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

[Berandor]

ENWorld Short Story Smackdown: Berandor vs. DIsharrock

Once again, a mild grandma warning for themes and language. Maybe I’ll do a children's story for the finals?

Denial

»I’m sorry,« I said. I stood before the bed and looked down at Janey.

»For what?« she asked. »Don’t tell me you have performance axiety.«

I laughed, but only for a moment. »No, really. This day was supposed to be perfect.«

»And?«

»And your parents didn’t come. My mom didn’t come, nor my sister.«

»Your dad was there.«

»My dad.« I turned my face away from her. »He came, saw, and left in the middle of the ceremony.«

Janey grabbed my arm and pulled me down. I didn’t exactly resist the pull. I lay down on top of her. We gazed into each other’s eyes.

»I wanted you to have the wedding you dreamed of,« I whispered. We were so close she could have heard my thoughts. Then again, she sometimes heard them even when we were apart.

Janey shook her head softly, her long black hair – bound tightly all through the day, now finally free again – fell across her left eye. Normally, I’d blow it away and she would giggle. When I didn’t, she reached up and pulled it away herself. »When did we last see our parents?« she asked. Always the smart one with the right questions.

»You know when,« I said. I cringed at the memory. Janey didn’t, she just got this hard look on her face. She was the strong one, as well.

»The night of our engagement. So I didn’t exactly expect them to come.« Her hand were on my back, moving lower. I rolled off her. Looked at the ceiling.

»And the picketers? Don’t tell me you didn’t mind them.«

»You’re right.« Janey turned to me. She sang, mimicking the shouts from earlier that day. »›We’re embarrassed – by gay marriage!‹ They should be embarassed, but rather by their poetry. Mrs. Rosenstein is probably spinning in her grave right now. Those rhymes were dangerous.«

I pushed her hand away. »Janey, I’m serious.«

»And I’m horny.«

I couldn’t look at her, or I would have been lost that second, but I also couldn’t not look at her. After all, she also was the beautiful one. I put a hand on my forehead so I ended up looking at her through the gaps in my fingers. I had to say what I had to say. Speak now or be forever silent. »I know you don’t like this political bull.«

This time she pushed my hand away. I wanted to turn away, but she pressed against my cheek. I had to look at her. »I know you care about it,« she said. »That’s enough.« Her hand moved higher, running over my bare scalp. »I like your new haircut, by the way. It’s very butch.«

»You know I’m not like that.«

Now she rolled on top of me. I had no escape but her eyes, and I fell right in. »I’ll tell you what I know. I know that you love me. That you don’t know how strong you are, but that one day you’ll see it for yourself. That you couldn’t be more butch if you wore leather underwear.« She laughed. I laughed. We laughed. »I also know that I love you, and that this is our wedding night. So kiss me already!«

»Yes, Ma’am,« I said, and did as she told me. At the touch of our lips, my worries faded away.

Janey died the next day.

-

The police said it was an accident. Our bridesmaids had taken Janey on a surprise tour. They had tickets for Dolly Parton, the one obsession of Janey’s I had never understood. On the way to the concert, a truck crashed into their van. A tire had blown. Or so they told me, along with »We’re sorry for your loss.«

Everybody was sorry for my loss. I don’t remember much of the next weeks. I remember listening to Dolly Parton for hours whilst crying my heart out. I remember the picketers at the funeral. And I remember all those people saying the same dumb-ass phrase. When I wasn’t allowed to see Janey’s body – they had to identify her by her teeth – the doctor told me how sorry he was for my loss. When I tried to find a priest to speak at Janey’s funeral – she’d been Catholic, after all – all of them were sorry for my loss and none of them would do it. When my boss, who had been at the wedding, told me that I had missed too many days and that I was fired, she was sorry for my loss. I even got a postcard from my sister: »Sorry for your loss.« Sorry for your loss. Sorry. If anybody had come up to me and laughed in my face how I deserved all the pain I was in, I might have hugged him just because of his honesty. Maybe I should have hugged that Phelps f*cker at the funeral.

Life went on. I didn’t. I locked myself in our – my – home for weeks. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I just lay there. Like dead, but not dead. I took all the pictures of Janey and me and put them on our bed. I slept on the floor next to it. I cleaned the house until I found something that reminded me of her and I broke down crying. I rushed out to buy every album Dolly Parton had ever worked on. I got a tattoo of Janey on my biceps, and when I thought of what she’d say to that, I broke down crying while I sat in the chair.

I wanted to die. I tried to die – not to commit suicide, but simply to die. I lay on the floor next to the pictures on the bed, and I welcomed death with open arms. He would not come. Of course, people tried to comfort me. At first I screamed at them and insulted them until they left, or hung up. Then I stopped going to the door or answering the phone. I stopped doing anything. I guess sooner or later, death would have come. I would have died.

Of course, that was before the tattoo spoke to me.

-

»Pam? My god, you look awful!« I barged right past her, neither waiting for nor expecting an invitation. »Hey!« Maureen shouted. She followed me into the living room, and when I hesitated for a moment, stood right in front of me. »What do you think you’re doing?«

»Surprised to see me, sis?« I asked. I wanted to slap her, but I was afraid if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

»Surprised?« she echoed. »More like annoyed. You know you’re not welcome here.«

»And here I thought you loved me,« I said, trying to put so much sarcasm into the words they would melt her skin. It didn’t work. Barely.

»It doesn’t matter whom I love, Pamela.«

»Right. It’s about whom I love, isn’t it?«

»You made a choice,« she began, but I knew that rant in and out and had no stomach for it, not now. I interrupted her.

»Fricking choice I had, when my love died one day after our marriage!«

»Look, Pam, I’m sorry for your–«

»Don’t you dare say it, Mo. I swear I’m gonna break your jaw if you say it.«

»Jesus,« Mo said, »what’s the matter with you?«

»I know, Mo. I know everything.« I looked her right in the eye when I said it, and shoot me if she didn’t lit up like a Christmas tree. Maureen had always been a bad liar, but this bad? She must have wanted me to know. I couldn’t take it anymore. She opened her mouth to say something, but I just balled my fist and punched her. She screamed and fell to the floor. My leg spasmed, but I kept myself from kicking her. Not yet.

Mo looked up at me, holding her nose. Blood gushed forward from beneath her hand. »You bitch!« she snarled. »You’re crazy.«

»I know you killed her,« I repeated. »So where is it?«

»What the heck are you talking about?«

I lifted my fist, and she shrank back from me. She was scared. I almost laughed at that. My sister, who was twenty pounds heavier than me, who had taken Tai-chi for years, and she was scared of me. Pretty butch, I thought. And nearly broke into tears. I concentrated on my hatred until the feeling passed.

»I know you killed her. You killed them all. She told me.«

Mo didn’t protest. Maybe she was playing along, maybe she had resigned herself to her fate. I didn’t care. »Who told you?«

»Janey.«

»What?« She almost got up, but I showed my fist again and she sank back to the floor. »You come here, spout accusations and break my nose because you had a bad dream of your freak show lover?«

So I kicked her. Not as hard as I wanted to, but hard. I aimed for the rips, but she pulled away, and my foot missed her midsection and hit her in the head instead. It snapped back. She crumpled to the floor. I thought I’d killed her but then I heard her moaning. She wasn’t dead but it seemed she was out cold. I stepped past her and started to search first the room, and then the house.

Maureen caught up to me in the bedroom. I had saved it for last when I guess I should have gone there first. Perhaps I was secretly hoping she’d come to in time. I hadn’t counted on her gun, however.

»Step away from that drawer,« she said. She almost sounded calm, but with blood caking her face and probably a concussion hammering away inside it, she mostly came off as drunk.

I looked at the revolver in her hand. »You’re gonna shoot me?«

»I fricking don’t know why I shouldn’t.«

»Because you didn’t kill me before?«

She slumped against the door frame but kept the gun trained on me. »Listen, I don’t know what stuff you’re on, but–«

»May I show you something?« I put my hand in the back pocket of my jeans and slowly drew it out again, holding a photograph. I held it out to her. »This is Janey.«

»I know what the slut looked like.«

I almost threw myself at her right then and there. It wasn’t the gun that kept me from doing it, it was Janey’s photo in my hand. Janey, who had gotten me off the streets, away from the violence. So I simply said, »It was taken on the night of our engagement. I had it tattooed on my arm.«

»Fascinating.«

»I just want you to understand that when I tell you Janey spoke to me, I know I didn’t hallucinate. It was her voice. She woke me up. She said ›Help me.‹« I couldn’t help it, I began to cry. »›Help me, Pam.‹ That’s what she said. And she said more. She said it was you who killed her. It was you who cast some spell on her so she would die and go to hell. Because that’s where she is – in hell. And she needs me to rescue her. And that’s why I need whatever it is you used to curse her.« My tears had gone by then and turned into rage again. »So you’d better let me open that drawer, Mo, because I will kill you if I have to.«

Mo didn’t respond at first. She just stood there. She began to shake, and then she started to laugh. Loudly. Her laughter drove spikes into my brain by way of my ears, and I wanted her to shut up so very badly. »Do you actually believe that?« she finally asked. »I mean, I cast a spell? Come on, Pam! We’re not living in some kind of happy Wicca fantasy land where spells are real and lesbians go to heaven. You know what? I’m glad Janey’s dead. I’m fricking happy. And if she’s in hell, well, she pretty much got there on her own. So excuse me–«

»Look at the photo«, I said. »Look at it, Mo. I told you I’ve got proof.« I tugged at my shirt until the buttons gave, and then I took it off. I didn’t care that I was topless. I turned to the side. »Look at the picture, Mo. That’s what the tattoo looked like when I had it made. Before it spoke. Look at it now.«

Mo didn‘t look – she stared at what had become of my beloved. Her arm shook, and finally dropped low, gun pointing at the ground. She looked down, as well. I prepared myself to attack her, but her words stopped me cold.

»I didn’t know. Believe me, Pam, I didn’t know it would happen this way. I just wanted her gone.«

»Gone?« I echoed.

»Gone from your life. So that you would recognize what she had done to you, how she… changed you. Made you different.«

»She set me free.«

She smiled. »That’s what you believe. You’re wrong. She bewitched you. She-«

»So you killed her.«

»No! I swear. I just… I wanted to save you. When… when you sent me the wedding invitation, I was beside myself. I stared at that invitation for about ten minutes. I couldn’t think. I even got in late from my lunch break.«

»You what?«

»You’re right, that’s not important. Look, I… I went to Father Roberts. I explained everything, but he said he couldn’t help me. Oh, he could pray, for all the good it would do. I googled for some way to get you out in time, but nothing. Then…« The gun fell from her hand. She sat down on the bed, still looking at the floor, still not looking at me. »Then there was this email. It said… it said if I wanted to get rid of my problems, I could.«

»How?«

»It was so easy. I needed the blood of a virgin but you know I’m saving myself for marriage, and… I needed a picture. Of her. On your wedding day.«

»On my– but you–« Suddenly my whole body felt cold. »Dad.«

»I tried to borrow his camera. He wanted to know what for. I told him. He… he said he wanted to take the picture himself. He wanted to decide. To see for himself.«

»He came, saw, and left in the middle of the ceremony,« I said, the words echoing within me. I was hollow, save for those words. My own father, my own sister had conspired to kill the woman I loved in order to save me. I wanted to puke. I wanted to pick up the gun and blow my sister’s brains out. Maybe I would do both. But first… I walked to the drawer.

»It’s in the top,« Mo said.

I opened the top drawer and there it was. A photo of Janey and our bridesmaids. Their faces were blurred, but I doubted it was a digital effect. They were posing for the camera. I had almost the same picture at home. My father must have taken it when the photographer took his own. Janey probably didn’t even notice. Had he already decided to use the photo then? Or had he seen the chance and taken the photo before he knew whether he’d pass it on to Maureen? I would make sure to ask him. After I got Janey out of hell.

I took the photo and stuffed it in my jeans. I picked up my shirt. I stood in front of my sister. »Maureen,« I said. »Maureen, look at me.« She looked up. I could see fear in her eyes, but this time I didn’t rejoice. I felt tired, and I still had so much to do. I didn’t have time for her now. »Maureen, I want you to understand, so I’ll say it clearly. If I ever so much as see your car in my street, I will kill you.«

Without so much as another word, I turned and left.

-

I drove right home. My stomach growled, but there had to be something left in the fridge that I could eat. I didn’t want to waste time by going shopping. Besides, my shirt was pretty much ruined, and I had other things on my mind. How was I supposed to get into hell? I knew I needed the photo to get to Janey, but I had no idea how to get into hell in the first place. Was there a road or a highway I could take?

I saw the open cellar door as soon as I came home. I hadn’t been to the cellar for weeks, so I couldn’t have left it open. The light on the stairs was out, but down in the cellar it was on. I turned the switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing. »Hello?« No answer. »Is anybody down there?« Nothing. »I have a gun,« I lied. I probably should have taken Mo’s gun.

Suddenly, the house felt wrong. It felt as if someone – or something – was watching me. I shivered under its gaze. Whatever it was, I didn’t think it was friendly. And it was up here with me, not down there in the cellar. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to go down there and look for a shovel or some other kind of weapon. I took the first step, and the feeling of wrongness subsided a bit. I took another step, and another, the feeling fading with each one. I was so focused on that fleeting feeling that I didn’t even realize how far I had walked until it was almost gone. I must have walked down at least three times as far as my cellar should have been, and still the stairs were dark and there was light just ahead. A dozen steps away but too far for me to reach. I looked behind me. There was nothing. Not even darkness, or black. Nothing at all. It was scary enough that, even though the stairs didn’t seem to end, I never stopped descending. When the air grew cold, I drew my tattered shirt around me. It didn’t help much, but then it either got warmer or I adapted to the cold, for I didn’t feel it anymore. I walked down the steps for what seemed like hours but could very well have been days, always a few steps short of the light, and always just a single step ahead of the nothingness behind me.

Then suddenly, the stairs ended.

-

The stairs ended in a turn, and at the foot of that turn was an opening, a doorway. Light shone through the opening and onto the brick wall. It didn’t look much like my cellar anymore.

As much as I had wanted to stay in front of the nothingness behind me, now that I had actually reached the end of the stairs, I was afraid to walk on. I remained standing half a dozen steps above the floor, unable to go any further. It’s not that I was exhausted – though I was – but if that staircase led to where I thought it did, then hell was right around the corner. True hell.

I couldn’t go there. I could not go to hell. I had come this close, I had hit my sister and threatened to kill her but I could not take the final steps. Janey would remain trapped in hell forever because I was too scared, too weak to go and get her. She had been the strong one – and the smart one. I didn’t have a plan. I’d just gone to my sister just like I’d just descended the stairs after I came home. I didn’t grab the gun, I didn’t even change my sodding shirt. And Janey would remain in hell because of me.

I sat down on the stairs and put my head in my hands. I wanted to cry my heart out, but I was too tired and too hungry, so I simply sobbed dry tears. There were no sounds but my own. The light kept on shining through the doorway. It didn’t waver like flames, and the air didn’t smell of brimstone, nor was it particularly hot. I could have been sitting on the stairs to my cellar after all.

I don’t know how long I sat there until the shadow came. I didn’t even notice it coming. One moment the doorway was empty, the next there was the shadow reflected on the brick wall. The shadow of a human, a woman.

»Janey?« I got up. The shadow didn’t move, nor did it say anything. I looked at my tattoo, but it still showed the twisted visage of a tortured Janey. If anything, the picture had become worse. I looked back to the shadow. It was gone. »Janey, wait!« I shouted, and without thinking I jumped down the stairs and through the doorway.

I walked right into hell.

-

I don’t know whether all of hell is filled with phallic towers or whether that’s a specific feature of the lesbian part of it, but other than that, the place waiting for me when I came through the doorway was pretty much your typical hell. It was hot, so hot that my shirt was drenched with sweat before I even started walking. Scathing winds blew across the plains to the sounds of a myriad screams. And yes, the smell of brimstone was thick enough you could have cut it with a knife. The only thing that grew out of the bare ground were large cones of what looked like limestone. There were a lot of these cones, forming towers or castles, stretching to the horizon and probably beyond.

I had no hope of finding Janey here, but that’s why I had gotten the picture. I fished it out of my jeans and looked at it. Janey’s face was still blurred, as were the faces of the other bridesmaids, but something else had changed. Janey’s right arm had moved and now pointed directly at a nearby set of cones which had grown together tightly enough to form a castle of sorts. I could see light behind some of the holes in the limestone. Once again I wished for my sister’s gun as I made my way over to it.

The entrance to the castle, a large set of double doors inlaid with spikes and skulls, stood slightly ajar. I sneaked up to the doors and peeked through into a great entrance hall. It was empty. I entered the castle and tried not to look too closely at the frescoes adorning the ceiling or the paintings on the walls. Out of the corner of my eyes, they seemed to move, but I kept my gaze focused on the photograph.

Janey’s arm pointed the way, leading me up a flight of stairs, through another open door and up another flight of stairs until I stood at the entrance to a dark tunnel. The light coming from the stairs barely made it through the tunnel, hinting at round, barred doors set into the walls in irregular intervals. So far, I hadn’t seen anyone or anything in the castle, nor had I heard any sign of inhabitation. I stepped into the tunnel.

The loud bang resounding through the castle could only be the double doors closing. I froze. There was the sound of another door falling shut, closer this time. I rushed through the tunnel, peering into the darkness and trying to make out faces behind the cell doors. It was too dark.

»Janey?« I asked, and then again, louder. »Are you here?«

»Pamela?« There, to my right. I ran over to the door. Behind me I could hear laughter, dark and ominous. I didn’t care. I cared about the hands reaching out to me from behind bars. I grabbed the hands and felt myself pulled towards the cell. I didn’t resist. »Pamela, it’s you.« I knelt as close to the bars as I could, shamefully aware of how I had to look. Even my sister had remarked on that. »What happened to your shirt?« Janey asked, as if that was the worst of the situation. »Did you get impatient for me to open it?«

I laughed, and the laughter turned to tears as I kissed Janey’s hands and her arms and her cheeks and her brows and her nose. I reached into the cell and caressed her face, her hair, her neck, as far as I could reach. She wore a metal collar chained to the wall, and when I touched her back she flinched. She had been whipped.

A shape appeared in the entrance to the tunnel, a large, misshapen figure that took away almost all the little light we had.

»I’m so sorry, Janey,« I cried. »So very sorry.«

»For what?« she asked.

»I wanted to save you. I wanted to get you out of here.«

I could feel her smile. I could see her smile even though I didn’t see her face in the darkness. The shape started moving towards us.

»You are so butch,« Janey said, »coming to get me out of hell. Who’s the strong one, now? Who’s the brave one?«

»I don’t care how brave you think I am,« I said, harshly. »The only thing that’s important is that I failed to get you out of hell. I failed!«

»Oh, sweetie. It seems I really am the smart one here. Don’t you get it?«

The shape moved slowly, but it was almost upon us. And suddenly it felt like it had at the top of the stairs again. I felt being watched – though suddenly I wasn’t sure that this was a bad thing anymore.

»Get what?« I said.

»Remember our wedding day?« As if I could ever forget it. »You wanted everything to be perfect. You know what? It was. It was perfect because you were there. And now you’re here. Do you honestly think I could be in hell when you are with me? You came and you got me out. It doesn’t matter for how long, you got me out of hell. So kiss me already!«

The shape was looming over us. I could smell its breath. The feeling of being watched intensified as well. I ignored all of it. I said, »Yes, Ma’am«, and I did as Janey told me.

At the touch of our lips, my worries faded away.

FIN

 

[Berandor]

Couldn’t have done it with the original deadline even though now I’ve got some time to spare. Oh well, it’s the European Soccer Championship, I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass my time...

DIsharrock, good luck. I’m quite happy with my story (though if history has anything to say, that’s rather a bad sign). Looking forward to reading yours. (and Piratecat’s and Rodrigo's)

 

[Berandor]

Rodrigo Istalindir

[sblock]What happened at the break? Up to the end of your first post, I was in awe. The narrator was great, the story was in full swing, and I had just gotten a good glimpse at the darkness hiding beneath the humorous tone. The coke image was great, though the aftermath was *very* bloody.

But then it seemed as if I’d missed part of the story – or maybe time caught up with you? Suddenly the narrator is dead set on doing the right thing and he’s capable of snapping a guard's neck like a carrot stick. He hacks himself into a security lab and sneaks out without much of a hitch. It all went pretty easy – I felt more tension during the car chase. The picture with the doctor on a tree was kind of iffy, too – but I loved the chanting bears, and that’s where the gruesome coke aftermath helped because you didn’t really need to describe what happens next. Though a description of the doctor standing on top of a slaughtered security guard howling victory at the sun? Perhaps.

In the end I thought the set-up was brilliant but the pay-off was a little weak. Still, a good enough story to advance on most days. This day, too? We’ll see.[/sblock]

Piratecat:
[sblock]
I liked that story, but not as much as others you did this round. I’ll try to explain why. Until the characters got to the field, the story felt a little too much like exposition to me. This is the world. This is the problem. This is what’s going on. It didn’t feel dream-like or mythical enough for me, but also not technical enough to make it humorous (a beaurocracy of dreams, for example). Or maybe it was that we were told all these things, and only shown in glimpses.

There were small touches I enjoyed (the McDonald’s reference to name one). And some that were bothering me: Amy has problems understanding the new world, but they have a sign designed to fool Google Earth?

The part in "Nebraska" was great, though – especially since from a short glance at the pictures, I *had* thought there were stalks of wheat. The end was fine, and I accept that the "girl sitting on tree"-picture was a pain to integrate. See also Rodrigo’s story.

I wouldn’t call it a bad story, really, just that I’m used to even better stuff from you. It’ll be a tough decision this round, I think, and from only reading once (admittedly), I’d go with Rodrigo this time. Good luck![/sblock]

 

[Dlsharrock]

Harbinger

Round 3 - Dlsharrock vs Berandor
--------------------------------

Welcome rider of the pale steed, silver scythe of serendipity. Come, let me embrace you, friend and keeper of the Dark Hold. Great is the thrust of thy hall, as jagged fangs of obsidian do the turrets of thy dominion stand. And I have seen the hallowed witch-crags of Elmar and known the marrow biting cold of the grey mists in Redsward where the scales of Melas sway. For within the swamp mire did the Queen of Carvings dwindle in Her rule and wither to the sting of war. Thus do I greet you, in the time honoured tradition, and may you be at peace in my home.

Yes, be seated and drink of the wooden chalice. None serve me, for mine is a meagre house, thus must the lofty valiant serve themselves, and with good humour no less. Look thee, upon my shoulder is etched the likeness of our lost Queen's fair raiment, scribed as once it was before the decanting fingertips of time sundered beauty and power to the choler of Tartarus. T'was etched at my behest by the templar of Purros, within the misery of the Redsward and as the raging colossus of thine enemy swept a bane of terror across thy lands. There is the sketch eternal to my flesh, to remind me not all is dust and blood; but that the broken borders of this world can nurture truth as fine as gossamer and light to the eye as the Great Moon. The sun may yet return and not all will be as black towers and petrified bone. And I am honour bound to my Queen.

I summoned you, and those arrayed about this room, to hear prophesy and wisdom. You know the faces you see, of course. Meet thee rider of the pale steed, Marshank Crowfoot, warlord of the fortress Purros. Meet thee holy father Parthia, priest of Elmar (and beyond the ever-sentinel clerics of the witch crags who guard their lord even in meetings of alliance). All you have met, as we have met. But greet also one whom you do not know and one who will not speak greeting in turn, for he is mute to all but I. Shadow of the gold stone, shade of the world that was, now without substance in the modest dark of my frugal mansion where he dwells upon the walls, unbidden to whisper the way and reveal fearful ends born of desire for power and glory. Four Kings, with my blood mingled. Four lords, under one Queen no more. The carvings are decayed, though the world still turns and such blinding sorrow have we known that grief hath shed all dignity to become a portent of doom. We four, whose lands suffer pestilence, death and strife. We four who draw to our hearts the end I have seen and may still ride forth to apocalypse. Hear me then, my countrymen and sons of Redsward. Hear all that the shade of the world that was hath shown unto me and let us turn from this path if yet we may.

The nuclear winds blow and a squall of grey flakes falls in Warhelm. None have survived the destruction of Thor, whose fires were as a rising sun upon the horizon of the world. This you know.

Soon the fuel of bitter magic will turn a great wheel of flame and upon its spokes shall we few be crucified, to turn endlessly in the night of this forgotten realm; to reign forever over a revolution of tortured souls and to suffer on as wraiths in a land named unto us by the six maidens of virtue and the God they serve. For as you know, Lord of the pale steed, fellow rulers of lost souls, death hath long abandoned those who dwell in the Grey Hold. Now we four are death and to our malice shall the reaper hearken, while our people suffer. To their ends must we desist and turn from war.

Such omens does the Shadow speak to my sleeping ears, though in truth I do not sleep. Not lightly doth the head that wear the crown rest upon bolster when shadows of the past whisper fitful warnings. For I am told that I, the leper of Leukos, shall be overlord some day, a judge of days in a land of inferno as yet unborn. But it is as nothing to the full gravity of the shade's tale. I impart to you now, the words he spake.

Into the fire, the drooling flames of evil. Risen are the multitude, so sayeth he. Servants of the wrath, blood spillers of Tartarus. Their iron armours, spiked and crimson with the sweet slick of countless enemies, glimmer copper and verdigris with rust before the black stone of mighty Purros. Ugly is the odour of this host; a sea of stench breaking forth as a tide upon the fields of Elmar.

Defenders of Redsward, warriors of the middle mists, comrades in war. These soldiers of we four lords, clasp limb and gauntlet to make of themselves a wall, while the fleshless victims of glory wax upon raven-feathered soil and sink faceless into the mire. Black and red runs the river of those who live, and its name is fear. Fear even saints cannot banish with their sigils or faith. For war is all and death cleanses even messengers from the burden of deliverance.

In these days of ill-fate, the clerics of Parthia's rule shall kneel with clasped hands, knuckle white, eyes as crystal with tear and sorrow, for without the sword they have the luxury of temperance, but lack all hope of defence as the end creeps ever closer. The six maidens are fled and faith is cracked; a broken thing. The ranks of Marshank Crowfoot, meanwhile, shall muster in the combe and witness alone the thudding hoof and marching rabble of thine enemy's approach.

It is the one true foe: my brother Nirgal, Over-King of Tartarus, and his soldiers drawn from the abysmal pit with the promise of flesh. He rides upon a horse of pitch, the witch of Burgundy tethered from throat to perennial bone as a horse brass to the collar of that magnificent steed, for once was she his wife. Her murder has turned the dark master once and for all to the path he feels he must tread. Her counsel was wise, but the world would be his and he will listen no more to her continent tongue.

In Crowfoot's eyes are long terms of sorrow. Heavy weigh these years, for I see them now, and to the warlord's back a further weight of chainmail sinks low (though no heavier than the fear of owner's oaths) the shoulders of armoured lines. Archers venture forth as though through doors of men. Fear crusts their aim as dry blood to lips cracked by disease. Yet strings are drawn and arrow heads glitter in rows.

The Over-King trembles, sensing and wallowing in despair, horned head risen above the fleece-white and black-flecked collar of dark office, for no temperance or luxury of removal has he, here where hoof meets soil, where steel tastes bone, where the rage of the shunned stands teetering upon a precipice of vengeance. No witch's skull but the purple robe descends below, graced across the flanks of the ebon horse whose hooves test the ground and throw apart mud where once was grass. The horse's venerable skull is alight as Aerdry's grazing sky, innocent of Armageddon despite stabling in the plains of Tartarus. To be a horse, great lords of men! To know peace, even while carrying such unhallowed evil! But I folly with wishes and depart from the tale.

Arrows make an arc above and the King strides forth to receive fate upon men. There will be no mercy from this driven host whose hearts shall ever sink with vacuous depths. In my vision I can taste my brother's fury and you, my lords, I can taste your fear. It is sour to my tongue.

God is forsaken; the six deities of Celestial court are gone from these lands. The fair Priestess Shiva and Goddess Shakti, the four guardians of glade and green whose verdant hues and stately trees may never again gladden the mantle of Redsward, whose purple robes are the pumping blood of life on Earth. They are abandoned in our hearts and their faces obscured are known to us no more. In the cavity of all we believed beats now the heart of the Over-King. It echoes with vulgarity and empty flame, for now there is only the burning vanity of vengeance, the vague jest of freedom upon the routing hope of Men. Though crowns rest upon thy heads, lords of the middle mists, rims blacken a harsh fringe upon your temple and jewels are tarnished with bitter refraction. God is forsaken, for we have forsaken Him.

The Over-King sits upon a steed of black, alone before the ranks, deep in a mire of corpse and fetid organ, knowing now that we have embraced his destiny. Arrows bristle from ribs and throats and screams lift to the vaulted heavens, though no divinity remains to hear. Crowfoot is driven back as columns of brave men fall to arms in the running swamp of bubbling gore, and the last defence of Purros is lost. In the wake of retreat, bane crawls forth and his name is Nirgal, swift to take the hindmost. And as the black hollows of his skull tilt I see the horror in his eyes and the furnace sword Hammerfell, emerging from the spires of sorcery upon a chariot of fire. For we four, in our last despair, have summoned the wizards of the witch-crags, and though they have seen the annihilation of Warhelm, they would do again this terrible magic. ‘To lay waste a land that cannot be tamed is greater than to yield a land to evil‘. This shall we four utter and with such logic smite a ruin to the Earth.

The furnace sword Hammerfell, brother of Thor, whose billowing flower hath already laid waste to the dragon lairs, shall be unleashed and in the raging tumult shall the realm of the Queen of Carvings be utterly destroyed. Loving memory shall warp and the world will shiver to her core. Such a mighty blow shall cleave the socket of Earth as axe to frailty and all will be consumed by bitter light and furious wind. As two halves of one cradle shall the forgotten realm drift in an endless night, and they will be known as Gehenna and Sheol, and upon them will suffer eternal the humanity of worlds.

On Earth as it was in heaven, we four will ride forth upon such a day as befits the final Kings of men and bring this last revelation crashing down upon the spirit of our people. Within the inferno shall the wheel turn and we upon it. No mercy shall come to us and unto the skein of eternity shall we four be branded a harbinger of doom, deliverers of evil, war, death, famine and disease to the exclusivity not of this world but all worlds and for all time. And I will be a judge of days and to my decree shall all souls come who fall upon the wheel. This will be our eternal doom unless we concede Redsward to a lesser evil.

Sit now. Be at peace. Your agitation means nothing in this quiet mansion. And before you utter reason, rider of the pale steed, priest of the witch-crags, warlord of Purros, know that more did I see and more did the Shadow whisper. Not for the suffering of the Dark Hold alone does the wheel turn and we upon it. Many are the stars beyond the veil of the middle mists and though we see them not in this choked age of forge and industry, they sparkle yet in Aerdry's heaven and to many are bound other worlds of this true Earth, all touched by the hand of God. In such remembered realms, the six maidens of virtue are still known, the features of their elegance as clarity to peace and the peaceful. And yet the bane of unrest doth sally forth under many guises and our subjugation to the call of war and our own petty prides attend threads we cannot see with the promise of obliteration. Terrible fate, as glimmering dew upon silk, does each droplet of our wrath trickle to the stars. For ours is the one mother Earth and all others are born unto her. Moreover, the Queen of Carvings was born of multiplicity, for she is bound to the fate of the Earth. She lives again among the stars!

Yes. Your silence is welcome, your expressions warrant truth and justify the love I have seen in your hearts. For this revelation above all others did I summon you.

I have seen familiar eyes in unfamiliar apparitions, beholding the news of a coming terror, and I have seen Shadow in a different guise. A box as Shadow, a world that never was but will become, warning a maiden of beauty that ruin attends and comes fleet with death. A mushroom fire as that of Hammerfell but delivered by steel and thought alone. I have seen her flee and seek refuge, only to perish in the tempest of fire.

All have I seen, for the Queen of Carvings lives still in many forms and on each child realm of mother Earth. She is gone from our midst yet tangible within our hearts and so lives on in the pastures of greener lands wherefore she musters the heart to change the frame of creation, as was her withered destiny in Redsward. I would not see her dwindle again, in any form or world, even were such shattering vision beyond my power to see. I would be with her and know her once more, in peace and freedom. For she is my Queen and my love unto her is as cherished as my brotherhood to man. But the threads are sacred and all that we do here upon the capstone of creation, so do we deliver unto all and where our Queen beloved lives incarnate she will die once again by our doing and will not realise her purpose. The wheel turns, and we upon it.

I have told all. Now is the time to consult and to tarry, if we must. I request you travel a weary road of much passing in shorter time than any man should expect another to face, but travel you must and with uncommon haste, for men we are no longer, but deities and servants of the greater God. And though we may be kings, we shall forever be subjects of Aquarius, the Queen of Carvings, wherever she may abide. The Shadow of the world that was desires renewal and I am told such power as we possess may be used to this greater good, if we so desire and but close our hearts to pride. Should we convoke the realisation of Nirgal's fiery domain and sunder the Earth? Or may we turn yet from war? Choose, if not for the salvation of we four and those who dwell in the sufferance of our decisions, then for the sake of our Queen, that we may live to see her again in states beyond this one.

Thus have I have spoken, my prophesy is spent.

 

[Dlsharrock]

[SBLOCK=Notes about my story. Judge free zone]Time was not on my side this weekend! I'm fully aware of everything that's wrong with this one. I would have dearly loved more freedom to develop the idea, especially the Queen of Carvings which just didn't pan out as it looked in my head and wound up being plain confusing. I'm quite happy with it for a one-hour-effort and some frantic editing, but not as a narrative I may come back to this one after the CDM is finished and improve on the premise.

I won't even have a chance to read the stories already posted. I hope I get to before the judges make their comments.

Best of luck Berandor![/SBLOCK]

 

[Berandor]

DIsharrock:
[sblock]As with the other comments, this is from reading your entry just once, which I feel does this text a great disservice. I should really read it again before commenting, but it's late, and I’m sort of lazy, so I won't.

Let me tell you I'm not really sure whether I liked what I just read. It definitely affected me, but how? I really should read it again. Perhaps tomorrow. I think I got all the pictures, but about the computer one I’m not sure. Also, at least at 1 am in the morning the style was sometimes hard to follow, and I admit I stopped in the middle of the story to do something else for a few minutes. Probably a "feature" of the lack of time.

BUT – here goes. I've read your first round entry, as well, and I love how you try to experiment with the form. I really think this contest needs you, someone who (similar to tadk) doesn't always write the same kind of story just with different images. I know it has made me considering different formats, as well, and when to try them if not here?

So let me sleep on your last entry, and maybe read it again, but no matter what comes of it, thank you for your entries so far. I hope there will be many more (though perhaps not in *this* contest, thank you very much ). Good night, and... you know.

Edit: I just read your comment. One hour? Okay, not bad.[/sblock]

(added edit)

 

[tadk]

reply

[SBLOCK=Notes about my story. Judge free zone]Time was not on my side this weekend! I'm fully aware of everything that's wrong with this one. I would have dearly loved more freedom to develop the idea, especially the Queen of Carvings which just didn't pan out as it looked in my head and wound up being plain confusing. I'm quite happy with it for a one-hour-effort and some frantic editing, but not as a narrative I may come back to this one after the CDM is finished and improve on the premise.

I won't even have a chance to read the stories already posted. I hope I get to before the judges make their comments.

Best of luck Berandor![/SBLOCK]

[SBLOCK=My feeling on your story]
Kick MF posterior dude
O Freaking heck yes
I so wish I had written that, you utterly rocked my socks
only 1 one hour, GD heck yes, all the naughty words in appreciation

I want to write with you sometime, if there is ever a pairs CDM I call dibs on you, we wont win, heck no, but these people will so won't know what hit them

I am going to print your entry and save it, I love it.
Tad


[/SBLOCK]

 

[Dlsharrock]

[SBLOCK=responses to words/judge free zone]

Kick MF posterior dude
O Freaking heck yes
I so wish I had written that, you utterly rocked my socks
only 1 one hour, GD heck yes, all the naughty words in appreciation

I want to write with you sometime, if there is ever a pairs CDM I call dibs on you, we wont win, heck no, but these people will so won't know what hit them

I am going to print your entry and save it, I love it.
Tad

I've never been very good at conforming
I would also like to write with you, tadk, as I think we both have similar ideas about experimentation. Thanks for your kind words and expletives deleted

As with the other comments, this is from reading your entry just once, which I feel does this text a great disservice. I should really read it again before commenting, but it's late, and I’m sort of lazy, so I won't.

Let me tell you I'm not really sure whether I liked what I just read. It definitely affected me, but how? I really should read it again. Perhaps tomorrow. I think I got all the pictures, but about the computer one I’m not sure. Also, at least at 1 am in the morning the style was sometimes hard to follow, and I admit I stopped in the middle of the story to do something else for a few minutes. Probably a "feature" of the lack of time.

BUT – here goes. I've read your first round entry, as well, and I love how you try to experiment with the form. I really think this contest needs you, someone who (similar to tadk) doesn't always write the same kind of story just with different images. I know it has made me considering different formats, as well, and when to try them if not here?

So let me sleep on your last entry, and maybe read it again, but no matter what comes of it, thank you for your entries so far. I hope there will be many more (though perhaps not in *this* contest, thank you very much ). Good night, and... you know.

Edit: I just read your comment. One hour? Okay, not bad.

Thanks. And yes, it's hard to interpret with the first read. The epic style fits the mythology, I felt, though I'm sure it will cause the judges annoyance as it requires a couple read throughs and demands a bit more concentration on the reader's part than my previous story. Annoyance wasn't my intention, though. I'm more interested in using CDM as a platform for experimentation, as you observed. I love the time delay in some ways, as it sometimes forces the writer to throw their cards in the air and just write. On the other hand, I could protract this into a book quite easily. Though, I don't think anyone would read it

The pictures were all used, though in some cases they provide a general feel rather than specifically point at single phrases. This is definitely the case with the fantasy image, which provided the other-worldly, apocalyptic, obsidien towers imagery. The girl with the laptop is seen at the end of the prophecy as the alternate incarnation of the Queen of Carvings and the soothsaying Shadow of the story is her laptop giving her news of impending armageddon. I'm probably guilty of way-pointing, but given the hour time limit, I think it could have been worse.

Best of luck Berandor (between you and me, I think you'll walk it )
[/SBLOCK]
Still suffering from busy lifestyle and other commitments, but intend to print and read the other stories in my lunch hour.

 

[Rodrigo Istalindir]

[sblock=For Piratecat and Berandor]

Thanks for the kind words. I'm inordinately proud of that first section, especially the 'gravity won' bit. I like it so much I'm starting to worry if I subconsciously cribbed it from someone else.

Unfortunately, I think the first section turned out so well because I spent so much time on it. I didn't get to start writing until Saturday, and had nothing in the way of an idea, so I kept screwing around on the computer and procrastinating. Finally, I decided I had to start doing something, and hoped that just putting words down would kickstart things. Eventually, it did, but I kinda had to rush through the rest and didn't get to flesh it out like I would have wanted.

I'd tried to convey the 'outsider' aspects of Charlie -- the old 'politically incorrect' car, eating meat, other things to try and give a sense that he too chafed under the restrictions of the modern world and so might seem to Kelly to be ripe for recruitment. And of course she misundersands, it's not the end-result of modern restrictions that offends Charlie, it's the elimination of free will, and there's no way he'd trade one totalitarian(ish) regime he could skirt with one he couldn't.

A combination of being too subtle for my own good and not having the time to realize that and correct it.

I'd intended to insert a scene with Dr. Kelly showing Charlie the bears, to reinforce the later picture use and to provide additional detail on the imprinting process.`

I appreciate the tip on the quote formatting, PC; I did not know that. When I was a young lad in English class, I always had a hard time writing dialogue and avoided it when I could, ad never got a good feel for the rules. I still have to stop and think about the proper punctuation more than I should and tend to muck it up when I'm not paying attention. Probably 3/4 of my 'technical' edits are fixing the dialogue. :O

Personally, I like this one (and my first story) much more than 'Hell Freezes Over', which I thought of as gimmicky trifle that only works if you *don't* have pictures, but I'm glad others enjoyed it.
[/sblock]

[sblock=Comments on Piratecat's story]

I think it's a reflection on how dagger-sharp your stories usually are that this one felt a little flat. Perhaps it's a bias against 'dream' stories I've gotten after playing and judging CDM. But it seemed like your heart was only half in this one, like you really wanted to tell Amy's story but felt compelled by the pictures to tell Ria's. Amy seems to me to be more alive, and her reactions more resonant. Ria, despite being the main 'actor' doesn't seem to get the same amount of love, and comes across a bit perfunctory.

I think maybe making her a terminal cancer patient robs her decision of any tension. Of course she's going to jump at the chance. Had she had a real, emotionally true reason to stay in the real world, her decision to take on the Amy's mantle might have had a bigger impact. Imagine instead if she'd been called into the dream-world after falling asleep while reading her kid one of the classic children's stories. Then the decision to return to the real world (and risk the world losing the 'sense of wonder' ) or stay in dream-land (and sacrifice her own happiness for the greater good) would have been harder. No 'happier ever after' either way.

I dug the ideas behind the story, though I was a little confused by:

Before the computer age, places didn’t ever go away. If enough people forgot about them, they’d sort of fade and diminish. Eventually they’d be gone. Not now, though. About twenty years ago, old places stopped fading and started disappearing.

I get where you were going, but it muddled the message a the story a little.

But the writing is top-notch as always. I especially liked the back-and-forth of the dialogue. It was snappy and organic, and accomplished more to establish the characters than the rest of the prose. And technically perfect (and least so far as I can tell); the polish really shows. You'd never know it was a Ceramic DM entry, as it's missing all the tell-tale signs of rushed writing and panicked editing. I think from now on you're only allowed 48 hours, as clearly 72 is no longer a sufficient challenge.

Picture use was excellent; I'm in awe of the corn-stalk interpretation of the coke fountains. I never in a million years would have seen that, and now I can't see anything else. Sneaking the 'Wild Things' into a story brought a smile for sure. And the highway sign was perfectly in tune with the rest of the story, mixing the mystical, the metaphorical, and the virtual. At first I thought it was kind of weak, but the more I think about it the way it draws the parallel between the virtual world I spend half (or more) of my life in, and the lands of make believe where we spend our youth, the more evocative it became. Very well done.

I don't think this is your best work, even in this competition (the Nazi archeologist showed you at the top of your game), but it was still a clever take on the pictures and well executed. You're a victim of your own success in that I expect nothing less than having my socks knocked off by each story.

I just hope I don't get eaten by a grue.[/sblock]

 

[Piratecat]

[sblock=Comments on comments!]Firstly, thank you for the feedback. One of the things I really value about Ceramic DM is that I get honest evaluations of my writing; even when it's a deliberate decision that someone is calling out, the feedback is really valuable. Seeing where things were less clear than I hoped on this last story is helping me learn.

I wanted a story that had echoes of Gaiman and the Fables series, one that was about ideas instead of action. It's me trying to stretch myself into a genre I haven't practiced in at all. I feel pretty comfortable with horror, action and even fantasy, but I still have a lot of weak spots. Writing a contemplative, dialogue-heavy story is one of them. I ended up with exactly the story I had hoped for. That may be good or bad! But personally I hit pretty much what I was aiming for. We'll have to see if I set the target high enough.

Out of curiosity, anyone figure out the identity of the narrator? There are some big clues in there for anyone curious enough to follow them, but her identity isn't really integral to the plot so I didn't spell it out.

Rodrigo, you may have misunderstood me when I praised your second story; while it's a gimmick story, I figured that was what you had set out to write, and you did it with great style. In this round, if your whole story was like part 1 I'd hand you a $20 and ask for an autographed copy of the book when you were finished. Even if the second half was rushed, you should be really proud of that. Hell, I am FOR you, and I was just a reader.

Berandor, fine work. I want to read your story a second time before I comment. I stylistic question: is the use of »« instead of "" a German usage? I tend to only see it when authors are trying to denote translated or even telepathic discussions, so it took me a bit to get the hang of.

DIsharrock, you wrote that in an hour? My hat is off to you. Dense and flavorful -- I couldn't have done that.[/sblock]