300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #25 -- VICTORY TO THE JUDGE!

Jesse's Hand

“Jesse’s in the water again and he hasn’t got his head.”

There’s not a lot you can follow that with, so I go for: “Really, dear?”

Emily nods and points to the puddle trying to be a pond. Last night’s rain must have been heavier than I thought and-

There’s a figure reflecting in the water. But, there isn’t anyone else out here? I watch as the distorted reflection waves. Emily shouts and waves back.

“Did you see?”

Yes, I did - and now we’re leaving: “No dear. You must be overtired.”

Liar. Easier to tell fibs than face a child’s questions.

“But he’s there, mummy! Look!”

I can’t stop myself: Jesse’s reflection has something in its hand. I see it fire. There’s a flash in the air opposite and something hits me really hard. Emily screams as the shot echoes. I fly backward to sprawl in a bigger puddle with a tremendous splash. That splash sprays muddy water over bushes, trees, and two figures I can’t see and this is too much I need to rest.

*

“Mummy! Mummy! Wake up!”

Emily’s holding my hand too hard. I sit up and feel cold water against my skin. I stop trying to look about as searing pain accompanies a grinding in my chest. Something’s broken. Taking my scarf, I tightly wrap the lower part of my ribcage.

I guess Jesse and co ran off when they KO’d an adult.

“Mummy?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

“Is Jesse still in the water?”

“Who’s Jesse?”

You know that three-in-the-morning phantom terror that your child is irrevocably gone? As I look into Emily’s eyes and meet a stranger’s gaze, I feel it rise and know the screaming may never stop.

Speak My Name



The bubbles popped. Speak my name, they said.

I would not.

Turn, look at me, they said.

I would not.

Those wide open eyes. Those soft wet lips.

Dead.

How dare you, I said. How dare you?

No answer came.

The forest understood. It held no claim on paltry things. Right, wrong, love, lust. It knew only life, and now.

Turn, she said.

No, I answered. Never.

We make our own graves, I said.

You made mine...


You made mine! I shouted back.

The forest caught my words, held them. You made mine, I said again, softly this time. My legs weakened. I could not kneel. If I knelt, I would sleep, forever.

Turn, she said.

There was no hate in her voice. No accusation.

Turn. Please. Please. One last look. One last time.

But it was a lie.

You can never live again, I said.


We will live forever.


The forest was silent.

I wanted to hear the crush of my boots upon the dry leaves. That crunch of finality, of certainty. The wind came. It swept away the whispering. The forest understood.

I would not turn.

I could not.

I must not.


Come, she said.

Come.


Liar! I screamed. Liar!


The wind bowed its head. The forest looked away.


I...can not. I can not.



Don't leave me my love.



Don't leave me here alone.


I wanted to turn.

I wanted to run.


I wanted to run.


I turned.

Epiphany

It feels as though I don’t have a head today. There is a numbness above my shoulders, the torpid, dissolution that resides in my brain like a slick of dirty oil. It poisons me, making my limbs heavy, my heart pump blackness through my system like rotting treacle; a claustrophobic cataclysm, everything closing in. Other people, other things lose their importance: all I can see, all I can feel, is me.

I do not like what I feel.

I just want to get away from it all.

I just want it to end.

I hide in my padded coat, not because it keeps me warm, but so I can lose myself - less the world sees me for the thing that I am. Through bleak autumn rain I run away, to the lonely paces of trees and solitude. Dying leaves fall on what is left of summers final exhalation, the vegetation drowning in the pools that form at my feet, as dark and deep as my broken soul.

In the clearing, I stop dead. Crumbling ash and charcoal speak of campfire parties, while the trees, dark and grey loom over me, their branches entwined like a million broken fingers, crushing down on the very air above me.

Alone in the middle of a forest, there is nothing more apt.

Despite the wet and grey a sliver of sunlight cuts through the canopy, a shaft of radiant, golden brilliance that splashes against my chest. For a moment, just a single moment, life sings in my chest, the song of creation. I am connected to everything, the wonder and majesty of this world.

This is glory.

This is life.

And although the glow fades it clings to me, wraps me in warmth.

Going home, dancing in the rain.

The End

Dazed and groggy, Julia rose from the water. ‘I’m going to bloody kill Murphy,’ she thought, rubbing algae off her red jumper.

Her boots squelched in the lake as the muddy water poured in; her feet too cold to notice. A deep intake of breath burned her lungs. Grabbing her chest, she looked around her. In the distance, facing away from her, stood a dark figure in a long coat. She tried to call out but no sound came. Her lungs ached as she hobbled towards him. Bracken and brambles clawed at her legs as she repeatedly stumbled. It seemed like an age before she reached the man.

Her throat closed as she tried to speak. She grabbed at his coat.

As though in slow motion he turned to face her and gave her a quizzical look.

“Arg. Argh.” The words stuck in her gullet. She pointed back to the lake and then pointed forwards.

He looked at her blankly.

Putting her hands in a ten-to-two position, she made a wheel motion.

He sighed and shook his head.

The dusk sky lit up with flashing blue lights. Wailing sirens echoed louder and louder. Dogs barked and snuffled through the undergrowth. Voices shouted and followed beams of torchlight. One of the dogs reached the lake and stopped. Everyone congregated at the spot.

Julia looked at the man and motioned to the crowd of uniforms. She turned to run to them. He grabbed her arm and shook his head.

A radio on a belt crackled nearby. “Murphy’s confessed. Says he put the body in the lake. The frogmen are on their way.”

She tried to gasp. She can’t be... She clawed at his grip on her arm, straining to escape. Death sighed. He shook his head and led her away.

The Pioneer’s Return

The shell of our shuttle ticks as it cools, breaking the silence. Like my tears, the rain has stopped falling; the dispersing clouds glow golden. How many years has it been since anyone delighted in a sunset’s glory?

“Here?” Adam asks.

I check my palm-pad, but its readings haven’t changed. “Yes,” I say, gesturing into the marsh. “The control centre’s bunkers are under that. The launch pad was across the bay.”

“How?” Adam’s voice breaks. “How could everything vanish so quickly?”

“Don’t forget relativity.” I can’t endure his red-rimmed gaze. Over his shoulder, I see a dot, glinting in the sunlight. Our spacecraft, far above.

“Relativity only accounts for thirty years. Those trees are at least a century old.”

“We’ll know more once our computers have synced with those in the bunkers.” I turn a circle, remembering. Where that oak soars now, I danced on the night before launch. I wore my Jimmy Choos one last time, and a dress like the star-speckled sky.

Our palm-pads chime in unison, and my heart leaps. But it’s only our computers downloading data.

“My God!” Adam says. “We did this.”

I frown. “What?”

“We caused this when we jumped into hyperspace. Afterwards, the AIs worked out what happened.” He glances at his pad, brow furrowed. “I can’t follow the math, but their models show the backwash from our jump, making waves in the space-time continuum – waves that thrust the galaxy a millennium into the future, and killed every sentient being.”

My pad chimes again, insistently, and my knees wobble as I read the message. “Not every sentient being,” I whisper. “The people in the bunker survived – the launch team and our families. The AIs sent them into stasis.”

I smile. “It’s time to wake them up.”

(Im)personal Portal

Paulie was eleven when he stumbled across the gateway, though he did not enter because it scared him. And there was something strange about the girl in the red coat on the other side; whenever he looked through she would turn her back on him. It drew him though and at least once a week he would sneak off and sit looking at it, wondering if one day the girl would turn around.

Although remaining too scared to use it, he did not share his secret; it was after all his gateway and if anyone was going through, it should be he. Then the day he turned sixteen, Paulie saw the girl had gone. He stood for long minutes wondering if she would show up, a tight knot of anxiety gripping his stomach. Maybe it was worry for the girl but he thought it more likely fear of the gateway, knowing with frightening certainty that he was about to step through.

A moment of vertigo and it was done. Paulie looked around. All the colours seemed a bit off and the air tasted funny. It was cold too; probably close to freezing. Then he saw the red coat lying in the long grass, a note pinned to it.

Paulie, this coat is yours until you leave this place. You will need it.

Sorry.

Claire Hill

x

He turned to walk back through but immediately understood the portal was one way. Shivering he quickly put the coat on. Claire Hill? Wasn't that the girl from his school who disappeared around the time he found the gateway?

Before he could start to panic, Paulie noticed someone approaching the other side and saw it was Annabelle, the pretty redhead who worked at the library.

Paulie quickly turned round in case she recognized him.

Lake Made of Lightning

Jake and his eleven-year-old son Justin stood at an overlook halfway up the mountain and looked down at the crystal clear lake cradled by the gentle hug of lush green pines. He enjoyed sharing its grandeur with his son, who had recently developed an appreciation for nature. And the boy didn't seems to mind that he was devoid of his clutching electronics.

After a few minutes of silence, he realized something was different about the lake. There was a sparkling sheen that covered the lake's surface, like a multitude of tiny electric sparks dancing across the lake. He had never seen anything like it before. He wondered what would cause such a phenomenon.

A stranger called to them from further down the mountain.

They waved to him.

As the stranger approached, Jake felt there was something odd about him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. The man was dressed simply in a red plaid shirt and jeans. He walked steadily, without stumbling, up the side of the mountain.

"Hey," called Jake.

"Wanted to tell you folks to keep away from the lake."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Something crashed in it last night. Don't know what it is."

"A meteor, maybe, or some kind of aircraft?"

"We don't know. Probably neither."

What else could it be? he wondered. Perhaps a missile, something dangerous.

"Should we pack up and leave?"

"No, as long as you don't get any closer than here, you should be fine."

"Are you a park official?"

He hesitated, then said, "No," and abruptly turned and walked away.

As he walked away, Jake realized what was so unusual about the man. Tiny sparks, barely noticeable, crawled all over the man's body.

"Son, I think we better get out of here."

The Girl

In the starless dark the girl would reach out and touch the wet earth where he had buried the bones of her dreams and the dust of her life.

By day, the girls would come to the mirror stream and play. Their scent a summer innocence. So easy to take. The girl smiled despite the sour water and waited. It had to be him.

The day he came the sun was yet to be born. A perpetual twilight seeped into the wood. With him he brought rod and bait and the broken threads of his life that stitched grief around his sunken eyes.

The hook bobbed in the murk and the girl welcomed the burning as it took root in her cheek. She didn't fight. The man pulled her from the stream, smiling as she cast his life into the water like a forgotten line and took his shape. Now, it was his turn to wait.

The girl dressed in his clothes then buried his bones next to where he'd buried hers.

Our family had been mountain rescuers since before the term was generalised. Craigillian was isolated enough that everyone was, as well as fireman, builder - and improvised executioner, when necessary. The nearly community, widespread sheep farms or oats and rye, was isolated enough that a group of undead had thought they could move in without risk - bad judgement; even widespread everybody knows everybody, generations deep. We were getting the last ones now, dismembering them and burning the remains, or separating them widely enough they could never get back together. Not that we'd been armed with pitchforks and scythes, as Hollywood would have approved of - thoroughly modern with shotguns and chainsaws.

The spring runoff was deepening the fords, but by the time the water had got down this far sunwarmed it had lost most of the chill of its snowmelt and glacial origins - warm enough that I'd had to pick off a couple of leeches from where the water had been deeper than my boots.

It had to be my reflection. There was nobody else around, certainly no-one in a rescue red anorak, hardly camouflage. But the reflection was inverted, seeming to come from the wrong side of the stream, and I couldn't see the face at all - almost as if there were nothing inside the hood, and I was seeing the lining.

But there was only one species - perhaps subspecies - which didn't show a reflection, and I hadn't been bitten or even touched one unless… they wouldn't drown, would they? Hiding in a carp hole, or the waterlogged roots of a stream-side tree, like a Rusalka. And the leeches would find them.

I needed to contact the others. They'd have to drain this stream, not just poison it; eliminate the leeches. But first they'd need to kill and burn me.

The Silver Sunset

He woke up with a groan, as his back and hip were screaming. He desperately needed a new mattress; no man in his 30th year should feel this way every morning. Some stretching made his body feel tolerable as he walked, arched over, into his living room.

“What the…” he exclaimed, surveying the alien décor. Someone, somehow, must have redecorated the living room while he slept. “I’ll ask Richard if he was behind this. Always trying to fix what ain’t broken. Maybe he will bring the grandkids over today. I haven’t seen them since…”

Something furry rubbed his leg. He started, spilling a bag of cat food. The overweight orange mass helped himself. “How did you get in here? Must have been that daughter of mine. Always worried about me since Pricilla…” He bent down to scratch between the cat’s ears. “Well, you just help yourself.”

Mom must have gone shopping, so he decided to walk through the woods over to Charlie Messick’s house. It was sunny, so he took his favorite red coat from the closet. As seniors, they needed to start applying to colleges before deadlines hit.

An unfamiliar, frantic voice called from behind. “Dad! There you are!” She pulled something out of her pocket. “It’s OK Richard, I found him in the woods. He must have wandered out.” The strange woman put her arm around him. “It’s OK, Dad. I got you. Let’s get you back inside.” An angry young man was in the living room. “This is why he needs to be in a home!” he shouted. The woman, on the verge of tears, said, “We just need to be patient and make things more secure. I work with other Alzheimer’s patients, and he is better off at home.”

91:11

6:11 am

JJ’s grandfather would read for hours at the tree stump by the pond. On his way out there one morning, JJ tripped and rolled down the hill. Lifting his head, JJ saw a reflection in the water. A large, seemingly inhuman figure loomed over the reading stump. JJ only saw the reflection; he couldn’t bear to look directly at it.

JJ bolted back home and got into bed. Behind him was an awful scream, then a gunshot. JJ huddled under the covers, too scared to even cry. A transistor radio murmured:

“The Fugitive remains at large...”

6:11 am

Detective Rook’s job was to monitor from above until the Militia arrived; as The Fugitive was beyond Rook’s ability to neutralize.

The Fugitive, larger and more dangerous than reported, emerged from the thicket. Horrifyingly, a very young boy was tumbling towards him. Rook froze, powerless to stop the inevitable tragedy. The Fugitive drew closer. He stumbled on a tree stump though, and screamed so loudly that Rook fell from her perch.

The Fugitive barreled towards Rook, then tackled and disarmed her. Panting, frantic, and sweating, the panicked Fugitive pointed the shaking gun, not towards Rook, but inexplicably towards the tree stump. He then fell backwards, gasping with terror as he stared at the empty space just above him. Finally, with drool dripping from his contorted grimace, and tears flowing from his bulging red eyes, The Fugitive turned the gun on himself and fired.

6:13 am

Rook combed the area for evidence. She found nothing, but an old book on a tree stump. It was so worn and faded though, that every page was blank, except for one line in chapter 91.

“For He will command His angels before you, to guard you on all your paths.”

Here Boy

Hugo clambered out of the puddle, panting his digits rustled and clawed through autumnal vegetation. It was daylight, Hugo recollected how his gaze was transfixed on shimmering moonlight upon a body of water. He brushed off the damp from his coat. The puddle to the rear began to burble. He took off running as fast as he could hurdling over fallen foliage. Something was following him, Hugo stopped for bearings in this dense forest, he could hear a slow pounding of footsteps from behind. A sound familiar to him. He called for help but his words were incomprehensible.


He ran again, catching his coat on some birch tearing a piece away. Hugo took shelter by a river bank and kept view of the forest. The sound of flowing water distracted him from sense of danger. A towering figure loomed through the shadows of forest occasionally slipping a flash of deep red. The pursuer stopped and knelt to the ground, it was as if they had found some sort of clue, it was the piece of Hugo’s coat. He was being tracked. The figure walked towards the river revealing their full size and demeanor, Hugo was genuinely afraid and let off a deep sigh. His hot breath met with the cold air revealing a smoke signal like beacon that gave him away.


The tall figure locked on the source of breath and began towards Hugo. Something heavy landed next to him with a dull thud. The smell was insatiable, Hugo could not control his senses, he began to drool profusely as it settled and slivered down his chunky coat. He turned to see a bone, sparse with blood and fat. He took it to his teeth and felt his neck tighten.

“This is a world where the masters are human.”

The destroyer, a reflection of man.

Not a sound. The destroyer was near.

No song of bird or beast. No trill from insect or frog. Only silence.

It stood close, clad in arrogance. Bright red its coat. Covering the nakedness of a form poor in function. It had abandoned the world long ago. No longer a part of the existence of all things. It was ever apart from the very thing that allowed it to exist.

An enemy on the periphery of life. The pariah that cast itself into darkness and betrayed every thing for its own vanity and desire.

It stood a taker. Evolving into discord with a terrible purpose that pitted it at odds with all others. A conquest and domination over all other things.

Oh yes. The forest knew it well.

The trees and plants spoke in chemical tongues buried in the earth the wisdom of roots. Their language still hidden from all but the most observant and aware.

The animals spoke in sounds and displays often too complex to be fully understood by the ugliness that had cast itself from the natural world.

Even the elements spoke in their own manner as storm and wind and heat gave warning to the deadly climate shift that was as abhorrent and unnatural as everything perpetuated by the enemy of life. The living menance that knew only self interest and greed.

It stood bereft of claw and fur. Short of tooth and weak in form. A soft beast with a cold and cruel mind. Swathed in gaudy coverings of its own make. Fouling land, water, and air with its industry and perverse pleasure.

Small wonder at the silence of all it drew near. For who would call the attention of such evil? Only the foolish.

Never Meet Your Heroes?

The Cloud Saint had fascinated me since I was a child dreaming of running away. A man who had walked out on his life, he had a knack for showing up at important events. Or unimportant events which later revealed their significance. A small nudge, terse words in the right ear and he was gone.

I’d tried to follow him once, straight out of education, but I soon discovered why he walked alone. His bare feet set a punishing pace and he ignored comfort. Worst of all was his tongue. A pointed sentence about lack of direction skewered my self-doubt and my leaking ego never recovered. I loved him for it though, the clouds showed him truths as well as the future.

As a child I’d played at following the clouds. Whenever my father was home at lunch I’d stare at the sky looking for direction. I saw an arrow once, before it became a dog, and was out the gate when I heard my mother calling me in to eat. I glanced back, once only, and forgot the way.

Thirty years and a divorce later I tried again. Drove to some wild land and spent a week hiking while watching the sky. Stubbed my toes more times than I would admit in company. My attention was on a cloud that might be a fish when I splashed through a puddle and drenched my foot. I cursed and had removed my boot when the Cloud Saint strode right past me down the track.

“Still a fool.” He said, glancing down. “The clouds show you to a destination. They don’t help you run from one.”

That was two days ago. I’ve been sitting here by the puddle ever since. I think I understand now. I’m ready.

Blood of My Blood

Drip.

Blood hit water, a scarlet rose blooming in the puddle’s murk.

Marie clutched her wounded shoulder and stared back toward the ridge line. The house was little more than a darkened carcass, a skeleton silhouette against the angry fire of a man-made sunset.

Martine’s screams still rang hot in her ears. Again, she relived that awful moment in the priest hole, watching through the letterbox-slit in the oak, trying not to howl as the dragoon strapped the harvester to her sister’s belly.

Turning away, she stumbled on through the mire, a trail of bloody roses in her wake.

---

“Tell me a story, Nana,” said Astra, forcing her voice into that childish mewl that worked so well on adults. Her chestnut-haired governess shook her head with a smile.

“Hush now,” she whispered, her soft accent filling Astra with a warmth no quilts could match. “You must sleep. Your father’s orders.”

“I want to hear about Deurrelle again!” She knew Nana loved to speak of her home, of the old days before the kinderkrieg. “Papa’s taking his bath. He won’t know!”

Nana leaned forward, planting a delicate kiss on her forehead. “Another time, petite.”

---

Drip.

Blood hit water, a scarlet rose blooming amidst the steaming foam. Another joined it, then another. A whole field of roses.

He coughed, clutching at his throat, gargled exclamations bubbling from his lips. She smiled.

“For Martine, you *******.”

---

“Astra! Astra!” Nana was gripping her shoulders. Hard. “Get dressed, petite. We’re leaving.”

“What? Why?” groaned Astra. “Where’s Papa?”

Nana picked her up bodily, pressing her face into the crook of her neck.

“There was an accident,” she whispered.

“W-what…?” Panic rose in Astra’s chest. “Where are we going?”

Nana shushed her, her voice melting through Astra’s fear like a poker through wax.

“Home.”

BOER

They make it so easy for us with their red coats and noisy marching bands and bugles, camping their entire regiments, making fires, and trying to find flat, open ground on which to set-up their cannons and fight us, eye-to-eye and regiment to regiment, as if it was some sort of game.

But we know the land and hills, the waterholes and edible plants. We know the Transvaal sun, that burns and blisters the soft, white skin of their necks. 'Rooineks' we call them -- 'rednecks'.

We wear dull khaki to camoflauge our small, quick squads of men, like other African creatures of the bush.

While they march around with buttoned uniforms and heavy packs, carrying tents and blankets and food and water, we hide, and taunt and hit-and-run and ambush them, then ride away on quick, fresh ponies.

They call us cowards.

They shout at us to stand and fight like men. Yet they imprison our women and children, and burn our crops and take our animals.

They are here on our land. They come to us. They have made it their land by writing ink on paper. But they do not know us.

They are learning.

With sure aim trained by hunting , we take them out one-by-one with single, valuable rifle bullets, to drive them back across the sea from whence they came to trouble us.

So we can return to our farms again.

Halja in a Handbasket


The forest never found peace after she came. A pale face of innocence, cloaked in crimson.
But her eyes possessed a darker depth than any child. Her eyes spoke only of death.

The stormy autumnal winds blew her name through the forest. Those who knew her feared for their life. Woods-folk hid, while the wolves howled their warnings and the wildlife scattered. It was only the humans who didn't understand. They believed in nothing but what their own egos meant to others. They would never understand the true meaning of her.

The crimson girl glided silently between the trees and towards the small cottage. Thick ivy had wound its way around the windows and doors, marking invasive cracks into the stone walls.

She approached the wooden door. Her face was shielded by a hood, and her basket spilled a black mist that fell, trailing onto the ground. After three knocks, an old lady answered.

"Are you alright, child? Are you lost?"

The crimson girl brought her basket to her face and inhaled the black mist.

"What the... what's wrong?" She called back into the house, "Jim, come here a minute."

He arrived in time to see the little girl's eyes turn to granite. She giggled, her mouth twisting and stretching to reveal a swirling demonic dimension. She sucked inwards, and the old lady was pulled towards her screaming.

The portal devoured her whole, while her husband collapsed in shock.

Only the woods-folk held the truth of what happened. The husband's stories and whispers became confused and altered, and to this day, humans have still not learnt to be fearful of the crimson girl. Instead they tell a different story to their children; about wolves and grandmothers and happy endings.

And all the while, the crimson girl still lurks.

The Crimson Coat


The red coat smoulders, but still doesn’t burn. I press it deeper into the driftwood fire, grief tearing my heart. No sound but the rolling rush of the ocean, the dry crackle of the flames. Mute, motionless, Enaid kneels at the edge of the tide pool, her sea-green eyes filled with longing.

As a child, I believed Gran’s tales of sea-maids. As a man I forgot them. Then she died, and in her boxwood chest, perfumed with rosemary – “Dew of the sea, Geraint; best of scents.” – I found the coat, and remembered.

Coat of sea-silk, crimson red,
Ties a sea-maid to your bed.


I press again on the coat. It has to burn. For Enaid’s sake.

I was drunk – ale flowed freely at Gran’s wake. Laughter and tears mingling, I took the coat, the crimson coat of watered silk, to the tide pool. “Come to me, sea-maid,” I yelled. “Like Gran promised.”

And Enaid came. Sleek black head rising above the waves; sleek black body sliding onto the rocks, shedding her seal skin, changing to human form.

I flung the coat over her. Trapped her.


Finally, the silk catches in a lightning flash of crimson flame, as bright and fierce as my love for Enaid. Not nearly as destructive.

Seven years I’ve kept her, telling myself she stayed because she loved me, knowing I lied. The coat kept her, as it kept Gran long after Granddad died without freeing her.


The fire consumes the crimson silk. Enaid turns, smiles at me, then slips into the water. A sleek black body powers away.

“Love will bring her back, Geraint.” Gran’s voice in my ear.

Hope flowers in my heart.

As a child I believed Gran. I believe again. So I sit by the tide pool, and wait.