January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- VICTORY TO HEX

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Re: January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- READ FIRST POST

The Last King

He had stood against the Barbarian King and his savage horde, with their scimitars and axes and painted faces, and had turned them back.

He had met the Barrow King and his army of wights, burning the unholy dead until nothing but ashes remained.

But the Frost King brought no warriors, only winter winds, and snow, and ice. There was no defense against the insidious cold and, helpless, he watched his people die.
 
Re: January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- READ FIRST POST

H666N1


Tried blankets. Many blankets. Lay so close to the fire it blistered my skin. Shivering, since the conjuration, contagion, the vomiting.

Don’t think about that. What splattered out.

Instinct deep where my gut was: only one warmth efficacious.

Wrapped heavy. Back streets. I know where.

‘Good time, love?’

‘Just lie against me. P-p-please. Five silver.’

Doesn’t work. Too cold, the memory of puking offal. My offal.

After an hour, she says, ‘I feel sick.’
 
Re: January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- READ FIRST POST

A Stark Warning Against Making a Howling Error



Imposing on one’s distant relatives can be difficult. With the reputation my kin have, only desperation forced me to the door of their farmhouse.

Shame I’m a poor guest: always fiddling with things. Like the temperature of the fridge.

“Ada!” cried Amos. “The butter’s hard as rock. So’s the Flora spread! No one stops me making my sandwiches....”

Which is why I’m doomed to be turned into a very nasty something in the woodshed.
.
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Re: January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- READ FIRST POST

Hiding in Plain Sight


The coldest, bloodiest region of all. We seven elite soldiers waded knee-deep through snow and entrails hunting the Sorcerer – begetter of the Ice Age; begetter of famine, war, desperation, death.

We cornered the old man amid a desolation of tortured bodies – the sixth “Sorcerer” we’d found. We killed him slowly, like the others. Snow still fell.

My comrades despaired: “We’ll never find the cold-hearted *******.”

I smiled, said nothing, and wove another storm of ice.
 
Re: January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- READ FIRST POST

Rogantha-Kalpa


To prove a theory, test results need to be repeatable. Atropos understood her role.

The vial dropped, shattering on the floor. The same breeze which ruffled her hair would disperse its brutal contents.

She felt the shift in the magnetic field, as her sisters completed their allotted task. The Poles realigned, winter would come. Scouring ice would eradicate whatever her germs left behind.

Either way, cold would kill them all.
Then, to begin anew. Again.
 
Re: January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- READ FIRST POST

Cold Hands

I never understood the compulsion I had to visit an unmarked grave, year after year.

Was it guilt? No, it couldn’t be. I raped and killed her but I was following orders, I was a soldier.

A shadow fell over me. Cold hands enveloped my neck. A dead voice spoke in my ear.

“Revenge is a dish best served cold and who colder than I to deliver it.”

Now I understand.

She wants her justice.
 
Re: January 2014 -- SEVENTY-FIVE WORD WRITING CHALLENGE -- READ FIRST POST

The Race for Hiverflow

The princes of Hiverflow raced to the Caves of Mootsank, each determined to meet their future as royal scribe. Martin, a warrior; George, a writer.

Only one could take the role: One icicle. One nib. One scribe.

Mootsank icicles can be versatile in the wrong hands, and what was a nib became a sword. Martin pulled the icicle from his brother's back and told the stiffening corpse, 'The sword remains mightier than the pen, brother.'
 
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