinted in the brightness as the faerie fluttered up to his face, holding a microphone fashioned like a wizard’s wand and pointing it towards him like a lance.

»Manny White,« she repeated, »do you know who I am?«

Manny squinted at her. He couldn’t focus. He knew her. He knew it. He knew he knew her. Heh. ›Knew he knew her‹. Funny.

»Why are you grinning? Stop that,« the faerie said. She turned to the cameras and moved her hand across her throat. »Cut. We’ll do this again.« The men lowered their cameras and took a step backwards. The faerie fluttered closer to Manfred. »You do know who I am, don’t you?«

Manfred managed to stop grinning and nod. The faerie tilted her head and regarded him for a second. »Too risky,« she decided. »We’ll do the hick routine.« She flew into the hallway and one of the cameramen closed the door in Manfred’s face.

There was a knocking at the apartment door. Manfred stared at the door. He could hear the sound of fluttering wings behind the door. His mouth was dry. His head was blank.

Again with the knocking.

»Manny?« the faerie’s voice came through the door, syrupy sweet. »Dear? Open the door, please?«

Manfred opened the door and was hit by a double blast of camera lights. He squinted again.
»Manny White!« The faerie appeared next to his face, but now she was looking at the camera. »I’m Morgaine le Fay, and you’re on The Faerie Hour! Are you ready to have your wish fulfilled?«

-

It had all gone so very fast. After Manfred hat stammered his consent to wish-fulfilment, about two dozen people had invaded his home. Five or six of them had pulled him into the kitchen, where they began to put make-up on him and prepare him for the beginning interview. A young woman named Cherry practically force-fed him the answers to everything Morgaine would later ask him. At the same time, most of the rest of the team re-decorated his living room in order to make room for the cameras and to better fit whatever the producers had decided Manfred’s image on the show would be – he’d been told not to worry about such things: »You’re dealing with professionals«. Finally, a single cameraman accompanied Morgaine on her short tour around the apartment.

The interview had gone quite well, he thought. At least none of his co-workers at the office had commented on it. They’d all been too busy winking at him and pointedly looking at his footwear. If the camera hadn’t scared them away, that is. William Wambaugh Worthington, the show’s producer – »call me Trip« – had insisted he wear high heels to work. Manfred had felt so uncomfortable he would have changed his wish to making them go away again, if anyone had asked him. But as he had already discovered in his few hours of television experience, nobody bothered to ask him. He was expected to do what he was told, and nothing more. And he had been expected to walk into his boss’s room and ask for his vacation, even though said boss had called him right after his interview had aired last night and told him he could take a week or two off. So that’s what Manfred had done: walked into the office, asked for vacation time, and watched as his boss pretended to mull it over. And afterwards he’d had one hour to pack a few things together before he was shipped off to Temptation Island. That’s where he was right now, waiting for his trial to begin.

-

»The Island of Temptation,« Morgaine intoned. »This is where our aspirants prove their mettle – or fail miserably. Tonight, Manny White will set out on the quest for his greatest wish, and we have some brand-new challenges for him. First, he must cross the Frosted Forest and get to the Moon Lagoon. Will Manny make it to the other side, or will he return home as someone who could have made his wish come through, but was too weak to do so? We’ll give you the answer tomorrow, or you can watch live on our internet stream. Just click…«

Manfred tuned out. He had thought that maybe he would be asked for a final statement, but it seemed Morgaine went with her first impression of him and did not trust him to say his own name on camera.

»Hey man, you got a minute?«

Manfred turned to the speaker. It was a lean, tan man in his mid-twenties. Manfred recognized him as one of the cameramen. He shrugged. »I’m not sure.«

The man laughed. It was a rough sound, but not unfriendly. »I hear you. Don’t worry, you’ll get word soon enough. I’m Bill.«

»Manfred.«

»I know.« Bill winked. »I’ll be your cameraman for the trial. Which means I’ll follow you around and stick my lens into your face.«

»Thanks for the warning, I guess.«

»There’s more,« Bill said. »I’ll be right next to you, but I won’t be right next to you. You know?«

Manfred thought for a moment, and then nodded. »I’m not supposed to talk to you. Like you’re invisible.«

Bill nodded. »Exactly. Like I’m invisible.«

»But you’ll help me if I get in trouble, right?«

Bill hesitated. »Depends. What kind of trouble?«

»If I break a leg?«

»Sure. I’ll call someone. And film every minute of it.«

Manfred took a step away from Bill. »I see,« he said as coldly as he could muster.

Bill winked. »Just a job, you know?«

»Not really,« Manfred answered, and then went to find somebody else to talk to.

-

»Would it kill you to share some water?« Bill ignored the question and kept on filming. Manfred held out his hand. »Come on, I’ve been walking for hours now. Just a sip.« The camera moved from him to the surrounding forest and back.

Manfred scratched his sweaty brow. »Don’t be such an-« he stopped himself, »such a donkey. You know the rules.« Bill kept the camera focused on him. Manfred could not take it anymore. he wanted to punch the man, hard. Instead, he turned and walked to the edge of the path.

Bill kept on filming.

»See this?« Manfred pointed at the barren trees. White webs covered the trees from top to bottom. Manfred pulled at the web and tore off a piece. »Cotton Candy,« he said. »Over there is a bush that grows gingerbread. Those flowers drip melted ice cream. I think I even saw a roasted chicken flying about. We passed a bridge over a river made of slush.« Manfred pressed the cotton candy into a small ball and threw it away. »And while I can’t eat or drink, my little invisible cameraman is munching lunch or gurgling water. Now give me something!«

Bill kept on filming.

»Screw this.« Manfred walked towards the camera and past it. He tore a twig from a tree and used it to collect cotton candy. He thrust the stick at the camera. »See this? This… sugar torch will bring me freedom. I will eat, and then you will give me some water.« He brought the candy to his mouth.

Bill kept on filming.

Manfred could already smell the sugar. His mouth watered, but his eyes focused on the black lens of the camera. That bastard had not reacted to anything he’d said. He just. kept. filming. And not because his contract forced him. No, he kept on filming because he didn’t care whether Manfred actually passed the trial. Either way, it was good television. Manfred would fail, would end up the laughingstock of his whole office, but it would have been good television.

Suddenly Manfred wasn’t hungry anymore, nor thirsty. He just had a bad taste in his mouth. He threw the twig away and spit out. then he got really close to the camera.

»You ain’t got me yet. Not yet.« He shoved Bill to the side and continued on the path.

-

Manfred tried not to scream. This was worse than prom night. He was in the middle of the second part of his trial and freaked out as hell. He’d entered Moon Lagoon armed only with an iron belt, which he had then proceeded to tie around his waist before jumping into the dark water. The belt had pulled him down mercilessly, and Manfred had realized too late that he didn’t even have the key to its lock. Needless to say, he also didn’t have an oxygen tank.

Now he was more or less standing on the ground of the Lagoon, careful not to cut his bare feet on one of the sharp corals that lined the floor and surrounded on all sides by ominous darkness. Anything could be watching him, approaching him. Anything but Bill, that was, because Bill was already next to him, dressed in professional scuba gear and filming with a light-sensitive camera. It was dark enough that Manfred couldn’t see Bill, but he felt him. It was like an allergy.

Something moved in front of him. Manfred opened his mouth to scream, realizing too late that this would drive out almost all of his remaining air. The bubbles fled to safety. Something touched his lips. And then Bill activated the camera spotlight.

She was beautiful. In fact, she was the most beautiful woman Manfred had ever seen. And she had kissed him, breathed air into his lungs. He stood there, mouth agape, until the first bubble of air – air that had been in her lungs recently – drifted lazily past him. He shut his mouth quickly. Her pearly laughter wormed its way into his head, turning him around, making him smile in response to her.

He had always expected mermaids to have a fish tail, but the woman in front of him didn’t possess one. He had also expected them to wear a bra made from sea shells. The woman in front of him, however, was nude. Manfred felt dizzy. The woman tilted her head to the side, and then she crooked a finger at him. Do you want to come with me? Manfred understood without words. And he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. He thought of everybody he knew sitting in front of the television, seeing him with this woman.

Her necklace glinted in the murky light. It was her sole piece of clothing, a golden chain with a strange golden cross. Manfred glanced at it, then at her breasts, and then his eyes flew up towards her face again. He felt himself blush. The woman laughed again, then beckoned him again. Suddenly Manfred felt as if he could move, as if he could leave the chains behind. All he had to do was to nod, and he could follow her.

She held out her hand to him. Manfred grasped it. She pulled, but he pulled to, and he still had the weight of the chains attached to him. He had not nodded yet. So he slowly drew her closer, and she came, smiling all the time. He drew her almost close enough for them to kiss again. He glanced down again, and sure enough, it wasn’t a cross dangling from her chain, but a small golden key.

The woman realized what was happening. She shook her arm free and swam backwards, but too late. All Manfred had had to do was reach up and grab the key. When she swam away, he pulled. the chain broke. Manfred had the key. The woman’s smile vanished and was replaced by a look of sadness. For a moment, Manfred’s resolution wavered. Had she really been willing to stay with him? It didn’t matter. He used the key to unlock the iron chain and swam up towards the light, towards the final part of the trial, towards his wish.

-

»Cool. What is this place?« Manfred studied the domed ceiling as he approached the far end of the hall. »Looks like a church.« He didn’t expect an answer – especially not from the everpresent Bill – and let out a small gasp when an answer did come.

»Not a church. A temple.«

Manfred looked to where the voice had come from and saw a figure about half as high as he was, dressed in a grey robe with a cape. Manfred didn’t see the speaker’s face. The voice had been low, a little coarse, but still indefinably feminine.

»What kind of temple?« Manfred asked as he walked towards the robed woman. »And who are you?«

»I am Cypher«, she answered, but now Manfred wasn’t so sure about her gender anymore. The voice had changed… somehow. »And this is a temple of time. This is where you will receive a great gift, Manfred. You will know your future, and you will be able to choose.«

»My future?« Manfred turned to Bill, but didn’t even bother to say anything.

»You have withstood the allure of luxury and the wiles of lust. Now you will have to make your decision.« Cypher pointed at a small pyramid to the side of the hall. »Choose your wish.«

Manfred held up his hands. »Wait a minute. What do you mean? I thought I already chose my wish. I mean, I had to say it into the camera at least five or six times until Trip was happy. I can’t change it now.« He looked at Bill. »Can I?«

»Look,« Cypher said, pointing at the pyramid again. Manfred shrugged and walked over there, Cypher and Bill following behind.

The pyramid was maybe eight feet tall and adorned with human skulls, twenty-four of them. Each of the skulls had a bone in its jaw, the bone being inscribed with a name. Manfred’s name. Each and every one of these skulls was chewing on Manfred’s bones.

»I still don’t get it.«

»These are your fates«, Cypher said. »This is what may become of your life. Now, you have a specific dream. But in a few years, you would have another. And then another. None of them any better than the dreams before, nor worse than the dreams that come after. Just different. Touch the skulls, and watch. Then choose.«

Manfred looked at the pyramid, and then at Cypher. He slowly reached out and touched a skull.

-

»…and I want to thank my mother, who always believed in me, even when I didn’t. Mommy, this is for you!«

Hammering applause as Manfred raises the golden statue over his head. He basks in it for a moment. A hand touches his arm.

»Come on, Manny,« Cate Blanchett tells him. »We can celebrate backstage. The show must go on.« And she leads him off the stage.

-

»Wow.« Manfred pulls his hand away. »Was that– is that really possible?«

»It is your choice,« Cypher says. »Touch another one.«

-

»God, M,« Jenna says as she twirls his chest hair with her hand, »you really are the best lover in the world.«

»She’s right, you know?« Sasha purrs from the other side. She reaches over him to caress Jenna’s arm. »When you did that thing with–«

-

»Touch another one.«

-

»So, Larry – Larry is alright, isn’t it? – how does it feel to be a guest on your own show?«

»Well, Manny,« Larry King says as he folds his hands together, »if you’d told me I’d happily hand over my show to a newcomer, I wouldn’t have believed it, but if anyone can do it, you can.«

-

»There you are, honey. Did you get stuck in traffic again?«

Manfred doesn’t even take his coat of before embracing his wife. They’ve been married for twelve years now, but he still can’t wait to touch her.

»Let’s not talk about it, okay?« he says, grimacing. »How’s Gracie?«

»You won’t believe what she did today…«

-

Manfred was tired, and confused, and terrified. He’d watched twenty-four snippets of his life, or what could be his life. All he had to do was choose the future he liked best. But which one was the best? He stared at the pyramid. The skulls grinned back at him.

»You have looked,« Cypher said. »Now you decide.«

»But… but how?«

»Just name it.«

»No. I mean, how can I choose one future over the other? How do I know what to choose? How do I know I made the right choice? There’s so much…«

»Decide,« Cypher repeated. »Or walk out.«

Manfred put his head into his hands. It wasn’t possible. How could he possibly make that choice? If at least there’d been a future where he did something great like cure AIDS, but every one had revolved around him only. He asked Cypher, »Is there another one?«

Cypher did not answer. Finally, after what seemed like a minute had passed, she said, »There is always another. But not for you. Not to touch, nor to look. You must decide now.«

Manfred shook his head. »But I–« Then something clicked in his mind. Cypher was right: There was always another possible future, always another choice that might set him off on a different path, always the uncertainty of having chosen correctly. But as she had also said, no choice was inherently better or worse, just different.

Manfred turned towards the camera. »I have decided when I entered this show. I have made my choice, and I will follow it through.«

At first, Cypher did not react. Then her robe fell to the floor, revealing Morgaine le Fay.
»Manny White!« she exclaimed. »Congratulations! You have passed the test of time and proven that you would follow your wish despite life’s bountiful offerings. You have passed the trials! Aren’t you happy? Say something!«

»Well,« Manfred began.

»Cut!«

-

Three weeks later, on monday, May 24th, 1982, Manny White got his wish. He – and his favorite pair of shoes – made the cover of Vogue Magazine.