August 2010 Writing Challenge -- Mouse Victorious!!

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The Writing Challenge for August 2010:



RULES:

Write a story inspired by the chosen theme in no more than 75 words
The title is not part of the word count
It should be a story, not simply description

It can be prose or poetry

One entry per person


All stories Copyright 2010 by their respective authors, who grant the Chronicles Network the non-exclusive right to publish them here.



Contest ends at 11:59 pm GMT, August 23 2010
Voting Ends at 11:59 pm GMT, August 29 2010
(August 31, in the event of a tie-breaker poll)

You do not have to submit a story in order to vote -- in fact, we encourage all Chrons members to take part in choosing a winner


The Magnificent Prize:

The Dignified Congratulations/Grovelling Admiration of Your Peers
and the privilege of choosing next month's theme or genre


This month's theme:
____________________


Time


Stories should be Science Fiction or Fantasy




God bless the Challenge and all who write in her!
 
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Delmore Schwartz

Crawling on four legs; he feels the warmth from a long way off.

Walking on two legs; he ignores the heat.

Running on two legs; he puts the flames to the test.

Hobbling on three legs; he waits to be consumed by the fire.

Laying in the vase; only the ashes remain.
 
On Ice


"5.." The cryogenic generator at full capacity , nervously

"4.." We look into each other's eyes and grasp hands tightly,

"3.." The opaque canopy descending to cover our naked bodies.

"2.." Mere days before cruel fate would tear us apart,

"1.." Leaving me to stumble on through life alone , and so

"0.." We sleep together until redemption can be found.


...For now we have all the time in the world
 
Bosworth

I had Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, firmly in my sights and Bob Dylan playing on my headphones.

Screwing with the past like this doesn’t bother me as I don’t have a future, I’m just riding the wave of chronocide backlash.

I squeezed the trigger and the pretender to the throne of England fell from his horse.

“Time is an ocean, but it ends at the shore.”

I changed tracks – the Beach Boys.

“Surf's up!”
 
Is it done?

The staircase, blood pooling on crimson carpets. Urgency.

She had seen, felt it all before, heard the words before.


"Is it done?"

"Yes."

"The Queen is dead, long live the Queen."


She knew what she was to do, she had done it before.

She had? rushed up the staircase. She had? killed the Queen.


"Is it done?"

Yes. It was being? done.


Urgency. Blood pooling on crimson carpets. The staircase.

Was she really doing this?
 
The Border of Now and Later

The hands on her watch spun past four in the morning, past five, hurtling breakneck into daylight. Each step brought her closer to the the barrier, further away from the real, and the watch ticked vibrations up her arm. Her body, suspended in the air though her feet remained on the ground; she looked back, tasted salt on her lips, and threw herself through the barrier after his apparition.

She aged and then was gone.
 
LEAR

One daughter banished in a senile rage,
The king falls prey to flattering tongues.
Cruel Gonerilla, luxurious Regan,
Divide between them all his kingdom.

Not long he lives in pomp and state
Before they drive him forth with base humiliations
To wander lost and witless on the moors.
So treachery and age reduce a mighty king.

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth an unkind child
But sharper still the teeth of time.
 
Too much time

‘Time is of the essence.’ That’s what my master had said.

I sprinkled a few drops of time from the glass vial into the cauldron. Stirred it a bit.

Now twenty four hours is twenty five and everything’s gone out of line. Including my wages.

“Time!” he shouted. “I’ll give you time: time in the dungeon.” He held up a small bottle. “This one, it’s this one you were supposed to use. Thyme. Not time!”
 
(AN APOCALYPSE) DAWN

The black sun fades. Melts into languorous obsidian rain.

She stands with a hand to her eyes to block out the dark light. The child is at her feet, squirming. Growing.

In seconds he is large enough to fill the tiny space they share. She hears his moans.
Her hands turn brittle, the skin tight, the bones as dry as old dust. She withers as she breaths.

It is, she knows, the black sun’s doing.
 
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A Voice from the Past

She'd found the book in the attic, sealed in an oak chest and covered with a century's worth of dust. It looked to be over three hundred years old and, with its words full of wonders, it had captured her attention instantly. She was surprised, however, when she saw events from her own life, depicted in that archaic prose. How could the author have known?

She paused. Should she turn to the final page?
 
Model Village


My little town was coming along nicely. I loved it, could spend hours with it. It was all there - the houses, the school, a church, a train station, all the villagers, the mayor, a policeman, a local vicar... Each was beautifully detailed. Oh, so detailed.

You could almost call them life-like.

But something was missing. Then my doorbell rang. The final piece had arrived. Just what the doctor ordered...
 
A Meeting of Worlds



An eye, round, yellow and knowing, was watching. She sighted; held; released. The bird twitched, the arrow whiffled by; a harsh, creaking sound came down the tree. Karknun nocked again. The yellow eye was still watching. Suddenly she understood.


She was caught in a river, a dragging current in which this creature had no part. Even the arrow was in that river. How can the river-creature snatch the air-creature? She lowered her bow.
 
THE TIME WORM TURNS


I jump. 2773 AD. Jungle: humanity's gone to the stars or back to dust. Am I safe? No, quantum fuzz dirties the air. Damn! Dil coming, Dil the enforcer. Why? I'm no danger. It's not our way. He's forcing me to break the rules. Jump back. 2513 AD, the same deserted street. 'Er, hello. We must go. He's coming.' We jump, forwards, back, forwards.


To hell with causal integrity!


2513 AD. Dil materialises to face an army.
 
Eternity



The Wizard’s dungeon: too low to stand, too narrow to lie, too dark to see. The chains, heavy. The cold, biting.

Rough stone walls trickle with water.

drip

He remembers his parents, and prays.
He remembers his wife and child, and weeps.
He remembers his youth with regret.
He tries to remember the Sun, the wind, the sea and freedom.
He ponders creation, the universe and the meaning of life.

drip

Another second has passed.
 
Timeless

So. They’ve seen through the disguise, and you need an escape?

You’ve come to the right place.

I’ll get you to another world. A place where time has no meaning or power. You’re very existence will be transformed.

It’s a little thing, fairly painless. You’ll feel a sharp pinch, and then all your worries will be over.

A small bite, that’s all.

Don’t be scared. Come closer.

Hush now.

You’re going to live forever
 
One Grain at a Time

Ora stalked the alleyway, hoping her pursuer wouldn't find her.


Doscen and Tuinem were dead; she was next!


Footsteps behind.


She whirled around, startled.


Nothing.


Ora turned, creeping once more.


Searing pain lanced through her!
A blade erupted from her chest, spilling her bright blood.


She collapsed, vision fading – Tim, her assassin, frowned down at her.

***

Tim regarded the waiting room clock, annoyed. The magazine wasn't helping....
 
CHRONO$


Martin wept at his workstation. So many demanding clients. None could be refused. Sick-leave from stress would cripple his CV.

A bottle clinked. ‘Drink this,’ said the Director. ‘Time, distilled from your future, each hour costing but a distant month. Your productivity will soar.’

Martin’s career, his lifestyle, depended on satisfied clients. He drank.

The chest pains were only indigestion. He set to work. ‘You’re too generous, sir.’

‘Oh, my heart is solid gold.’
 
Running Down

"We've run out of time," said the last speaking clock.
"No more clickety-click or tickety-tock.
We warned all you humans, why wouldn't you heed
Our warnings of dashing around at top speed?
The oil's run out and it wasn't BP
Who spilled the last drop: it was Texaco, see?
Now there's no heating, no lubrication.
Everything's stopped, there's no transportation.
Global warming: that terrible crime -
Face the hard facts: we've run out of..."
 
The End


Sitting here, with the weight of millennia, I see the years peeling back to the very beginning, so long ago. Was it all for nothing? All that life, death: was it really just biochemical conversions and reactions mixed up to form random electrical impulses that, when collated, presumed to understand the meaning of everything. Is this it? Is this where I bring about Armageddon?

“Time, gentlemen please!”

Well, maybe a swift one first.
 
Come, Deliverance

He waits.

A tyrant. An oppressor. Some even call him Dark Lord.

They don’t know. Born into chaos and anarchy, he forged order from the turmoil. A cruel order, perhaps, but order nonetheless. For over a millennium he kept Man from annihilation, but he has grown tired.

Now there is another. Another thought to be the Savior, as he once was. Someone who will halt his reign, release him from this timeless prison.

He waits.
 
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