300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- VICTORY TO SPRINGS

[alchemist]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

When The World Forgot

Kirsty drops the plate of burnt toast on our table. It'll be cold. It always is.

“Well, eat up,” she says, all sneers and fake tan.

Edith says nothing, just stares out at another miserable day. The doctor says she's depressed, but I know better. She's broken. This place has broken her.

“Eat up, I said.”

I will Edith to move, to eat even a crumb, but she doesn't budge.

“Right.” Kirsty pushes a blackened triangle between Edith's lip. Wide and scared, her eyes lock on mine.

And I sit. My gnarled hands refuse to move, but it's not just my body that has given up.

I turn from my shame to the window. Foam-crowned wavelets race across the beach, reminding me of a time when I wasn't so ... useless, so powerless.

#

Lightning flared from Zorn's fingers, tracing a line of agony across Reg's chest. But this time he was ready. This time he was stronger. He swung a meaty fist and knocked the smile off his face.

There was a whoosh, and a flash of green cape, and Zorn's black-helmed head dropped to the sand.

Edith stood with a bloodied sword, her hair billowing in the breeze, and she laughed.

As their troops cheered and made their way up the beach, he realised he'd never loved her more.

#

Silently, Edith struggles as Kirsty tries to prise her lips open.

“Open up,” she says. “Open your f***ing mouth!”

All the while, Edith looks at me, and I remember: when we were young; when we faced the next morning with longing, not fear.

Biting back the pain, I stretch my fingers. They clamp around Kirsty's wrist and I croak out a single word: “No!”

I no longer have superpowers, but I can still be a hero.

 

[Anne Martin]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

No Turning Back

Setha's destiny lay in Monchellis. The three month trek on horseback from Abereth had proven difficult. The natural blue pallor of her skin hid a close brush with frostbite. Spring had taken hold, bringing daily storms and a treacherous channel crossing, but that wasn't what she feared. Her delicate gossamer wings would mark her amongst the Averoigna, a ruddy race with feathered wings better-suited to flight in the tropical climate. Her own couldn’t withstand high winds or long distances.

Absently clutching the silver dagger holstered between her breasts, she patted Tona's flank for the last time. A gilded mare, Tona would return to her rightful owner, but that wouldn't lift the price from Setha's head, certain death if she returned home.

“I have waited long for this day,” spoke a voice from behind.

It seemed Monchellis had come to her. “My liege,” she replied, kneeling before him. Gazing up at him, her heart skipped a beat. Unlike most of his people, his face was pure and boyish, his muscled chest untouched by manual labour. Lazy red curls disappeared beside the golden sword between his wings. This god could easily have flown the channel.

“Stand, child,” he said, gesturing her closer. “You are a beauty. Your arrival was foretold. I have come to carry you across to Averoigne.”

Setha cursed the weakness of her race. She could marry Monchellis as her father intended, bringing peace to the Islands, a conciliation that came at a cost. Their marriage would subjugate the northern provinces. “I come in peace, my liege,” she whispered, stepping forward.

Monchellis stooped to kiss her forehead, “Submit to me, bride.” No sooner had the words passed his lips than he slumped to the ground before her, Setha's poisoned dagger in his heart.

Disgust had reawakened her resolve.

 

[Phyrebrat]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

Strange Fruit


From the journal of Ebenezer Calvefort:

There is a languor of life; a final realisation that one does not control one’s own destiny; an acceptance of one's last gleaming.

***

'The North Pacific Gyre is responsible for creating an island of rubbish. Before things get out of hand your men will clear it.' The chairman told Calvefort.

'We can shift the filth but what do you expect us to do about the...'
'Gyre? Nothing, just incinerate the place.'

***

...And so it was we headed west aboard The Holliday to the rotten island which gathered at the meeting place of all currents.

Unprepared, we came upon the mountainous isle at dusk. All lines of the place seemed to droop downwards and the floating, stinking mass malingered; sulking and brooding with silent intent. I stayed aboard as the crew readied the skiffs, eight men apiece, and set to their task of dismantling this snarl of human refuse. Meriwether wondered aloud if other vessels had ventured this far just as our keel scraped against a half-sunk and hopeless derelict that had in times past capsized.

'It's Isaac!' Meriwether cried, pointing to a sailless, funereal ship that meandered towards our position.

Crack! as he began shooting at the vessel.

'What are you doing?' I asked.
'Showing mercy!'

Forty of our men had been hoisted by nooses and swung from the masts: obscene decorations. I confiscated Meriwether’s flintlock but the rocking of the ocean soon killed the pathetic creatures anyway, silencing their choking pleas.

***

'How gruesome!' Draper said and tossed the journal back onto the floating morass we'd been hired to remove.

I checked the GPS but was halted by Durrell’s cry. 'Look, sir; a ship!'

A ragged clipper approached us in the gloaming with a bony cargo swinging from the masts.

 

[The Spurring Platty]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

All We Really Have

There is blood in the sand. The sand is sacred and the blood is mine. The waves gently lap the shore. I feel them tug at my heavy body. The water mixes it further, pulling a red trail towards the sea. There is blood in the sand. I am a profane mark left upon this sacred island.

There is blood in the sand. It is an abomination. They come for gold, but all they will find is glass. There are commissions from kings, princes, and the church. Our glassware is prized among all the islands. If they come for the secret of its making, they will leave ignorant. It’s a secret held safe for years; the right sands, the correct mixture, the appropriate heat, and skill learned over a lifetime.

There is blood in the sand. There are screams in the distant. It could be any of us artisans who serve the church. But we are also family. We are the tri-bonded: by the blood, the guild, and the sacred. There are the forge masters who keep the fires lit and burning at the right temperature. Perhaps it is Jelane, who gathers and measures coarse sand. Or frail Cham, who’s old skilled hands turn the pipe as his laboured breath gives it form. He could spin a globe of melted sand clear as an inland pool. Jerreth, gatherer of a finer sand to fill the globe in a carefully measured amount. Elaina, who would attach an empty globe to it as seamlessly as if the goddess herself formed it. Watch the sand flow from one globe to the other, always the same, never changing.

There is blood in the sand. It is my blood and it is spilling out like sand.


.

 

[johnnyjet]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

The Woman With Maps in Her Brain

"Life will flash before my eyes
So scattered and lost
I want to touch the other side."
-- "Map of the Problematique" by Muse

Shay Million grew up in a middle class family in the heart of America City, in a time when "middle class" meant you were just scraping by. Despite her many obstacles, she grew up to be a smart, beautiful, talented woman, and she became a Teacher of History. They injected her with the Authorized Curriculum.

For several years, she taught her students brilliantly from the Curriculum, because -- contrary to the Rules -- she included her own understanding during the mindlinks. Of course, she never knew how brilliantly she taught them, since her students were scattered around the city and they all passed their classes as Equal Achievers.

One day Shay grew ill. The Public Physicians surmised her Teaching injections had become corrupted. Since it was neither safe nor legal to remove them, they simply gave her medicine to quell the effects. Then they issued official Authorization for her to return to work.

Work was difficult for her. Her brain felt muddled. Soon she discovered maps were floating around inside her brain. Each day she picked a different map and followed it to its endpoint. All destinations ended in the future. Each map revealed a different future of hopelessness.

She lead each of her students, one by one, down the roads of her mind maps.

"What is this, Ms. Million?"

"A crumbling building."

"And that?"

"A bridge collapsing."

"Over there?"

"The sick overflowing the clinics."

"There?"

"The homeless flooding the streets."

"Why are you showing us this?"

"This is a future that needs hope. I bring them hope."

She took her students into the future. And left them there. To find their excellence.

 

[Perpetual Man]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

The Day the Magic Died​

It seemed as though the chase had lasted forever: two thousand mounted soldiers chasing one ragged old man, the last wizard. Across the Great Desert to the heart of the One Land where they surrounded him, their destriers snorting as their spiked hooves pawed at the compacted sand.

He glared at them through rheumy eyes, his white, tangled hair blowing in the wind.

The leader dismounted and smiled cruelly, “A tired old man and the Emperor sends an army!

“I could snap his neck with one hand!”

The old man spat dust, “Then do it.”

The soldier towered over him, “And they called you the greatest wizard? You're just another fraud. By order of Emperor Karn the Magnificent, I find you guilty of witchcraft!”

“Witchcraft?” he crowed, batting the hand away, “This is much more than witchcraft!”

He slammed his steel shod staff into the sand.

The soldier tittered. A horse skittered.

He reached for his sword.

And the land shattered. Rock surged upward, as shafts of fire blasted from the underworld below. The very foundations of the world crumbled with a scream like the rendering of souls. Winds like a dragon's breath rushed around the figures, while the heartbeat of existence thrummed like thunder. Magma wept, steaming blood from wounds rent in rock.

Lightning lanced from above, turning sand to glass; men to bone, while tornado winds battled with one another in a maelstrom of devilment; and at the heart of it all an old man cackled, until he, like his adversaries, were consumed by what he had wrought.

It was the day the last wizard died.

The day the One Land ended.

When the storm abated three islands remained where there had been one, civilisation shattered, empire crumbled, survivors waiting to begin anew.

Without magic.

 

[paranoid marvin]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

The Map Making Man


Of all the map makers
That ever have been
There's one that stands taller
Than any you've seen

This map making marvel's
The top of his class
He makes maps from marble
He makes maps from glass

He'll make them all colours
Red,white,pink and blue
He'll make them from any
Concoction you choose

He makes maps in churches
He makes maps in loos
He even make maps
On the soles of your shoes!


Why is it he makes maps? I hear that you ask
How is it he finds himself charged with this task?

The answer you seek
Is quite simple my dear
The rest of this story
Will make it all clear

He makes maps for when you
Are lost in the trees
He makes them so you
Won't be late for your tea

He makes maps for when you
Are far from your home
He makes them so you
Won't feel that you're alone

He wants to make sure
That you never get lost
He wants to ensure
That you're safe at all cost

The map making man is your father you see
And what he does is for the love of thee

 

[Abernovo]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

The Bridge Across the Sea​

The Spring festival markets were always joyous. The winter storms were over, and soft westerly winds brought traders from Sacra, with their precious wares, to the Tolman Isles.

"Stay by my side, or they may whisk you back across the sea," Denya's father teased. "Hair like yours would fetch a fine price."

"The Sacresti don't slave, Da. You only want me around because I speak the language better than you do."

That wasn't entirely true, but her time in school had been well spent. Her father knew that, as did the Guild Council, and she knew he'd been approached for her hand more than once. He had refused, thank the gods of sea and land. She wasn't ready for a husband yet.

The goods were set out on the dock, alongside the trade ships. Denya went with her father, inspecting what was on offer. Spices, silks, fruits, finely decorated exotic pots; almost everything she could imagine.

The Sacresti came not just to sell, though, but to buy the metalwork which the Tolmanya were famous for. Denya soon found herself on board a ship, translating for her guild master father.

"Denya-ni, I would offer Kiran-no dragon's breath." The trader motioned with his hand.

Denya held her breath as the bottle, containing a living eternal flame, was brought out to them. She knew every smith wanted dragon's breath for their forge--they would never need charcoal again--but it was not what she looked at. The boy who carried it was gorgeous: skin darkened by the sun, golden brown curls surrounding that face. With those eyes. And that mouth.

Tirnak noticed her gaze. "My son and heir, Tirlan. Kiran-no, perhaps you and your daughter would join us in a meal."

"We would love to," Denya answered for her father.

 

[JoanDrake]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

We slept like good, little girls, teatime and cozies, twelve hours listening to all the pretty differentials and sweetening the integrals. We awoke spotted leopards and hungry mama lions.

Then it was was eggs, scraple and sausage with a cup and a half of caramel joe in the mess. No toast to log our brains. Nothing but quick death for the Eborans.

Afterwards, the ritual room, naked and wet before the sticky was out of our mouths. Fingers of one hand to heel and other to forehead,“ ALL BETWEEN PALM AND PALM IS THE MOTHER’S”. Shouted as one

We hit the chutes at a dead run and ran though the checklists in perfect cadence whlle the autos locked us in. I swear Wendy cursed at hers for being too slow and the commander said not a word, only remarking that there would be Edorans enough for all.

We were Mach I from the chocks, hypersonic by the end of the tubes and hit the edge of atmosphere at 35 times the sound of our arrival. We coodinated arrays and assumed standard formation.

And they were there, just where we wanted, below us and with dear old sol behind. We dived like mermaids, for not even hard vacuum could allow us the speed we wanted.

They didn’t have a chance. Our heavy lasers sliced their light armor like the hot wires through the Styrofoam that had made us. I saw one scream out his death, and though I knew that was impossible at our speed I laughed for my dead brother.

In the end it was a triumph, 47 to 1, but I shed a tear for the lost. It was Wendy, and her like won’t be seen again. “Mama Spank”, were her last words, damned fitting too.

 

[Glisterspeck]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

The Big Island

“Are you dumb?”

Hubric swung a leg across his boar’s back and dropped to the ground. His boots stirred dust into the face of a fat boy who sprawled naked near his feet. Unfurling a map, Hubric glanced to where I stood, holding his boar’s reins.

“Dumb and groveling. Would have gone better for your kinfolk had you Sardisians been so compliant.”

Hubric’s raiders laughed. They’d been laughing at me for days, from atop their boars, searching the valleys of the big island, complaining about our lack of horses. If only we’d not lacked steel as well, if we’d had swords, and armor, and—

“Are you both dumb now?”

“No,” I stammered.

Hubric bent and smacked the map against the boy’s face. The boy began to wail and pound his fists against the crazed dirt. Everything about him looked soft, round, and wrongly proportioned. Hubric sniffed, waved me over, and thrust the map at me.

“Tell him to point out the hidden vale, or I’ll let Old Micah give him something to cry about.”

The raiders laughed again. I crouched near the boy. He was younger than I had first thought. Much, much younger. He stopped crying, and I smiled. We had felt the same thing: a tremor had shaken the ground.

“He would not yet understand my words,” I said, smoothing the child’s wispy hair. “His valley lies yonder. It is not hidden. They have nothing worth hiding. Even if they did, who could take it from them?”

Hubric seized his sword.

“No!” he spat. “You spoke of gold, of—“

The ground shook again, violently, and Hubric spun to face the ridge behind his raiders. I laughed. The giants wouldn’t need steel. They wouldn’t need swords or armor. But they would want to know who’d made their baby cry.

 

[Brev]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

Broken


She didn’t make it to school. Again.

They surrounded her at the morning bus stop. Pushed her, tore her blouse. Pinched, scratched and spat.

She wept. ‘Why…why…?’

‘Because.’ They took her purse. And her lunch.

‘I’ll tell…’

The force of the blow whipped her head back, and sent white light bristling into the corners of her vision.

As the bus drove off she was still on her knees; watching blood trail from her nose and splash onto the pavement. Pain made her dizzy, and left her empty inside. Her jaw ached, her face throbbed, and the tears would not subside.

She shuffled into the adjacent alleyway, and slumped against a wall; hiding in the space between two dustbins. Ripping a page from one of her text books, she used it to stem the crimson flow. Then, to dab away the last trickle.

Her eyes followed the crumpled page, as it fell to the floor. It was stained with her blood; one broad smear, two nostril sized smudges. Random letters still showed through, making disjointed syllables, like foreign words or exotic place names. Creases added the contours of imaginary mountains. She stared at it, and lost herself amidst the angry pathways of despair. Slowly, an awkward smile formed.

Shadows moved across the alley. At one point she was bathed in sunlight, but she didn’t notice; only the bloodied page existed. The Atlas she had created; the map to her future. A future, written in blood. The tears dried up, and the bright pain behind her eyes began to whisper enlightenment.

The bustle of the disgorging school bus, snatched her back into the now. It signalled the start of her journey. She watched the gang from the shadowed alley, and planned her route across the continent of blood.

 

[BigJ]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

Shipwrecked

The temperature skyrocketed as the alien sun burned in the midday sky, taxing his environment suit to the limit. Regardless of the extreme temperature, he would be comfortable in the suit.

A thousand noonday suns had taught him that.

His wrecked ship had once provided shelter, but it offered little protection now. Time and storms had ravaged the solar shields, stripped bare the armour plating. The warp core had burned itself out long ago, and the nuclear drive had undergone an internal shutdown when the coolant systems failed.

He had never realized how much he had taken power for granted.

His stomach rumbled, but there was nothing left to eat. This island, his prison, was barren and harboured nothing of nutritional value. On all sides the cliffs reached to staggering heights, making any attempt to reach the oceans suicide. The ship’s stores were empty; he had run out of water three days ago, food two standard weeks prior, and would run out of air today.

Rations for a hundred could stretch for years when everyone else died on impact.

He walked a familiar path along the exterior of the island. Long ago he had mapped out every crevice, every rock, and now it was all committed to memory. The natural curiosity of an interstellar explorer had never faltered.

Ironic that an accomplished charter of the stars would be mapping a lifeless island by hand.

Starving, parched, and short of breath, one misstep sent him to the ground. Despite the suit, and the sun, he began to feel cold. He lifted his head, and saw his family sitting on a rock. The wife he’d divorced; the daughter he’d forgotten.

There was no peace, only shame and regret, as his eyes closed and he went to sleep for the last time.

 

[chrispenycate]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

Rediscovery​

"Considering their primitive surveying techniques, it's surprisingly close to the space photos."

"That's probably where it originated. They know how to make relief maps, but this one's just got triangles indicating mountains, and no shoals or safe harbours at all.

This was where the orbital tower should have touched, equatorial. Their first assembly point, where the splashdown capsules were towed, where the first terrestrial ecology was established."

"Look at those cities; teeming warrens from the twentieth century. Millions of inhabitants on this island cluster. Ship records show fewer than five thousand splashing down, and the artificial placentas were all used for animals. Women must have been continuously pregnant. Mediaeval."

"Mediaeval society could never support such a population increase. They had the medical knowledge, not the sophisticated equipment. Ships sail, but efficiently rigged. Dolphins and whales swim that ocean, tigers prowl their forests, agriculture enhances, doesn't destroy, their environment; plenty to be proud of, for a people betrayed by their technology."

Her eyes brimmed with frustrated tears. "We were sent to rule a technologically sophisticated society, not lord it over primitives. To calm Central's fears of a competitive stargoing civilisation. What function have administrators and soldiers now?"

"A whole world? Anything. Our skills are flexible enough for colonists, merchants or princes. The drone sent back to central, we've accomplished our programming; we're freer than any of us has ever been.

And you, my dear, can breed or not , as you choose. Whether it be jealousy or disgust that drove you, release it; no compulsions remain.
We can attempt to drag those unwilling millions into the twenty-seventh century, or lord it over them in as they are now, breed with them or isolate ourselves; no-one pulls our strings any more.

Our grandchildren might become the threat we were sent to eliminate."

 

[TacticalLoco]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

Serpentine Bridges
​

The water and sky were overlapping swirls of grey as he long boat crashed forward into the waves. Two figures, each lashed to the deck, shouted at one another over the cacophony.

“You do a good job balancing things, Wizard!” called out the first. His face wore a reckless smile as he fought the rudder arm for control.

“Timing is everything, my lord.” agreed the mage Dysil, his look far more studied and serious. “We arrive at the anchor point soon. Be certain you are ready.”

“Twice before I have been ready! This will be the last and greatest fixing.”

Evoric looked over his shoulder. Everything just right to keep the boat ahead of the monster chasing them, leading it into position.

Ahead now a darker, rain soaked smear showed where the next landfall was.

“Take the helm, wizard!” Grabbing up his harpoon, the warrior-king climbed the bow carving. Just as the beach sand seized and slowed the ship, he vaulted off the front, letting the momentum carry him an extra dozen feet. In seconds he was standing atop the high cliff watching the primeval leviathan bare down on him.

At the last possible instant Evoric threw his harpoon in to the face of the dragon. The beast breathed out a typhoon wind. Rancid smell of bilge water and half digested fish shoving itself against his body. The harpoon reversing direction, crashing onto the beach below.

The delay was just enough. Dysil reached the anchor point and began his spell, bringing the dragons body closer into alignment with the shore. The final spell turned the great beasts body to stone, creating a permanent roadway.

Three dragon bridges now linked the islands.

“We did it, wizard!, he whooped. “Now can we begin the hard work of uniting them into one kingdom.”

 

[Ursa major]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

.
Torque Armada​

The air is still; more than still. I breathe in and taste my own breath. The Grand Southerly might as well be beached for all the movement it captures from the wave-free sea. Lesser ships nod in forced obeisance as they navigate the Grand Southerly’s wake.

I have stolen the wind, forcing it into the bulging sails, from mainsail to moonraker. Ropes creak, but will not break: the wind blows constant and true above our heads and around our masts, but nowhere else. I have been parsimonious with my thaumaturgy, sparing with the cruelty its use demands. I doubt my victims will thank me for this. Not yet.

“Land ahoy!”

The source of power is within my grasp; I shall swap the thin weeds of street magic for the glorious robes of ultimate thaumaturgy. I shall conjure up my own redemption by setting my victims free, healing the wounds and repairing their souls.

#​

Ashore there is no more wind than at sea. The slopes of the rugged island are swathed in lightning. I hear its angry crackling, but smell no ozone. Ahead, I spy a narrow cleft: the gateway to the Temple of Power. My men follow me, bringing my victims, holding the shrivelled babes above their heads as live offerings to the Great Ones, as tiny shields.

#​

“Bellisarius.” The Great Ones know my name! “Come forward to receive your due.”

I mount the steps of the altar, my legs turning to lead, the very air thickening and hardening.

“We are waiting.”

The impatient voice is behind me. I strain to turn my head and instantly regret the effort. My men are holding burning figures aloft; my victims have become fiery demons.

“Here is your redemption,” those demons say. “The removal of your evil soul from this world.”

.

 

[stormcrow]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

Awaiting A Hero’s Return

Frau Krenn removed her glasses, folding them carefully away and returning them to the desk-top port to recharge. Leaning back against the yielding memory foam of her pod she allowed herself to reflect; had Ignatz, her son, simply discarded this map along with his unwanted childhood toys and the dusty memorabilia of his youth? Frau Krenn remembered her tousle-haired boy and smiled.

Granted, the simple map looked like the work of a child; seemingly a long-dead child with esoteric knowledge of that which had long been forgotten, of dragon ships in the North, of the harrying of Sardis by the armies of the Sultan of Alcvezar and of the Halls of Ebora where forgotten heroes await the end of all time.


Ignatz Krenn stared up at the cold ceiling of his tiny cell; pale scolopendra occasionally disturbing his concentration as their hunting forays took them across his field of vision. As weeks confined in isolation had unfolded into months, then years, Ignatz had clung to his memories to remain sane – mapping remembered landscapes across the rough surfaces of his prison.

Beneath Ignatz’ scarred and twisted back, the steel cot was cold, unyielding. “South-west to Montchellis by way of Alcezvar…North to Briona along the spine of the western peaks…”, his dry whispers barely reaching the anechoic dampness of the cell walls.


Folded, fading on the narrow shelf above his cot, Ignatz’ flight-suit remained where it had lain for years; a worn copy of Krahe’s “Legends of the Dragon Seas” amongst the small cache of personal effects beside it; frontispiece map long missing, pages yellowed and brittle.

Mother bought the book for his sixteenth birthday; Ignatz recalls this much. Games and adventures grew from its pages back then, games in which the hero would always return; he had the map, didn’t he?

 

[Teresa Edgerton]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

ILL-MET IN AZIMETH​

Rache had not expected to meet her there. Of all cities -- travelling south from Arbereth then across the sea to Sardis -- in Azimeth least of all.

But the gates were unguarded, the gatehouse deserted. The guards had fled ... or died. Inside the walls, the wind blew trickles of sand down empty streets, under the white, staring midday sun.

Then he saw her, coming barefoot to meet him: with her pale skin and black mouth, her ragged gown and tangled yellow hair. He knew her at once. The death that walks by night, the destruction that lays waste at noonday: the Fever that strikes without warning and spares none. They had met before.

“This was a fair city,” he said, remembering date palms and pure fountains. “The waters were clean. You did not come here of yourself, uninvited.”

She bowed her head, but answered nothing.

He drew a sign on the air; it crackled like fire. “I conjure you: tell me who it was that brought you here.”

She named a name. Rache turned to go, but the Fever caught him by the sleeve. The touch of her white hand left a black mark. “You did not ask where to find him.”

“I have no need to ask.”

He found the sorcerer eating apricots in a shaded garden.

Rache entered the garden softly. He bowed -- not low, but with courtesy nonetheless. As yet he was merely curious. “What reason could you have to kill so many?”

The murderer shrugged, smiled, ate another apricot. “For revenge ... why else?”

“Not for me.” The smile Rache returned was swift and deadly as lightning. “I strike according to the gods’ decree, and I do not use such tools as you.”

He placed a hand on the sorcerer’s chest. The heart stuttered once, and then stopped.

 

[TheDustyZebra]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

And sometimes we have, and it is.
(or, Cartographers Aren't Always Lazy)



“'Here there be dragons!'” John snorts.

Elaine grabs the map. “Dragons? Really?” This botany trip might be even more exciting than she expected.

“Archaic superstition. Did you sleep through Maps class? It means, 'we haven't been this far, therefore it's scary. Woo-woo'.”

“Err ... isn't it usually at the edge of the map? That's an island in the center. Full of dragons, apparently.”

“No such thing as dragons.” Michael squeezes under the travel capsule to adjust a circuit board. “Aerodynamically impossible. Breathing fire? Can't happen.”

***

“What in all the worlds is that?” Elaine squawks, looking around for her capsule.

“Well, isn't it obvious? We're dropping you on that island, so we disguised the capsule as a dragon!” The engineers exchange grins.

“Have you guys lost a screw? You said there's no such thing as dragons, and yet you make a capsule to blend in with the dragons that aren't there, so the people who aren't there can't see it?”

***

Loading her last sample of local flora, Elaine comes around a boulder and stops short, stifling a scream.

A dragon!

Two dragons -- one that transported her here, and another that is ... doing what? She ducks behind the rock and peeks out. Yes, there is a real, live dragon attempting to mate with her capsule. Enthusiastically. She could be here a while -- or forever, if it destroys her way home. She slides to the ground and waits.

***

Looking mournfully upon the battered, smoking capsule, the engineers shake their heads.

“This vehicle is indestructible by any force known to man,” John says. “How could you do this?”

“Me do this? ME?” Elaine punches him in the nose. “Well, obviously, the force of dragons is unknown to you two men! Trust the map next time!”

 

[The Judge]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

The Blood of Mapmakers


From the North they came. Dragon-prowed, dragon-winged. Seeking the unprotected islands.

The terror of their coming ran before them, the people of the mainland fleeing for their lives, bringing tales of murder, rapine – churches despoiled, holy ones maimed and mutilated, men and women and children raped and enslaved.

Her father still worked over the vellum, crushed pigment dusting his hair, paint staining his hands in hues of cinnabar and saffron, turquoise and verdigris and violet. He dipped his brush into the tiny precious pot of ultramarine and gave depth to the waves.

She sat by the open window, waiting. The sleek golden shapes of the dragon-ships were visible now.

“Sails of crimson?” he asked.

“Crimson and gold.”

He laid and burnished the gold leaf, then sat back.

The map was finished. Arbereth, Averoigne, Sardis, mountains and rocky shores, forests and sandy bays. But there, to the north, where the image of the crimson-winged dragon-ships glowed, one further island. Unnamed, unknown. Red on its single peak, a swirl of white and silver at its cliffs.

He opened the vial of dried blood, his mother’s blood, and shook flakes onto a tile. He cut his own thumb first, then hers, their blood mingling with the flakes. The blood of mapmakers – past, present, future.

He painted blood over the unnamed isle. Thunder sounded, the noise of birth, as land boiled from the sea. The shaken air buffeted the dragon-ships, tearing the crimson wing-sails.

He painted blood on the island’s peak. Flames roared from the new-birthed land, a mountain of fire reaching to the golden prows.

He painted blood on the swirl of sea. A maelstrom appeared, swallowing all the wind-torn, flame-wreathed ships.

The unprotected islands. Protected by land, air, fire, water. And blood.

 

[jastius]

Re: 300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #9 (April 2013) -- READ FIRST POST

The Dragon Sleeps Tonight


You get used to funny things happening out on the road.

The dream hit first at Montchellis upon the Island of Averoigne. A fluid specter flying by clouds of blue ocean, through cool green seas. Then falling, waking on my bed with a thump. It took two cups of coffee to counteract my shakes.

Our next set on the mainland at Alcuezar City, I could feel his blue green heaviness weighing me with curiosity. All through the second half I was inspected. I stumbled off the stage at the show’s end, crashing onto my bunk on the bus.

Everything was water and I was swimming through sky. Beside me was he; inviting and coercing me to succumb. I vomited gallons of water upon waking.

I could feel him in the air at Sardis. I swam through currents of blue and green.

As I sang, He came out of darkness, coolly shining blue scales, silver wings flared, offering me… everything. Only a concert audience could dismiss a giant sea monster as special effects. I fought free.

His smile swam in my dreams from Ebora through Arbereth. By QuirBriona, his scales shimmered against me each night; I’d wake ocean cold.

I spent every minute not onstage through the Laoclian range in the hot springs collecting warmth for my frozen body. I had stopped sleeping entirely by Cruinne. The river under the great bridge rose in greeting during the set. At Maline he dropped an ocean upon us, dismissed as rain.

On the plains of Estarion, Fire claimed me. By the standing stones of Far Malagua I burned and the Fire Drake rewove me.

Awaiting, the Water Drake embraced my fire. The audience cheered at the spectacle.

Now we two dragons, Water and Fire, sing together.
It’s going to be a crazy Tour.