ENW Short Story Smackdown Summer 07 (Winner Announced)
- Thread starter Rodrigo Istalindir
- Start date
Rodrigo Istalindir
Explorer
I love max's mural. I want her to become my live-in painter like Eldon on Murphy Brown. I just need to get a house first. And a butt-load of money.
maxfieldjadenfox
First Post
Rodrigo Istalindir said:
I am flattered! And hey, a trip out there isn't out of the question... I have friends that just moved to DC who are bugging me to come and visit. Hurry up and get that house!
PS The mural doesn't exist any more- it was in BirdSong bookstore and when they moved to a different location because the new landlords were jerks, the jerks made them paint over it. One of my favorite memories is watching a little boy try to go through that doorway and down those stairs...
Last edited:
carpedavid
First Post
Curses! I'm sorry I missed signing up for the contest. It'll be fun to read through the stories, though. I like the picture selection so far!
Gunfight on the Plains of the Abyss
By Todd Crapper
The sound of creaking metal overcame the wind as MaryAnn rounded the corner, passing the wreckage of an immense, wheeled vehicle. Her heels stepped over pebble and bone, her hair blown wildly in the gust of dust and ash consuming the world around her. Her dress, once bright red and aglow with energy, was now covered over in the brown sand of the wasteland she found herself in, but she never cursed her luck until her heel broke.
“Dagnabbit, Richard!” she hollered, trying to be heard over the wind. “Why in the name of all Hells did you have to bring us here?!”
The throbbing glow of Richard’s walking stick came into view before the gentleman spellcaster did. Adorned in the full suit of a man known to wealth, complete with a pocketwatch in his breast pocket, the man stood out amongst the decay on this desolate plain. Projecting an aura of protection around the finely dressed Englishman, the walking stick was carved in the form of a jackal’s head grasping a diamond in its mouth. While the spell shielded Richard from the elements, he still kept his free hand atop his bowled hat.
“We arrive where the spell takes us, my dear,” the gentleman retorted. “Particularly when traversing into the Abyss…”
“Shut it,” Duke called out, his tone evident in his words. The dark figure passed Richard, his black duster flapping behind his sleek form. Unlike the spellcaster, the gunslinger’s hat remained firmly on his heat without any additional support, for he used both hands to hold onto the double-barreled shotgun. “Been listenin’ to yer bitchin’ and whinin’ fer six miles now.”
“Si, and it feels like sixty.” The final voice of the party trailed only a few steps behind Duke; indicative of the many years the priest had traveled with the gunslinger. Held firmly in his hand was a cross, while a censure of white smoke swung from the other. Father Ramirez’s white clerical collar was the only piece of clothing left intact from the dirt and debris blowing around him, a beacon of white hope in this vast and hopeless desert. “Are we there yet?” The priest coughed out the last words.
Duke squinted through the sandstorm before them and saw the yellow beam of the fallen girder in the distance, just barely cutting through the swath of dust slicing through the air. He nodded his head – as always, barely taking the time to speak when he could just nod – and lead his fellows towards the rubble. MaryAnn tossed her heels away and stumbled forward barefoot, giving up on holding her wide-bottomed gown off the ground either. She did wish that she had her fan, at least to block the wind from her face and protect the mascara she was certain was ruined now.
The gunslinger arrived first, his shotgun at the ready, and quickly surveyed the scene. Suspended from the fallen i-beam was the skull of a bull-like creature, swaying heavily and teetering to one side. The tiny particles of sand bounced against the metal of this fallen structure and added to the cacophony of noise already encompassing this realm. While these structures were no longer intact, they did not seem to be of the time he knew of. Metal bars jutted out of broken stone in huge piles too massive to have been erected by man, and the scattered remains of the horseless carriages in the far lot told him that this realm was meant to have been from a far-off time. While he could barely make it out, Duke was certain the remains of a city were off in the distance.
Waving the party forward, Duke raised the shotgun up to his shoulder level and proceeded ahead of the others. Father Ramirez stepped around Richard and MaryAnn to fall behind the gunslinger, a consistent prayer whispered in Spanish. The priest heard the sound just before Duke suddenly crouched down, and held the cross forward above his head. MaryAnn also ducked to the ground, while Richard remained standing as he was, well aware of the unannounced noise that came from so dangerous a place. It was like the flapping of gigantic wings, loud and reverberating, coming from behind a pile of concrete up ahead. When the noise continued on without any motion from behind the pile, Duke turned to MaryAnn and tilted his head towards the direction of the sound. The young woman sighed, rolled her eyes, and backtracked from where they came to move around the yellow girders and work her way around the pile of concrete rubble to see what was on the other side.
“I am not dressed for this,” she mumbled to herself as she hurried. There was no activity to meet her as she worked through the wreckage, but knew that the shifting sand at her feet would simply blow over and mask any previous tracks if there were “hosts” waiting for them. All the same, she knew better and drew the derringer from the holster around her thigh.
Finding a drop in the massive pile of debris, MaryAnn peered through and saw what had caused the noise. A large sign, jarred loose from the wind that seemed eternal in this place, flapped back and forth. Its centre was still attached to the frame, but the sides were loose and created the sound of wings. Breathing a sigh of relief, MaryAnn lowered her pistol and turned back towards the others… when a new sound caught her keen ears. Hissing laughter.
For a moment, her body did not move. Her lungs did not take in air. She was already leaned against the concrete and the sandy gust offered her plenty of concealment from the figures winding around the corner towards her. Their silhouettes were small, but with elongated limbs and pointed extremities. They had tiny wings, but they didn’t look strong enough to support their own weight to fly them away. They were demons of some kind and they coming straight towards her.
In the split second of time she had, MaryAnn knew the derringer was risky. There was likely more of these creatures and the sound of gunfire would only draw them out. While she held it in her hand, she slowly reached up with the other and withdrew the needle slung through the bun of her hair, grasping it firmly as the demon pair walked right past her, thinking her as nothing more than the rubble she knelt next to.
Spinning around, she dug the needle through the small of the first demon’s back and clubbed the back of its head with the derringer. While it fell to the ground face first, the second demon turned to face her, too surprised to be prepared for her next attack. Snapping the pistol into its nose, she heard cartilage break and crack into the demon’s brain, killing it instantly. She didn’t wait, however, and high kicked it onto its back, striking the same place as her first blow. In a fighting stance, the blood-soaked needle and splattered derringer in hand, she looked at her victims and relaxed when none of them made a sound again.
Duke spat on the ground, having seen the whole thing. At the front of the party, and with the blowing sand around them, no one could see the grin slip over his face. Graceful as always, he thought, there was something more to her than just being a whore when they first met. Hell, he’d be dead if it wasn’t for her. Tied up in a lasso of holding, he had no way to defend himself from the four rustlers who had come to collect the bounty on him, but none of them had thought anything of the prostitute in the far corner of the room. Not only was she impressive to watch, killing four armed professionals with her bare hands, but she was naked when she did it too. Duke grinned again, adjusted his hat, and waved the party forward.
“Nice work,” he said, meeting up with MaryAnn. “What cha got?”
“Just a sign,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “Seems empty.”
“Oh, yes,” a new, yet familiar, voice replied. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
As the party stepped back and formed a defensive circle, their backs turned to each other, they watched as the wind suddenly dissipated and the sand melted into the ground. The wreckage was gone and in its place stood the original structures, intact and clean. The barrage of wind was now replaced with children laughing, whistles chiming, and balloons popping. The pile of concrete was now a two-storey building with a large sign suspended above it: Funington’s.
“It’s an amusement park,” Father Ramirez narrated. His disbelief was the same as the others, but it was Richard’s that quickly turned to focused attention.
“Dick?” the gunslinger hissed at the spellcaster.
“An illusion, not to worry.” No sooner had he spoken did two young girls race past him in a slide that wound down the hill behind Richard, screaming with glee, but causing such a fright in the spellcaster that he shrieked out himself. Turning back to his comrades, he tried to hide the blushed look on his face by holding the walking stick upright to push up the rim on his bowler.
“Aren’t they a delight?” the voice spoke again, now to their left. Sliding on their heels, the party formed a line to face the creature and dreaded to see what they already suspected.
Seated atop a huge ball of multi-colored yarn, a single Cheshire cat asleep at its base, was an elderly woman. Her long nose and beady eyes glanced up from her knitting, her elbows raised high to shoulder length, they could see the four arms busy at work on the long green scarf forming a trail far into the background. The commotion of the park continued on around her, none of the families seemingly aware of the adventurers or the old woman who created this world for them.
“Azraeil,” Duke said, breaking the silence after a long pause.
“Hello, dearie,” the old woman waved with one of her hands. “Oh my, you’re all dirty from the trip. Shall I make you a cup of tea?”
“We shall take nothing from you, you demon bitch!” Father Ramirez cursed. “Except for the girl. Return her to us or else.”
The old woman shook her head slowly and tisked aloud. “Oh, my, my, my. You’re quite upset about this, aren’t you? Seems like you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to come all the way here to my home and now you’ve got to use all those nasty weapons you brought with you.”
Before the old woman could barely finish her sentence, a thunderous blast rocked the park and the old woman was thrown back from her seat of yarn. The cat awoke and hissed, running off into the bushes nearby. When the echo of the blast faded away, Duke stood with the shotgun at his side, thin wisps of smoke rising from the twin barrels.
“Yup,” he replied.
A hand grabbed hold of a thread of pink yarn at the top of the ball and the old woman slowly pulled herself back up, hooting and grunting like the image she portrayed herself to be. As she propped herself back to her original position, the double burst of the shotgun was spread across, and through, her chest. Blood and flesh dripped and hung from the orifice, and her pastel blue sweater was completely ruined. Looking down at the mess caused by the dreadful weapon, she shook her head once more and chuckled.
“Oh, dear, and my favorite sweater too.” When she looked back up the party, her eyes had changed. Gone were the pleasant beads of dark brown. Globes of hot red anger stared back at them from the darkness of her soul. “Now you’ve made me angry.”
The giant ball of yarn she sat upon was torn away to unleash a horde of mixed demons – large, small, fanged, winged, horned, clawed, bipedal, serpentine, and more combinations than could be captured in the brief second the adventurers had to gaze the scene and defend themselves as the demons poured over them.
Dropping the shotgun to the ground, Duke reached to his hips and unleashed the twin six shooters, complete with blessed bullets. Pulling back the hammer and squeezing the trigger with such ease that could only come with years of experience, the gunslinger downed six demons himself before having to pull back behind Richard to reload, already with the cylinder of new bullets in hand.
Richard raised his walking stick to the air and summoned the runes of protection around him and his troupe. As the demon horde rushed forward, their limbs burned as they passed over the Latin words etched into the soil. Pulling back, the demons hissed and scratched in the air, searching for a way past the invisible barrier.
Holding the cross in the air, Father Ramirez called out in a bellowing voice: “The power of Christ compels you!!” Repeating this over and over, the padre extradited the holy power of God across the park, pushing the demons back even further. The white light radiating from the priest burned their eyes, and they were further made helpless as the additional horde that continued to pour from the ball of yarn began to push them forward.
Seeing the mob of demons pushing those at the front of the formation closer to the ruins and the incantations of the priest, MaryAnn reached into the pockets concealed under her dress and tossed out three glass balls of holy water, given to her by Father Ramirez before they left. Smashing on their forearms and heads, the acidic touch of the water to the spawn of Evil burned deep and splashed over enough demons to expose them to further harm.
Now reloaded, Duke continued to fire a volley of sanctified bullets into the demon horde, who were unable to drive themselves any further against the double blockade of magic and prayer before them. Taking quick aim, the gunslinger blew holes in their heads and dropped them quickly. With the magic endowed into the pistols themselves, many of the gunslinger’s shots passed into another demon after exploding through the first. To complete the attack, Richard fired a volley of searing white-hot missiles at the demons, the skill of his spell striking each demon he took aim at.
Lashing out from an unexpected corner, a green scarf whipped over the circle of protection and grabbed Richard by the throat. Wrapping itself tight, the tail yanked Richard away from the circle and dragged him across the green grass of the park, his screams fading out of earshot. The markings etched in the grass poofed out of the sight. Professional to the second, Duke continued firing at the demons and stood himself in front of Father Ramirez, ready to guard the priest should the scarf return. The priest continued his prayers, holding the demons at bay, when the scarf came back.
Another shot rang out and the single shell of the derringer’s bullet pierced the threading. Pulling back, the scarf slithered back to its master and molted back to the giant ball of yarn made by the elderly woman, her face scorned with anger.
“ENOUGH!!” she screeched, waving her four arms in the air, and the demons halted their pathetic assault. Cowering behind the ball of yarn, they allowed their master to be visible before the remaining party. Duke had finished reloading his right pistol, cocked the hammer back, and took aim at the woman herself.
“Give us what we came fer and we’re gone,” he commanded. “Nice and slow.”
“And Richard too,” MaryAnn corrected.
“Yeah. What the hell.” Duke spat.
She seemed to ponder her options at the moment until the elderly woman finally smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh well then. Win some, lose some, I guess.” With that, two of her arms parted to the side and the ball of yarn opened vertically like a gaping maw.
Meanwhile, tucked behind Duke’s body, Father Ramirez reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the stick of dynamite and a matchbook. This was the time, he knew, for them to make their escape plan.
The yarn lay open for an eternity before Duke called out the girl’s name. When there was no answer, he opted for another tactic instead. Pulling the trigger, he grazed the elderly woman’s shoulder and pulled back the hammer before she could retaliate with one of her many abilities.
‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he snarled and made a clear motion of pointing the barrel of the pistol at her head.
“Papa…” a meek voice called out from inside the yarn and a pair of thin, pale arms grabbed the edges of the gaping maw. Without taking his aim away from the target, Duke watched as his daughter crawled out, weak and tired.
“Isabelle?” the gunslinger called out. “C’mere, girl. Quick.”
Running into her father, the young girl embraced Duke with enough force to choke him, but he retained his aim on the old woman. MaryAnn took hold of Isabelle and wrapped her arms around the girl, pulling her away from her father.
“And now that you have her,” the old woman began, her voice suddenly taking on a whole new meaning of menace, “how do you plan to leave?” As if by mental direction, the remaining demons began to advance once more, drooling at the prospects of the free meal.
“Padre,” was all Duke said and Father Ramirez tossed the lit stick of dynamite over the gunslinger’s shoulder and straight into the open pit of the ball of yarn. Leaping away from the old woman, the adventurers just hit the ground when the dynamite exploded and the screams of the old woman tore through the air.
As the powder inside the stick ignited, the form of the old woman suddenly changed and the bits of colored yarn became singed pieces of demon flesh. The ball of yarn became a bulbous torso attached to the clawed, four-armed form of the true master of this Abyssal plain, Azraeil. What was once the impossibly long green scarf was now the impossibly long scaled tail, drooping lifelessly to the ground with a choking Richard yanking it off his neck. Collapsing to the ground, her demon minions scattered and thrown across the park by the force of the explosion, Azraeil was motionless. Only her top half remained when the smoke cleared and the pleasant illusion of the park faded back into the windy debris of the future world they had arrived to.
Picking themselves off the ground, once again covered in red sand, Duke spat on the ground and flicked a chunk of Azraeil’s guts off his shoulder.
“Now that’s what I call ugly…”
By Todd Crapper
The sound of creaking metal overcame the wind as MaryAnn rounded the corner, passing the wreckage of an immense, wheeled vehicle. Her heels stepped over pebble and bone, her hair blown wildly in the gust of dust and ash consuming the world around her. Her dress, once bright red and aglow with energy, was now covered over in the brown sand of the wasteland she found herself in, but she never cursed her luck until her heel broke.
“Dagnabbit, Richard!” she hollered, trying to be heard over the wind. “Why in the name of all Hells did you have to bring us here?!”
The throbbing glow of Richard’s walking stick came into view before the gentleman spellcaster did. Adorned in the full suit of a man known to wealth, complete with a pocketwatch in his breast pocket, the man stood out amongst the decay on this desolate plain. Projecting an aura of protection around the finely dressed Englishman, the walking stick was carved in the form of a jackal’s head grasping a diamond in its mouth. While the spell shielded Richard from the elements, he still kept his free hand atop his bowled hat.
“We arrive where the spell takes us, my dear,” the gentleman retorted. “Particularly when traversing into the Abyss…”
“Shut it,” Duke called out, his tone evident in his words. The dark figure passed Richard, his black duster flapping behind his sleek form. Unlike the spellcaster, the gunslinger’s hat remained firmly on his heat without any additional support, for he used both hands to hold onto the double-barreled shotgun. “Been listenin’ to yer bitchin’ and whinin’ fer six miles now.”
“Si, and it feels like sixty.” The final voice of the party trailed only a few steps behind Duke; indicative of the many years the priest had traveled with the gunslinger. Held firmly in his hand was a cross, while a censure of white smoke swung from the other. Father Ramirez’s white clerical collar was the only piece of clothing left intact from the dirt and debris blowing around him, a beacon of white hope in this vast and hopeless desert. “Are we there yet?” The priest coughed out the last words.
Duke squinted through the sandstorm before them and saw the yellow beam of the fallen girder in the distance, just barely cutting through the swath of dust slicing through the air. He nodded his head – as always, barely taking the time to speak when he could just nod – and lead his fellows towards the rubble. MaryAnn tossed her heels away and stumbled forward barefoot, giving up on holding her wide-bottomed gown off the ground either. She did wish that she had her fan, at least to block the wind from her face and protect the mascara she was certain was ruined now.
The gunslinger arrived first, his shotgun at the ready, and quickly surveyed the scene. Suspended from the fallen i-beam was the skull of a bull-like creature, swaying heavily and teetering to one side. The tiny particles of sand bounced against the metal of this fallen structure and added to the cacophony of noise already encompassing this realm. While these structures were no longer intact, they did not seem to be of the time he knew of. Metal bars jutted out of broken stone in huge piles too massive to have been erected by man, and the scattered remains of the horseless carriages in the far lot told him that this realm was meant to have been from a far-off time. While he could barely make it out, Duke was certain the remains of a city were off in the distance.
Waving the party forward, Duke raised the shotgun up to his shoulder level and proceeded ahead of the others. Father Ramirez stepped around Richard and MaryAnn to fall behind the gunslinger, a consistent prayer whispered in Spanish. The priest heard the sound just before Duke suddenly crouched down, and held the cross forward above his head. MaryAnn also ducked to the ground, while Richard remained standing as he was, well aware of the unannounced noise that came from so dangerous a place. It was like the flapping of gigantic wings, loud and reverberating, coming from behind a pile of concrete up ahead. When the noise continued on without any motion from behind the pile, Duke turned to MaryAnn and tilted his head towards the direction of the sound. The young woman sighed, rolled her eyes, and backtracked from where they came to move around the yellow girders and work her way around the pile of concrete rubble to see what was on the other side.
“I am not dressed for this,” she mumbled to herself as she hurried. There was no activity to meet her as she worked through the wreckage, but knew that the shifting sand at her feet would simply blow over and mask any previous tracks if there were “hosts” waiting for them. All the same, she knew better and drew the derringer from the holster around her thigh.
Finding a drop in the massive pile of debris, MaryAnn peered through and saw what had caused the noise. A large sign, jarred loose from the wind that seemed eternal in this place, flapped back and forth. Its centre was still attached to the frame, but the sides were loose and created the sound of wings. Breathing a sigh of relief, MaryAnn lowered her pistol and turned back towards the others… when a new sound caught her keen ears. Hissing laughter.
For a moment, her body did not move. Her lungs did not take in air. She was already leaned against the concrete and the sandy gust offered her plenty of concealment from the figures winding around the corner towards her. Their silhouettes were small, but with elongated limbs and pointed extremities. They had tiny wings, but they didn’t look strong enough to support their own weight to fly them away. They were demons of some kind and they coming straight towards her.
In the split second of time she had, MaryAnn knew the derringer was risky. There was likely more of these creatures and the sound of gunfire would only draw them out. While she held it in her hand, she slowly reached up with the other and withdrew the needle slung through the bun of her hair, grasping it firmly as the demon pair walked right past her, thinking her as nothing more than the rubble she knelt next to.
Spinning around, she dug the needle through the small of the first demon’s back and clubbed the back of its head with the derringer. While it fell to the ground face first, the second demon turned to face her, too surprised to be prepared for her next attack. Snapping the pistol into its nose, she heard cartilage break and crack into the demon’s brain, killing it instantly. She didn’t wait, however, and high kicked it onto its back, striking the same place as her first blow. In a fighting stance, the blood-soaked needle and splattered derringer in hand, she looked at her victims and relaxed when none of them made a sound again.
Duke spat on the ground, having seen the whole thing. At the front of the party, and with the blowing sand around them, no one could see the grin slip over his face. Graceful as always, he thought, there was something more to her than just being a whore when they first met. Hell, he’d be dead if it wasn’t for her. Tied up in a lasso of holding, he had no way to defend himself from the four rustlers who had come to collect the bounty on him, but none of them had thought anything of the prostitute in the far corner of the room. Not only was she impressive to watch, killing four armed professionals with her bare hands, but she was naked when she did it too. Duke grinned again, adjusted his hat, and waved the party forward.
“Nice work,” he said, meeting up with MaryAnn. “What cha got?”
“Just a sign,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “Seems empty.”
“Oh, yes,” a new, yet familiar, voice replied. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
As the party stepped back and formed a defensive circle, their backs turned to each other, they watched as the wind suddenly dissipated and the sand melted into the ground. The wreckage was gone and in its place stood the original structures, intact and clean. The barrage of wind was now replaced with children laughing, whistles chiming, and balloons popping. The pile of concrete was now a two-storey building with a large sign suspended above it: Funington’s.
“It’s an amusement park,” Father Ramirez narrated. His disbelief was the same as the others, but it was Richard’s that quickly turned to focused attention.
“Dick?” the gunslinger hissed at the spellcaster.
“An illusion, not to worry.” No sooner had he spoken did two young girls race past him in a slide that wound down the hill behind Richard, screaming with glee, but causing such a fright in the spellcaster that he shrieked out himself. Turning back to his comrades, he tried to hide the blushed look on his face by holding the walking stick upright to push up the rim on his bowler.
“Aren’t they a delight?” the voice spoke again, now to their left. Sliding on their heels, the party formed a line to face the creature and dreaded to see what they already suspected.
Seated atop a huge ball of multi-colored yarn, a single Cheshire cat asleep at its base, was an elderly woman. Her long nose and beady eyes glanced up from her knitting, her elbows raised high to shoulder length, they could see the four arms busy at work on the long green scarf forming a trail far into the background. The commotion of the park continued on around her, none of the families seemingly aware of the adventurers or the old woman who created this world for them.
“Azraeil,” Duke said, breaking the silence after a long pause.
“Hello, dearie,” the old woman waved with one of her hands. “Oh my, you’re all dirty from the trip. Shall I make you a cup of tea?”
“We shall take nothing from you, you demon bitch!” Father Ramirez cursed. “Except for the girl. Return her to us or else.”
The old woman shook her head slowly and tisked aloud. “Oh, my, my, my. You’re quite upset about this, aren’t you? Seems like you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to come all the way here to my home and now you’ve got to use all those nasty weapons you brought with you.”
Before the old woman could barely finish her sentence, a thunderous blast rocked the park and the old woman was thrown back from her seat of yarn. The cat awoke and hissed, running off into the bushes nearby. When the echo of the blast faded away, Duke stood with the shotgun at his side, thin wisps of smoke rising from the twin barrels.
“Yup,” he replied.
A hand grabbed hold of a thread of pink yarn at the top of the ball and the old woman slowly pulled herself back up, hooting and grunting like the image she portrayed herself to be. As she propped herself back to her original position, the double burst of the shotgun was spread across, and through, her chest. Blood and flesh dripped and hung from the orifice, and her pastel blue sweater was completely ruined. Looking down at the mess caused by the dreadful weapon, she shook her head once more and chuckled.
“Oh, dear, and my favorite sweater too.” When she looked back up the party, her eyes had changed. Gone were the pleasant beads of dark brown. Globes of hot red anger stared back at them from the darkness of her soul. “Now you’ve made me angry.”
The giant ball of yarn she sat upon was torn away to unleash a horde of mixed demons – large, small, fanged, winged, horned, clawed, bipedal, serpentine, and more combinations than could be captured in the brief second the adventurers had to gaze the scene and defend themselves as the demons poured over them.
Dropping the shotgun to the ground, Duke reached to his hips and unleashed the twin six shooters, complete with blessed bullets. Pulling back the hammer and squeezing the trigger with such ease that could only come with years of experience, the gunslinger downed six demons himself before having to pull back behind Richard to reload, already with the cylinder of new bullets in hand.
Richard raised his walking stick to the air and summoned the runes of protection around him and his troupe. As the demon horde rushed forward, their limbs burned as they passed over the Latin words etched into the soil. Pulling back, the demons hissed and scratched in the air, searching for a way past the invisible barrier.
Holding the cross in the air, Father Ramirez called out in a bellowing voice: “The power of Christ compels you!!” Repeating this over and over, the padre extradited the holy power of God across the park, pushing the demons back even further. The white light radiating from the priest burned their eyes, and they were further made helpless as the additional horde that continued to pour from the ball of yarn began to push them forward.
Seeing the mob of demons pushing those at the front of the formation closer to the ruins and the incantations of the priest, MaryAnn reached into the pockets concealed under her dress and tossed out three glass balls of holy water, given to her by Father Ramirez before they left. Smashing on their forearms and heads, the acidic touch of the water to the spawn of Evil burned deep and splashed over enough demons to expose them to further harm.
Now reloaded, Duke continued to fire a volley of sanctified bullets into the demon horde, who were unable to drive themselves any further against the double blockade of magic and prayer before them. Taking quick aim, the gunslinger blew holes in their heads and dropped them quickly. With the magic endowed into the pistols themselves, many of the gunslinger’s shots passed into another demon after exploding through the first. To complete the attack, Richard fired a volley of searing white-hot missiles at the demons, the skill of his spell striking each demon he took aim at.
Lashing out from an unexpected corner, a green scarf whipped over the circle of protection and grabbed Richard by the throat. Wrapping itself tight, the tail yanked Richard away from the circle and dragged him across the green grass of the park, his screams fading out of earshot. The markings etched in the grass poofed out of the sight. Professional to the second, Duke continued firing at the demons and stood himself in front of Father Ramirez, ready to guard the priest should the scarf return. The priest continued his prayers, holding the demons at bay, when the scarf came back.
Another shot rang out and the single shell of the derringer’s bullet pierced the threading. Pulling back, the scarf slithered back to its master and molted back to the giant ball of yarn made by the elderly woman, her face scorned with anger.
“ENOUGH!!” she screeched, waving her four arms in the air, and the demons halted their pathetic assault. Cowering behind the ball of yarn, they allowed their master to be visible before the remaining party. Duke had finished reloading his right pistol, cocked the hammer back, and took aim at the woman herself.
“Give us what we came fer and we’re gone,” he commanded. “Nice and slow.”
“And Richard too,” MaryAnn corrected.
“Yeah. What the hell.” Duke spat.
She seemed to ponder her options at the moment until the elderly woman finally smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh well then. Win some, lose some, I guess.” With that, two of her arms parted to the side and the ball of yarn opened vertically like a gaping maw.
Meanwhile, tucked behind Duke’s body, Father Ramirez reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the stick of dynamite and a matchbook. This was the time, he knew, for them to make their escape plan.
The yarn lay open for an eternity before Duke called out the girl’s name. When there was no answer, he opted for another tactic instead. Pulling the trigger, he grazed the elderly woman’s shoulder and pulled back the hammer before she could retaliate with one of her many abilities.
‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he snarled and made a clear motion of pointing the barrel of the pistol at her head.
“Papa…” a meek voice called out from inside the yarn and a pair of thin, pale arms grabbed the edges of the gaping maw. Without taking his aim away from the target, Duke watched as his daughter crawled out, weak and tired.
“Isabelle?” the gunslinger called out. “C’mere, girl. Quick.”
Running into her father, the young girl embraced Duke with enough force to choke him, but he retained his aim on the old woman. MaryAnn took hold of Isabelle and wrapped her arms around the girl, pulling her away from her father.
“And now that you have her,” the old woman began, her voice suddenly taking on a whole new meaning of menace, “how do you plan to leave?” As if by mental direction, the remaining demons began to advance once more, drooling at the prospects of the free meal.
“Padre,” was all Duke said and Father Ramirez tossed the lit stick of dynamite over the gunslinger’s shoulder and straight into the open pit of the ball of yarn. Leaping away from the old woman, the adventurers just hit the ground when the dynamite exploded and the screams of the old woman tore through the air.
As the powder inside the stick ignited, the form of the old woman suddenly changed and the bits of colored yarn became singed pieces of demon flesh. The ball of yarn became a bulbous torso attached to the clawed, four-armed form of the true master of this Abyssal plain, Azraeil. What was once the impossibly long green scarf was now the impossibly long scaled tail, drooping lifelessly to the ground with a choking Richard yanking it off his neck. Collapsing to the ground, her demon minions scattered and thrown across the park by the force of the explosion, Azraeil was motionless. Only her top half remained when the smoke cleared and the pleasant illusion of the park faded back into the windy debris of the future world they had arrived to.
Picking themselves off the ground, once again covered in red sand, Duke spat on the ground and flicked a chunk of Azraeil’s guts off his shoulder.
“Now that’s what I call ugly…”
Last edited:
I just disqualified myself. I entered all the code for formatting in the Word file, but didn't account for tabs to not appear. So I simply edited my post and changed it so that it was more legible... then remembered that editing posts are forbidden as soon as it was done.
While I could always hope for leniency, rules are rules.
...
Crap.
While I could always hope for leniency, rules are rules.
...
Crap.
They Will Circle the Sky
Round 1, Match 5
THEY WILL CIRCLE THE SKY
Rain whipped the windows as Ophelia dipped the last strip of newspaper into the sticky plaster and set it gently onto the bridge of what would, eventually, make the nose of the woman. She looked into her project's closed eyes and wondered if she should have them be open, but soon realized she couldn't have painted realistic sad eyes. The Moslem woman would look like one of Victoria's anime and that would just be silly. Ophelia brushed a wet strand of red hair out of her face and smeared some plaster on her nose. She grimaced.
"Oh that looks nice sweetie!" Ophelia looked back to see her mother, decked out in a blue dress with green embroidered pheasants- some present from her womyn's circle no doubt. Ophelia shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. I just have to let it dry before painting it and it should be ready for next weekend."
Her mother kissed her on the forehead, rustling her hair enough to make more strands stick to each other. "My little druid."
Inside, Ophelia felt her insides curdle from the spoonful of sugar. "Mooooom," she moaned.
Her mother smirked and hugged her from behind, rubbing her nose against her daughter's cheek until it burned. "Would you rather I call you Moonbeam again? Raindrop? Rainbow?" How about-"
"Oh my GOD, stop!" Ophelia gasped, pushing her mother away. Ophelia's mother laughed. "Could you get Vicky for dinner?"
Ophelia nodded and excused herself to throw on a clean shirt. She picked her way past the piles of magazines and clothes and dug through the cloth midden heap to pick out one her dad gave her for her last birthday. It was a red shirt that he had printed with a crude picture of himself holding out a textbook with the word BIOMETRY! She took off her stained and plaster covered David Bowie shirt, grimaced as she looked at her breasts in the mirror, and put the new one on.
The house was bubbling with sense memory; peace signs prompted stories, even from those unborn during their creation, the smell of cumin and coriander prompted a reminiscence of old travels to India, and Sufjan Stevens on the stereo prompted comparisons to Dylan (which prompted arguments or agreements.) It was typical for a week before a festival or march or whatever event her mom was planning or arranging, and there were always many. Boards were being painted with slogans and symbols and the ever-present sound of political discussion and ranting danced through the hallways like a radio being tuned in and out. Ophelia looked over one of her many, many aunts' shoulders and saw stretch of white bed sheet being bundled up to form a ghost-like head. Branches sat next to the project and her aunt smiled back at her. Ophelia heard the doorbell ring and ran to answer it.
A skinny man with a septum piercing and green dreadlocks gave a slight nod to Ophelia as he shook out an umbrella with a giant anarchy symbol painted on top. "Hey kid," he said as he ushered his pregnant girlfriend inside, her belly distending the skull tattoo over her belly button to monstrous Giger-like proportions. "Hey Coyote," she said. "Mom's in the kitchen. I think Victoria's in the garage."
"Cool, cool," Coyote nodded, his hair jangling like rain forest vines. "Should be a good one. The rest of the country is finally waking up to this fascist."
Ophelia shrugged. "Yeah, guess so." Ophelia liked Coyote well enough, but he regularly pulled together a "Black Bloc" of fellow anarchists and ended up causing more trouble than most at protests. Ophelia liked the drum circles and carnival atmosphere of the marches her mom took her to well enough, with their giant paper mache heads of presidents and skeleton marching bands, but the more extreme anarchists in their black clothing and ski masks creeped her out a bit.
A peal of laughter came out of the room and her mom rushed up to hug Coyote and coo over the ink-marked swollen belly. Ophelia walked outside was almost pushed back by the torrential rain. She grabbed a trench coat off the coat hanger and wrapped it around herself as she ran outside and made her way to the garage. The coat flapped so incredulously at its use as a tarp that it afforded little protection. She darted inside the garage and saw Victoria working on her bike. A giant American flag was air brushed on the side, with a bumper sticker on the back that said "DYKES ON BIKES". Grease stained her other mother's hands as she wiped her hands on an already filthy rag.
"Dinner's almost ready," Ophelia said.
"Potluck again?" Victoria asked, as she shrugged on a semi-clean workshirt.
"The whole clan is here, so yeah."
Victoria grunted and rolled her eyes in response. Ophelia smirked as she could almost see her other mom gearing up for a raucous evening of discussion she had to feign interest in. She rushed outside and strode purposefully though the vicious horizontal rain and Ophelia followed soon after, not purposefully so much as flailing and shrieking in an effort to get a smile on Victoria's face. It worked. "Damn! The Earth is pissed at us!" Victoria laughed as she tossed her workshirt on the coat rack to dry. Ophelia went to help chop avocadoes for the salad and smirked as she heard her mother's squeal of protest as Victoria gave a grease-stained kiss on her mother's neck- eliciting an order for Vicky to take a shower before dinner.
The dinner was typical for pre-protest gatherings. Lots of laughter and pockets of conversations all at once that grew and shrank as other bubbles of interest percolated to the surface of the lively group. This was Ophelia's favorite part, when a group of associates and friends cackled to each other and talked about shallow, normal things- like how hot Starbuck was (or that Apollo was actually a dyke in boy drag). Eventually, the dinner always turned into more heady matters, as they railed against the government or heretofore unnoticed threatening policies. Ophelia excused herself early from the table, unnoticed by her mother as she was in deep discussion with a philosophy professor about Kant's Categorical Imperative. Ophelia heard her mother laugh at the professor's joke about "Ex-HUME-ing dead thinkers" as she made her way to the den.
The house her mother had bought after the divorce was an old Victorian rehab, which still had many of the old fixtures. It occasionally flickered when a wire fritzed out giving the floral print wallpaper the illusion of growing on the wall. Ophelia started to dig her homework out from under the pile of her mother's ungraded papers and various fliers.
It was then that the papers stared at her. She didn't know what it was at first, just a trick of the light against a few shiny binders perhaps. But the fliers and papers were arranged in such a way to form a crude pair of eyes. The red circle around a grade curved into the "G" of a Vagina Monologues flier that curved into the fiery hoop of an old Cirque De Soleil program when her mom and Victoria went to Vegas. Ophelia stared back for a moment before laughing nervously.
And then the eyes blinked.
Ophelia screamed, a deep yelp that came out of her belly and built to a quick burst of a roar that somehow aborted itself into a mere whimper. She spread her hands out and scattered the papers in front of her.
(http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=29818)
There was a peal of laughter from down the hall that petered out just as Ophelia made a mess of the table. Her eyes wide open, her breathing heavy, she stood in front of the table and blinked- wondering what just happened.
"Ophelia?" came a voice from the hall. Coyote looked in and saw the young girl leaning over the table, still pale from shock. He looked to the table and stood very still. Ophelia looked back and saw that her scattering of papers had uncovered something. A blueprint of sorts, mechanical and with simple instructions with scribbled times and addresses. Before she had a chance to figure out exactly what it was, Coyote quickly walked to the table and grabbed the blueprint. He quietly folded it up and put it under his shoulder, watching Ophelia all the while.
"You should be more careful," he said simply before walking back out.
Ophelia stood there, blinking and wondering exactly what just happened. She cautiously looked back to the table and saw nothing but a chaos of disorganized files and essays.
***
As Ophelia drifts off to slumber, she sees swears she sees eyes staring at her. They are fuzzy and indistinct, yet full of a sadness that makes her knees tremble with vibrations that reach into her stomach to shake it.
When she dreams, she sees her high school hallway. She's walking past faceless bodies drifting past as if blown by a stiff wind. Lockers merge together in a tapestry of yellow numbered metal that melts into brick walls. She feels that she is late for class and turns the corner only to stop short.
The hallway now suddenly ends in a stone window, fuzzier than the phantom school she walks through. Her math textbook lies open on the window, but with all the problems erased and only meaningless scribbles left. She sees the signpost and hedge maze beyond and carefully arranged blocks of stone on a hill far beyond, with a sky that spins impossibly fast, shifting from sunrise to a starry night in eye blinks. She stretches out a hand to touch the window.
"They're all going to die."
Ophelia turns to see the paper mache head of the Moslem woman staring at her. The protest bust opens her eyes.
"Everyone."
Ophelia wakes up with a gasp.
***
"So the water has been unbelievably rough, but we are getting some great data from the phytoplankton! It's like they're trying to get away from the ocean itself! I've got numbers coming out of my wazoo!"
"That's great dad," Ophelia says as she rubs her eyes and tries to uncrick her neck from holding the phone silently for the past half-hour. She's tired. "It sounds fun. Will you still be on the sub when I come to visit?"
"Well the project is about to wrap up but... I could pull some strings for... OOO! Right, have to make sure I set that sonar to track... Right, sure."
"Dad?"
"What? Oh right! Well we'll see honey. How's your mother?"
Ophelia sighs. "Good."
"Great! And, uh, how's Vicky?"
"She's good too."
"Well great all around then! Heh heh. Yeah... Listen Ophie, we'll be going back under soon and reception underwater is, well... not there. Can I call you after the- Wait that number doesn't make sense..."
"Sure dad."
"Thanks! Love you sweetie!"
Ophelia hears the click and dial tone and hangs up the phone. She stands up and does some simple neck yoga, which she knew made her look silly but it stretched her out. Her mother walks by with a plate of cake in one hand and an unlit joint in the other. It's a night at the movies for mom tonight as Victoria is out with the bike club.
"Mom," Ophelia calls out. "You call me 'little druid' cause of our heritage right?"
Her mother looks back around the corner. "I do. The shaman I visited at the radical faerie gathering said we had it in our blood."
"Yeah, he was nice. I liked his dog. But... do you think he was right? I mean for real right and not just in that 'we all have the spirits in us' new agey kinda way?"
Her mother set her plate down and leaned against the wall. "Well I hung out with Isaac Bonewits when I met your father at Berkley and my maiden name was McLaughlin. So... well to be honest, everyone was a druid then. It was 1980. It was either that or listen to New Wave."
"huh. Thanks Mom."
"No problem honey."
***
She saw the window every night in her dreams.
http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=29819
Her mother had taught her lucid dreaming as a child, but once she hit puberty her skills had atrophied from disuse. Still, she was able to manage enough to step through the window the next night. The night after that she made it to the signpost and the grass around it tickled and laughed at her calves. The third night she walked partway into the maze, and the thorns formed mouths and noses that inhaled the sound of her footsteps and exhaled pop tunes (Seeing a hedge shake and sing "SexyBack" was definitely one of the odder moments ever seen in her dreamscape.) The fourth night she found a pond where water sprites played polo with a water bug while riding trained koy fish. The fifth night she came across an old man who breathed into a hole in the ground, and each time he took a breath cold, black flame enveloped his body. The sixth night a stream of rabbits ran toward her and exploded one by one like furry firecrackers. Each night, the dream was interrupted by the paper mache Moslem woman. She said the same thing and Ophelia woke each time.
And the seventh night, the day before the protest, Ophelia came to the summit of the hill staring up at Stonehenge. There, a dozen robed druids in black robes stood in a circle. Leaves and ivy crawled up their limbs and darted into their flesh like briar stitches holding them together. Their eyes were dark like oiled obsidian. The sky vibrated between time in a kaleidoscope of sunrise and sunset. As Ophelia walked up the hill, the druids looked to her. Slowly, sonorously, they began to sing a hymn to the power of the Earth.
Dirty babe
You see the shackles
Baby I'm your slave
Ophelia raised an eyebrow.
I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave
It’s just that no one makes me feel this way
"Why can't I get that song out of my head..." Ophelia mutters as the druids began to bob their hooded heads, leaves rustling in time.
"They're all going to die."
Ophelia doesn't turn around. Somehow she thinks that meeting the woman's eyes every time wakes her up. And this time, she is determined not to let it happen. Instead she watches the druids wave their arms and pelvic thrust as they drone somberly.
"Everyone."
"So how?" Ophelia asks, shutting her eyes (although in the dream she stills sees everything). "In a bomb? Is this real or just my subconscious trying to tell me something?"
"It will fly into buildings first. There will be explosions as the birds crash into their sides. It will be a herald of things to come. Destruction and death. Merciless and cold."
Come here girl
Go ahead, be gone with it
Come to the back
Go ahead, be gone with it
VIP
Go ahead, be gone with it
Ophelia tries to shake her head away from the content of her subconscious eliminating useless knowledge in the shape of robed, grinding dead monks. "What are you-? Oh my GOD is this a 9-11 dream? Oh come ON!"
Ophelia feels a rough, crinkled hand on her shoulder. "The cycle must be stopped. It begets itself. It must be stopped."
"So... so don't... Wait I think I get it. I get it!"
Ophelia turns around and looks into the woman's eyes. They are deep brown and drowning in misery. They hold a universe of sorrow in their paper lashes made up of news reports and war statistics. "I need to stop the fighting fire with fire. It has to start somewhere right?"
The paper mache bust simply stares. Leaning over, it kisses Ophelia on her forehead and it itches. "You will see."
***
Making the call was painful, but Ophelia felt the dreams gave her no choice. The FBI came to the house of course, which gave her mother a conniption. Ophelia wasn't too worried. She had already thrown out her mother's stash that morning, and she knew that her mother had been taught well by her friends and lawyers on how to handle police and an investigation. They asked everyone questions about Coyote (Whose real name was Barry Grubb, of all things...). Ophelia mentioned the bomb plans, but innocently, as if she didn't know what they were.
Which she apparently didn't.
The plans were for bombs, but small ones. Apparently, Coyote had planned to firebomb a few gas station trashcans during the march to protest oil consumption. He was charged, of course, and put in holding till his collective could scrounge up enough money to post his bail. There were already discussions about a Bowling for Anarchy fundraiser.
Her mother was very quiet as they marched toward the capital building. Ophelia knew it wouldn't be a good idea to point out that she left her name out of any of the tips or reports.
Ophelia gave the paper mache woman to her mother and wandered up a few blocks. She was prepared to snap a few pictures of the parade, but instead watched. The weather had turned oddly cold for a spring month, and people wore jackets as they moved up the stairs toward the plaza. Ophelia smiled as she saw that the doves had turned out very nice. A stiff wind blew through the plaza, drowning any chanted slogans.
http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=29820
"Wind sure wants this to end, huh?"
Ophelia looked up to see Victoria in her leather jacket leaning against the metal railing. "For what its worth, I think you did right. Coyote's an idiot trying to make this into another war."
Ophelia sullenly nodded. The protestors struggled to keep the doves from flying away in the wind whipping it's way down the stairs. "I suppose," she glared at the Moslem woman bust as she passed. "Doesn't feel like it though."
Victoria nodded and lit a cigarette. "Yeah," she said. She offered the lit cigarette to Ophelia, who shook her head. Victoria nodded and blew a few rings.
"I know you mom can be a little... absorbed sometimes. Your dad ain't much better. Probably why they split. They were too much alike."
Victoria put a hand on Ophelia's shoulder. "But they have passion. Too much maybe, but I think that's better to have than too little. Usually whatever they want just blows you around. So even though you busted a friend... I'm kind of proud of you for doing something that you felt like doing for once."
They sat in silence after that and Victoria stubbed out her cigarette to join her lover. Ophelia remembered to snap a few photos for the album.
Ophelia watched the wind rustle through the white sheet wings of the doves. They almost looked as if they were flapping toward the capital building, monstrous winged rocs ready to avenge wrongs. Something in the back of Ophelia's mind made her neck itch.
The marchers were laughing and then a surprised cry went out as the wind blew one of the doves off its pole. It fell unceremoniously to the ground and sat there, branch half broken on the concrete. But as someone ran over to pick it up, a strong gust of wind blew the head up the stairs against all the claims of gravity.
"Damn! The Earth is pissed at us!"
Ophelia felt lightheaded and cold. She watched the sheet dove sculpture bound up and sit for a moment as the protestor swore and tried to catch. Then it's wings rose around it as a great gale slammed into it and despite the weight of it's pillow head, it rose into the air- much to the shock of the protestor chasing it.
"It's like they're trying to get away from the ocean itself!"
One by one, the poles fell and the wind took the doves up into the air. Impossibly they twirled as if under their own volition, darting and weaving in the air and trailing fluttering sheets like witches' robes. The crowd cried out, but many oohed and ahhed. Quite a few clapped, assuming it was a brilliant act of protest.
"Wind sure wants this to end, huh?"
Ophelia looked back and saw that the paper mache Moslem woman had opened her eyes. Tears ran down them, unnoticed by all as the watched the dancing blanket doves in the sky.
It made sense to Ophelia then. The blood of druids would have no connection to man or their plots. Their silly wars or protests or meaningless squabbles. Only one thing could raise the blood.
The druids weren't there just to worship the earth or to commit bloody sacrifice to trees. They were also there as a warning system: To raise the alarm if the Earth was angry. But if centuries passed and there were no druids, no ability to tell the world what the Earth was thinking...
What if the earth woke up and realized what was being done to it?
Ophelia watched in horror as the doves dipped and dove toward the capital building. Everyone clapped and cheered.
Thus was the sound of doves at war.
Round 1, Match 5
THEY WILL CIRCLE THE SKY
Rain whipped the windows as Ophelia dipped the last strip of newspaper into the sticky plaster and set it gently onto the bridge of what would, eventually, make the nose of the woman. She looked into her project's closed eyes and wondered if she should have them be open, but soon realized she couldn't have painted realistic sad eyes. The Moslem woman would look like one of Victoria's anime and that would just be silly. Ophelia brushed a wet strand of red hair out of her face and smeared some plaster on her nose. She grimaced.
"Oh that looks nice sweetie!" Ophelia looked back to see her mother, decked out in a blue dress with green embroidered pheasants- some present from her womyn's circle no doubt. Ophelia shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. I just have to let it dry before painting it and it should be ready for next weekend."
Her mother kissed her on the forehead, rustling her hair enough to make more strands stick to each other. "My little druid."
Inside, Ophelia felt her insides curdle from the spoonful of sugar. "Mooooom," she moaned.
Her mother smirked and hugged her from behind, rubbing her nose against her daughter's cheek until it burned. "Would you rather I call you Moonbeam again? Raindrop? Rainbow?" How about-"
"Oh my GOD, stop!" Ophelia gasped, pushing her mother away. Ophelia's mother laughed. "Could you get Vicky for dinner?"
Ophelia nodded and excused herself to throw on a clean shirt. She picked her way past the piles of magazines and clothes and dug through the cloth midden heap to pick out one her dad gave her for her last birthday. It was a red shirt that he had printed with a crude picture of himself holding out a textbook with the word BIOMETRY! She took off her stained and plaster covered David Bowie shirt, grimaced as she looked at her breasts in the mirror, and put the new one on.
The house was bubbling with sense memory; peace signs prompted stories, even from those unborn during their creation, the smell of cumin and coriander prompted a reminiscence of old travels to India, and Sufjan Stevens on the stereo prompted comparisons to Dylan (which prompted arguments or agreements.) It was typical for a week before a festival or march or whatever event her mom was planning or arranging, and there were always many. Boards were being painted with slogans and symbols and the ever-present sound of political discussion and ranting danced through the hallways like a radio being tuned in and out. Ophelia looked over one of her many, many aunts' shoulders and saw stretch of white bed sheet being bundled up to form a ghost-like head. Branches sat next to the project and her aunt smiled back at her. Ophelia heard the doorbell ring and ran to answer it.
A skinny man with a septum piercing and green dreadlocks gave a slight nod to Ophelia as he shook out an umbrella with a giant anarchy symbol painted on top. "Hey kid," he said as he ushered his pregnant girlfriend inside, her belly distending the skull tattoo over her belly button to monstrous Giger-like proportions. "Hey Coyote," she said. "Mom's in the kitchen. I think Victoria's in the garage."
"Cool, cool," Coyote nodded, his hair jangling like rain forest vines. "Should be a good one. The rest of the country is finally waking up to this fascist."
Ophelia shrugged. "Yeah, guess so." Ophelia liked Coyote well enough, but he regularly pulled together a "Black Bloc" of fellow anarchists and ended up causing more trouble than most at protests. Ophelia liked the drum circles and carnival atmosphere of the marches her mom took her to well enough, with their giant paper mache heads of presidents and skeleton marching bands, but the more extreme anarchists in their black clothing and ski masks creeped her out a bit.
A peal of laughter came out of the room and her mom rushed up to hug Coyote and coo over the ink-marked swollen belly. Ophelia walked outside was almost pushed back by the torrential rain. She grabbed a trench coat off the coat hanger and wrapped it around herself as she ran outside and made her way to the garage. The coat flapped so incredulously at its use as a tarp that it afforded little protection. She darted inside the garage and saw Victoria working on her bike. A giant American flag was air brushed on the side, with a bumper sticker on the back that said "DYKES ON BIKES". Grease stained her other mother's hands as she wiped her hands on an already filthy rag.
"Dinner's almost ready," Ophelia said.
"Potluck again?" Victoria asked, as she shrugged on a semi-clean workshirt.
"The whole clan is here, so yeah."
Victoria grunted and rolled her eyes in response. Ophelia smirked as she could almost see her other mom gearing up for a raucous evening of discussion she had to feign interest in. She rushed outside and strode purposefully though the vicious horizontal rain and Ophelia followed soon after, not purposefully so much as flailing and shrieking in an effort to get a smile on Victoria's face. It worked. "Damn! The Earth is pissed at us!" Victoria laughed as she tossed her workshirt on the coat rack to dry. Ophelia went to help chop avocadoes for the salad and smirked as she heard her mother's squeal of protest as Victoria gave a grease-stained kiss on her mother's neck- eliciting an order for Vicky to take a shower before dinner.
The dinner was typical for pre-protest gatherings. Lots of laughter and pockets of conversations all at once that grew and shrank as other bubbles of interest percolated to the surface of the lively group. This was Ophelia's favorite part, when a group of associates and friends cackled to each other and talked about shallow, normal things- like how hot Starbuck was (or that Apollo was actually a dyke in boy drag). Eventually, the dinner always turned into more heady matters, as they railed against the government or heretofore unnoticed threatening policies. Ophelia excused herself early from the table, unnoticed by her mother as she was in deep discussion with a philosophy professor about Kant's Categorical Imperative. Ophelia heard her mother laugh at the professor's joke about "Ex-HUME-ing dead thinkers" as she made her way to the den.
The house her mother had bought after the divorce was an old Victorian rehab, which still had many of the old fixtures. It occasionally flickered when a wire fritzed out giving the floral print wallpaper the illusion of growing on the wall. Ophelia started to dig her homework out from under the pile of her mother's ungraded papers and various fliers.
It was then that the papers stared at her. She didn't know what it was at first, just a trick of the light against a few shiny binders perhaps. But the fliers and papers were arranged in such a way to form a crude pair of eyes. The red circle around a grade curved into the "G" of a Vagina Monologues flier that curved into the fiery hoop of an old Cirque De Soleil program when her mom and Victoria went to Vegas. Ophelia stared back for a moment before laughing nervously.
And then the eyes blinked.
Ophelia screamed, a deep yelp that came out of her belly and built to a quick burst of a roar that somehow aborted itself into a mere whimper. She spread her hands out and scattered the papers in front of her.
(http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=29818)
There was a peal of laughter from down the hall that petered out just as Ophelia made a mess of the table. Her eyes wide open, her breathing heavy, she stood in front of the table and blinked- wondering what just happened.
"Ophelia?" came a voice from the hall. Coyote looked in and saw the young girl leaning over the table, still pale from shock. He looked to the table and stood very still. Ophelia looked back and saw that her scattering of papers had uncovered something. A blueprint of sorts, mechanical and with simple instructions with scribbled times and addresses. Before she had a chance to figure out exactly what it was, Coyote quickly walked to the table and grabbed the blueprint. He quietly folded it up and put it under his shoulder, watching Ophelia all the while.
"You should be more careful," he said simply before walking back out.
Ophelia stood there, blinking and wondering exactly what just happened. She cautiously looked back to the table and saw nothing but a chaos of disorganized files and essays.
***
As Ophelia drifts off to slumber, she sees swears she sees eyes staring at her. They are fuzzy and indistinct, yet full of a sadness that makes her knees tremble with vibrations that reach into her stomach to shake it.
When she dreams, she sees her high school hallway. She's walking past faceless bodies drifting past as if blown by a stiff wind. Lockers merge together in a tapestry of yellow numbered metal that melts into brick walls. She feels that she is late for class and turns the corner only to stop short.
The hallway now suddenly ends in a stone window, fuzzier than the phantom school she walks through. Her math textbook lies open on the window, but with all the problems erased and only meaningless scribbles left. She sees the signpost and hedge maze beyond and carefully arranged blocks of stone on a hill far beyond, with a sky that spins impossibly fast, shifting from sunrise to a starry night in eye blinks. She stretches out a hand to touch the window.
"They're all going to die."
Ophelia turns to see the paper mache head of the Moslem woman staring at her. The protest bust opens her eyes.
"Everyone."
Ophelia wakes up with a gasp.
***
"So the water has been unbelievably rough, but we are getting some great data from the phytoplankton! It's like they're trying to get away from the ocean itself! I've got numbers coming out of my wazoo!"
"That's great dad," Ophelia says as she rubs her eyes and tries to uncrick her neck from holding the phone silently for the past half-hour. She's tired. "It sounds fun. Will you still be on the sub when I come to visit?"
"Well the project is about to wrap up but... I could pull some strings for... OOO! Right, have to make sure I set that sonar to track... Right, sure."
"Dad?"
"What? Oh right! Well we'll see honey. How's your mother?"
Ophelia sighs. "Good."
"Great! And, uh, how's Vicky?"
"She's good too."
"Well great all around then! Heh heh. Yeah... Listen Ophie, we'll be going back under soon and reception underwater is, well... not there. Can I call you after the- Wait that number doesn't make sense..."
"Sure dad."
"Thanks! Love you sweetie!"
Ophelia hears the click and dial tone and hangs up the phone. She stands up and does some simple neck yoga, which she knew made her look silly but it stretched her out. Her mother walks by with a plate of cake in one hand and an unlit joint in the other. It's a night at the movies for mom tonight as Victoria is out with the bike club.
"Mom," Ophelia calls out. "You call me 'little druid' cause of our heritage right?"
Her mother looks back around the corner. "I do. The shaman I visited at the radical faerie gathering said we had it in our blood."
"Yeah, he was nice. I liked his dog. But... do you think he was right? I mean for real right and not just in that 'we all have the spirits in us' new agey kinda way?"
Her mother set her plate down and leaned against the wall. "Well I hung out with Isaac Bonewits when I met your father at Berkley and my maiden name was McLaughlin. So... well to be honest, everyone was a druid then. It was 1980. It was either that or listen to New Wave."
"huh. Thanks Mom."
"No problem honey."
***
She saw the window every night in her dreams.
http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=29819
Her mother had taught her lucid dreaming as a child, but once she hit puberty her skills had atrophied from disuse. Still, she was able to manage enough to step through the window the next night. The night after that she made it to the signpost and the grass around it tickled and laughed at her calves. The third night she walked partway into the maze, and the thorns formed mouths and noses that inhaled the sound of her footsteps and exhaled pop tunes (Seeing a hedge shake and sing "SexyBack" was definitely one of the odder moments ever seen in her dreamscape.) The fourth night she found a pond where water sprites played polo with a water bug while riding trained koy fish. The fifth night she came across an old man who breathed into a hole in the ground, and each time he took a breath cold, black flame enveloped his body. The sixth night a stream of rabbits ran toward her and exploded one by one like furry firecrackers. Each night, the dream was interrupted by the paper mache Moslem woman. She said the same thing and Ophelia woke each time.
And the seventh night, the day before the protest, Ophelia came to the summit of the hill staring up at Stonehenge. There, a dozen robed druids in black robes stood in a circle. Leaves and ivy crawled up their limbs and darted into their flesh like briar stitches holding them together. Their eyes were dark like oiled obsidian. The sky vibrated between time in a kaleidoscope of sunrise and sunset. As Ophelia walked up the hill, the druids looked to her. Slowly, sonorously, they began to sing a hymn to the power of the Earth.
Dirty babe
You see the shackles
Baby I'm your slave
Ophelia raised an eyebrow.
I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave
It’s just that no one makes me feel this way
"Why can't I get that song out of my head..." Ophelia mutters as the druids began to bob their hooded heads, leaves rustling in time.
"They're all going to die."
Ophelia doesn't turn around. Somehow she thinks that meeting the woman's eyes every time wakes her up. And this time, she is determined not to let it happen. Instead she watches the druids wave their arms and pelvic thrust as they drone somberly.
"Everyone."
"So how?" Ophelia asks, shutting her eyes (although in the dream she stills sees everything). "In a bomb? Is this real or just my subconscious trying to tell me something?"
"It will fly into buildings first. There will be explosions as the birds crash into their sides. It will be a herald of things to come. Destruction and death. Merciless and cold."
Come here girl
Go ahead, be gone with it
Come to the back
Go ahead, be gone with it
VIP
Go ahead, be gone with it
Ophelia tries to shake her head away from the content of her subconscious eliminating useless knowledge in the shape of robed, grinding dead monks. "What are you-? Oh my GOD is this a 9-11 dream? Oh come ON!"
Ophelia feels a rough, crinkled hand on her shoulder. "The cycle must be stopped. It begets itself. It must be stopped."
"So... so don't... Wait I think I get it. I get it!"
Ophelia turns around and looks into the woman's eyes. They are deep brown and drowning in misery. They hold a universe of sorrow in their paper lashes made up of news reports and war statistics. "I need to stop the fighting fire with fire. It has to start somewhere right?"
The paper mache bust simply stares. Leaning over, it kisses Ophelia on her forehead and it itches. "You will see."
***
Making the call was painful, but Ophelia felt the dreams gave her no choice. The FBI came to the house of course, which gave her mother a conniption. Ophelia wasn't too worried. She had already thrown out her mother's stash that morning, and she knew that her mother had been taught well by her friends and lawyers on how to handle police and an investigation. They asked everyone questions about Coyote (Whose real name was Barry Grubb, of all things...). Ophelia mentioned the bomb plans, but innocently, as if she didn't know what they were.
Which she apparently didn't.
The plans were for bombs, but small ones. Apparently, Coyote had planned to firebomb a few gas station trashcans during the march to protest oil consumption. He was charged, of course, and put in holding till his collective could scrounge up enough money to post his bail. There were already discussions about a Bowling for Anarchy fundraiser.
Her mother was very quiet as they marched toward the capital building. Ophelia knew it wouldn't be a good idea to point out that she left her name out of any of the tips or reports.
Ophelia gave the paper mache woman to her mother and wandered up a few blocks. She was prepared to snap a few pictures of the parade, but instead watched. The weather had turned oddly cold for a spring month, and people wore jackets as they moved up the stairs toward the plaza. Ophelia smiled as she saw that the doves had turned out very nice. A stiff wind blew through the plaza, drowning any chanted slogans.
http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=29820
"Wind sure wants this to end, huh?"
Ophelia looked up to see Victoria in her leather jacket leaning against the metal railing. "For what its worth, I think you did right. Coyote's an idiot trying to make this into another war."
Ophelia sullenly nodded. The protestors struggled to keep the doves from flying away in the wind whipping it's way down the stairs. "I suppose," she glared at the Moslem woman bust as she passed. "Doesn't feel like it though."
Victoria nodded and lit a cigarette. "Yeah," she said. She offered the lit cigarette to Ophelia, who shook her head. Victoria nodded and blew a few rings.
"I know you mom can be a little... absorbed sometimes. Your dad ain't much better. Probably why they split. They were too much alike."
Victoria put a hand on Ophelia's shoulder. "But they have passion. Too much maybe, but I think that's better to have than too little. Usually whatever they want just blows you around. So even though you busted a friend... I'm kind of proud of you for doing something that you felt like doing for once."
They sat in silence after that and Victoria stubbed out her cigarette to join her lover. Ophelia remembered to snap a few photos for the album.
Ophelia watched the wind rustle through the white sheet wings of the doves. They almost looked as if they were flapping toward the capital building, monstrous winged rocs ready to avenge wrongs. Something in the back of Ophelia's mind made her neck itch.
The marchers were laughing and then a surprised cry went out as the wind blew one of the doves off its pole. It fell unceremoniously to the ground and sat there, branch half broken on the concrete. But as someone ran over to pick it up, a strong gust of wind blew the head up the stairs against all the claims of gravity.
"Damn! The Earth is pissed at us!"
Ophelia felt lightheaded and cold. She watched the sheet dove sculpture bound up and sit for a moment as the protestor swore and tried to catch. Then it's wings rose around it as a great gale slammed into it and despite the weight of it's pillow head, it rose into the air- much to the shock of the protestor chasing it.
"It's like they're trying to get away from the ocean itself!"
One by one, the poles fell and the wind took the doves up into the air. Impossibly they twirled as if under their own volition, darting and weaving in the air and trailing fluttering sheets like witches' robes. The crowd cried out, but many oohed and ahhed. Quite a few clapped, assuming it was a brilliant act of protest.
"Wind sure wants this to end, huh?"
Ophelia looked back and saw that the paper mache Moslem woman had opened her eyes. Tears ran down them, unnoticed by all as the watched the dancing blanket doves in the sky.
It made sense to Ophelia then. The blood of druids would have no connection to man or their plots. Their silly wars or protests or meaningless squabbles. Only one thing could raise the blood.
The druids weren't there just to worship the earth or to commit bloody sacrifice to trees. They were also there as a warning system: To raise the alarm if the Earth was angry. But if centuries passed and there were no druids, no ability to tell the world what the Earth was thinking...
What if the earth woke up and realized what was being done to it?
Ophelia watched in horror as the doves dipped and dove toward the capital building. Everyone clapped and cheered.
Thus was the sound of doves at war.
Yeah, I posted a bit early, but I have friends that will be leaving town soon so much available time will be spent with them.
I'm semi-happy with all the picture usage except the second one... It feels more nebulous to me for some reason.
Nonetheless, there it is. Hope it is enjoyed.
I'm semi-happy with all the picture usage except the second one... It feels more nebulous to me for some reason.
Nonetheless, there it is. Hope it is enjoyed.
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