2016 Contest Anthology
 Fantasy Faction Forum
 December 20, 2016

2016 Contest Anthology
A collection of short stories written for the Fantasy Faction forum contest
Release Version: 2016-12-20
All Content Copyright © 2016 By Fantasy Faction Forum All rights reserved.
http://www.fantasy-faction.com
Table of Contents
About This Book
January: Breaking the fourth wall
•	But, I’m a F#@%ing Dragon!
•	A Twist Two Far
•	Narrative Friction
•	The Wall of Going Forth
•	Kendrick
•	SKELETON WALKS INTO A BAR
•	Sponge Riot
February: Fanfic
•	Mistaken Identity
•	Bulls and Horses
•	TROJAN HORSE
March: Nightmares
•	A Gift for the Nightmare Man
•	Mare Ridden
•	Keep Turning
April: The Last Writing Contest
•	Everything in Frame
•	The Hound of Arnas
•	Our kind of Watchman
May: Well known fairy tales from a different POV
•	The Magical Lamp
•	The Strangled Heart
•	Sweet Release
•	How I Met Your Mother
•	The Wolf of Tales
June: Random Wikipedia Article
•	One Last Drink
•	The Gambit
•	Curse the Schedule
•	Cat Country 100.3FM
July: Story Generator
•	Conan meets Nietzsche
•	The Frosted Glass
•	The Cake Won’t Kill You
August: Potions and Elixirs
•	Goldenfoot, The Brave
•	Potion, Potion, Potion
•	Love Potion
September: Pirates!
•	The Rule of the Curse
•	The Treasure of Saint Curio
•	The Precious Cargo
About This Book
TESTING: Fantasy Faction 2016 Contest Anthology!
Hey everyone. This is a test version of what the eventual anthology book might look like.
I didn’t do much in the way of formatting any of the stories since this is just to look at it. Heck, I’m kind of cheating and using a bunch of this code to author my own anthology ebooks. It’s been a pretty sweet learning exercise in just updating a configuration file and a whole new book spits out. Maybe one of these days I’ll create an eBook construction service or something. Wouldn’t that be cool?
Anyway, here are the first nine months of stories from this year.
Enjoy!
Breaking the fourth wall
[image: images/breaking-the-fourth-wall-0.jpg]
One of the many times Deadpool breaks the fourth wall.
I think most of you are familiar with the term "breaking the fourth wall".
It's mostly done in children's books (like Grover in Sesame Street's 'The Monster at the End of this Book'), comics (see above) or movies (comedy movies mainly) and means usually a character becoming aware of their fictional nature, directly addressing the reader and/or interacting with their creator.
While it's often done in a comedic way, it's possible to do it in a tragic way too (the main character is questioning his existence for example).
I think it is pretty hard to pull this off in a fantasy story (SF is probably a bit easier) and I haven't seen it done in a short story before, so I'm excited to see what you can come up with.
Here are some examples:
Dingo: " Oh, wicked, bad, naughty, evil Zoot! She is a bad person and must pay the penalty... Do you think this scene should have been cut? We were so worried when the boys were writing it, but now, we're glad. It's better than some of the previous scenes, I think.. ." (Monty Python's Holy Grail)
 
“ You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. ” (Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn)
If you want to do more reading about it:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fourth_wall
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meta-reference
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BreakingTheFourthWall
http://writeonsisters.com/writing-craft/pros-cons-breaking-fourth-wall/

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(jan-2016)-breaking-the-fourth-wall/(jan-2016)-breaking-the-fourth-wall-submission-thread/
But, I’m a F#@%ing Dragon!
By m3mnoch
[image: images/but-im-a-f-ing-dragon-0.png]
Trees were tumbled everywhere. It was as if a giant had thrashed them all down, making it difficult to reach the stony mountain top. Sir Giliam clambered over the last pile of mountain pine and placed his first boot down, outside the forest, on the mountain rock. Achieving the tree line had required them to abandon their horses an hour ago.
“We’ve done it, Patsy.” Sir Giliam drew his sword and lifted it aloft. “We will not be denied!”
“Patrick, sir. My name is Patrick.” The knight’s squire climbed over the last log, breathing hard.
“Right, right. Let us find the beast’s lair, Patsy.”
“Yes, sir.” Patsy’s shoulders sagged and he dropped the three packs he’d been carrying, stretched, straightened, and knuckled at the kinks in his back. “Isn’t that its lair over there, sir? The one with the claw marks?”
Wait a minute. What’s this? I don’t like this story.
[Shush…]
No. This is a terrible story. I die at the end.
[Lots of people die at the end of stories.]
But, I’m a fucking dragon!
[Language!]
Why are we even telling this story? This is stupid.
[Because it’s the theme of the month. Now, hush.]
I hate my job.
[Shhhhh. Where were we?]
Patsy stood near the tumbled packs, hands on his hips, looking at the sky, tapping his foot.
[It’s okay. Go on.]
Still looking skyward and irritated, Patsy waved a hand in the direction of a gaping hole in the cliff. The rock, worn smooth as if a massive scaly body had eternally passed over it, had the occasional deep furrow. Cut as if by large, dangerous talons.
“Look,” said a scornful Patsy. “There are claw marks. In the stone. Over there. That way.” After a moment, he sighed and bent to pick up a flagon of water that had fallen from one of the packs.
“I believe you’re right, Patsy.” Sir Giliam scrambled across the stony path toward the cave.
“It’s Patrick,” came the muffled reply as Patsy, head buried in canvas, dug through the second pack for a blanket or two.
“The beast will pay with its life for the havoc its wreaked. The poor folk of… of…” The knight lowered his sword from where it was aimed at the opening and called to Patsy over his shoulder. “What was the name of that town again? The little farming village?”
Patsy finished folding the blanket and set it on a comfy-looking log. “North Hampshireford, sir.”
“Yes, right. They all sound alike, don’t they? Stay here and watch our packs, Patsy.” Giliam faced the mountain wall and its fierce opening again, striking what he considered his most majestic pose. He pointed his naked blade at the darkness and shouted, “Dragon, I come for you!”
Sir Giliam charged into the cave.
Patsy sat, relaxing on the folded blanket, and contemplated eating a bit of cheese. He would need the energy for the long hike back down the mountain. He almost forgot, “Good luck, sir.”

[image: images/but-im-a-f-ing-dragon-1.png]
The inside of the cave was dark. Sir Giliam fostered a small regret about forgetting his torch, but knew he would be victorious still. He was a knight and knights always won the day.
Bones clattered underfoot as he shuffled through the dark cavern, hands running along the worn-smooth walls to keep his balance. Giliam could see nothing more than deep shadows layered upon deeper shadows.
Long moments of nothing but the sound of his shuffling soon gave way to slow, rumbling snores.
He was nearly to his prey.
Sir Giliam gripped his sword and broke from the wall as an enormous cavern yawned before him. He stood, feet shoulder-width apart, left hand on his hip, and broadsword pointed to the further dark and thundering shape ahead of him. He was indeed brave.
Sir Giliam opened his mouth to call a challenge the slumbering shadow ahead in the stony black.
“Go away.” The dragon’s voice barely registered apathy as it rolled over, large form facing away from the knight.
“I will not be dispatched so easily.” Sir Giliam shuffled carefully forward. “Beast, you will pay for the lives you’ve taken!”
“But, they were only a couple cows.”
“Yes, but cattle are lifeblood to the town of… of… New Hampfordson.” Sir Giliam would not be tricked by the wily beast. “Have at you, monster!”
He charged the dragon in the darkness.
A disappointed sigh rattled through the cave. “Oh good. I was just getting hungry.” The last bit was muffled as the dragon curled up into a ball, tucked its head beneath a leathery wing, and tried to go back to sleep.
Sir Giliam stumbled, but bravely recovered, and brought his blade down to crash into the dragon’s armored hide. The broadsword sparked and banged off the scales.
“Really?” the dragon mumbled from beneath its wing.
“I will not be deterred, foe!” Giliam swung again. The blade bounced again.
The dragon lifted its mighty head and snapped at the air reasonably near the half of the cave where the knight stood swinging. Having tried, fulfilling his battle obligations, the dragon tucked his head back beneath his wing and wished he could block out the sounds of the pesky human.
“Fearsome beast, I will eventually find the chink in your armor!” Giliam was sweating now, swinging hard, his effort in memory of lost cows and the tear-filled eyes of the town’s children. He swung again and again.
Finally rolling to its back, the dragon reached up with a huge taloned paw and massaged the bridge of its snout. It was getting a headache from all the clanging.
“Aha! Now for the throat!” When it had rolled over, the dragon had exposed a tiny, soft crack along its armored neck. “Ha! I score the critical blow!”
The knight brought the broadsword down cleanly, the lucky strike connecting with unarmored dragon flesh.
And bounced off.
The dragon roared, “But, I’m a fu— What? That’s not supposed to happen. It doesn’t bounce.”
[He didn’t confirm his crit.]
“What?” said the dragon.
“What?” said the knight.
[Yeah, it’s a change in the rules with this new edition. Didn’t you get the memo?]
The dragon waited. Giliam winced, scratched at his chin, and eyed his sword.
[Okay then. All critical strikes need to be confirmed by a second roll. The rule helps ease some of the overpowered and random luck of rolling a natural twenty. It’s dark in here which made him fail his confirm roll. So, instead of a critical, the sword just scored a normal hit.]
Still staring at the ceiling, the dragon blinked. Twice.
[Which normally bounces.]
“But that’s not how it’s supposed to happen,” said Sir Giliam. He had always been fast above the shoulders.
After realizing the words were spoken aloud, the knight very, very slowly lowered his gaze to the huge form of the dragon in front of him. He cautiously and carefully stepped backwards, creeping towards the cavern exit.
The dragon blinked again, realization finally settling, and swung its enormous head toward the retreating knight. A grin peeled along the monster’s muzzle, wide, white, and sharp. Fire ignited as its eyes turned to slits. Flaming saliva dripped, long and hot.
The dragon bellowed and lunged at Sir Giliam.

[image: images/but-im-a-f-ing-dragon-2.png]
Patsy glanced up to the cave entrance at the ominous sound. He had been focused on his paring knife and block of cheese, dreading the miserable hike back down the mountainside, over the littered trunks, to where the horses were tethered.
“What was that?” Patsy swallowed. “That roar sounded something like ‘I love my job.’ Why would that be? Sir Giliam, I don’t understand why you would roar. Are you there? Is that you?”
The hole in the side of the mountain spewed flame.
It was a white, hot, curling fire that engulfed the forest to Patsy’s left and he lurched up, dropping the cheese from his lap as the flames vanished from the entrance. The fire was soon replaced by gouts of steam roiling over the edges of the opening.
Beyond, in darkness, two orange eyes smoldered, swayed with a rhythm, and grew large as the craggy head of a dragon slowly began to take shape.
“That’s not supposed to happen!”
[Why does everyone keep saying that? I sent that memo with the rule change ages ago. I used a fancy header and everything. Don't people read anymore?]
 
A Twist Two Far
By Rukaio_Alter
“Detective, you have no idea how glad we are to have you here.” Jeffries said as he quiveringly led the way through the grand manor hallway. “Truly, this murder business has been just… frightful.”
“That’s quite alright.” Private Detective Tex Taylor assured him. “Finding the body must have been fairly traumatic.”
“Indeed!” Jeffries, the butler, squeaked. “Just walking into the study and finding Master Albert lying in pools of…” His face turned pale and he wobbled slightly. “I’m sorry, just the thought of it makes me feel woozy."
Tex nodded in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Now, the report said you were having a party at the time of Albert’s death?”
“Yes, that’s quite right.” Jeffries nodded. “It’s an annual get together here at Worcester Hall. Just the closest friends and family. They should still be in the living room.”
“I see…” Tex pulled out a notebook and began writing. “And could you tell me exactly who was at this party?”
“Well, there was Lord Albert, obviously, and his wife Grace.” Jeffries put a finger to his chin. “Then there was Albert’s brother, Charles, who was recently in America, Mr Merton, Albert’s business partner, Anthea and Pauline, two of Grace’s friends. There was also the kitchen staff as well, with myself, two maids and the chef.”
Tex scribbled this all down in his notebook. He’d had time to check the outward security of the manor before entering and it was rock solid. If there was an intruder it would’ve been obvious. That meant the murderer had to be one of the people at the party. But which one could it be? It wasn’t like the answer was going to just leap out at Tex.
“Oh, and Dr von MurderDeath was there, of course.”
Tex blinked. He stopped writing and looked up. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Dr von MurderDeath.” Jeffries said cheerfully. “He’s an old family friend. I think he should be in the drawing room.”
“Doctor. Von. MurderDeath.” Tex said, slowly stretching out the words. "Are you sure you're pronouncing that correctly?"
“Why of course.” Jeffries nodded. “He's from the Winchester MurderDeaths. Haven't you heard of them?”
“…Can’t say that I have.” Tex coughed. “So, was this…” He hesitated. “…von MurderDeath here for the entire party?”
“Oh yes. He was the first to arrive.” A shocked expression crossed Jeffries’ face. “Wait, are you telling me you suspect Dr von MurderDeath of wrongdoing?”
Tex wasn’t entirely certain how to respond to that.
“Let’s just say I’m exploring possibilities.”
“Oh, I see.” Jeffries said. “But I don’t think you need to worry, detective. I don’t think there’s a more upstanding and beloved name in this country than Dr Evil von MurderDeath.”
Tex’s eye twitched.
“Would you like to go in and see them now?” Jeffries asked.
“N-No thanks.” Tex said. “I’d like a few minutes alone to compose my thoughts.”
“Of course.” Jeffries bowed his head and began to leave the room. “Just call if you need anything.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
Tex took a few seconds to calm his breathing before looking up.
“Okay, seriously, Writer.” He said. “Dr Evil von MurderDeath?”
The words echoed around the empty hallway before-
“Hey! Don’t ignore me! I’m talking to you!”
Wait, you're talking to me? Oh God, we’re doing this again, aren’t we?
“Yeah, I think we are.” Tex said. “You want to give me an explanation for this?
What? MurderDeath isn’t that uncommon a surname.
“I’m pretty certain it is.” Tex folded his arms. “And how many people do you know with the first name ‘Evil’?”
Actually, I’ll have you know I have a cousin named Evil.
“You have a cousin named Eva.” Tex corrected.
…Isn’t that just the feminine form for Evil?
“No. No it is not.”
Oh. Okay, maybe the name is a little bit inconspicuous.
Tex raised an eyebrow. “A little?”
I still think you’re making a big deal out of nothing. Have you ever heard of not judging a book by its cover?
“Well, when that cover is labelled ‘Dr Evil von MurderDeath’, I feel it’s rather difficult not to judge it.”
You’re just never satisfied are you? First it was that time I made the culprit an alien. Then it was me naming the murder victim Lord Poshly Tophattington-
“That’s still not a name.”
-And now this? Did you even consider the possibility that Dr von MurderDeath was secretly a red herring?
“Well yeah, obviously.” Tex snorted. “I mean, I don’t have much faith in you in the best of times, but even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to make a serious murder mystery where the killer was someone named Dr von MurderDeath, right?”
…
“Right?”
Well…
Tex’s face fell into his hand. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Look, I thought it would be the perfect double bluff. Nobody would’ve suspected him.
“…You’re seriously trying to persuade me nobody would’ve suspected the man named ‘Dr Evil von MurderDeath’?”
Precisely! Because it’s so obvious that it becomes unobvious!
Tex groaned. “…You do realise you’re actively making me miss Glartok the alien at this point?”
Aw, give me a break. This schtick won us the last Writing Contest we were in.
Tex blinked. “Wait, Writing Contest? I thought we were doing a detective novel?”
Oops. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.
“Wait!” Tex gasped. “Is this a comedic meta short story?”
…No?
“It is, isn’t it?” Tex said, putting two and two together. “That explains everything! These weird situations! The shortness of our stories! Why you’re so dumb!”
Okay, first of all, that’s very hurtful. Secondly, can we go back to discussing the MurderDeath thing?
“Are you kidding me? No!” Tex threw his hands up in the air. “This changes everything! I’m no longer in a crappy detective novel! This fuck-ups aren’t fuck-ups at all! I might actually have a competent writer!”
Well… I wouldn’t go quite that far. Also, seriously, you should probably calm down a little. I don’t think you’re supposed to know this stuff. We’re kinda stretching the contest rules enough as it is.
“Are you kidding? I don’t have to listen to you anymore! You're as much a creation as I am!” Tex said. “I finally understand the insanity of this world! All this ‘Poshly Tophattington’ and ‘Evil von MurderDeath’ stuff makes sense now! It’s all a joke! And now I understand it! Nothing will be the same agai-“

—————
Tex woke with a start. He sat up and looked around. He was on his apartment couch. The entire place was quiet except for the dull chatter of the TV in front of him. Obviously he must’ve accidentally fallen asleep while working again.
He vaguely recalled having some kind of strange dream but couldn’t remember a single thing about it. Not one detail. As such, he immediately dismissed the dream as unimportant and lay back on his couch, deep in thought.
Finally he spoke.
“I hate you so much right now.”
Hey, for once this one wasn’t me. Take it up with the man upstairs.
"Well, it's still a lousy twist."
On that we can agree.
Both of you can bite me.
Narrative Friction
By OnlyOneHighlander
Dawn cracked like an egg over the town of Scree. A bulbous yellow yoke of sun slid from the whitecaps of the Thin Sea, spilling translucent light along the harbour walls and sending it seeping into the warren of streets beyond. It was a quiet morning, a morning when nothing much exciting was happening at all, the kind of morning that by all rights should be given over to listening to the gentle calls of the sea birds...
‘Free Scree! Free Scree!’
...and thoughts of lunch. The streets were certainly not full and there were definitely no demonstrating crowds converging on Snob Hill.
‘Out, out, out! Get the clout out!’
‘Voices for the voiceless!’
All in all, everything was, as it so often is in Scree, quiet and calm and peacef-
‘Good narration, accurate representation! Good narration, accurate representation!’
‘Free Scree!’
‘Out, out, out! Get the clout out!’
Okay, okay, so perhaps there were some people in Scree not enjoying the beautiful wonders of the bountiful morning. But it was a small crowd, not even fifty –
‘Balderdash, I count one hundred and six from here, and there’s more coming down Cellar Street.’
Gripton, the greengrocer, was there, his placard boasting all the usual poor punctuation of his advertising boards.
‘Here you, its the message that matters, not all your fancy punctuation and grammar and what not.’
It’s. What-not.
‘Oh, so clever. Listen, it ain’t my fault Scree hasn’t advanced enough to see the benefits of universal education. People know what they get at my shop, no matter where the damn apostrophe is.’
And this was very true. All throughout Scree people knew exactly what they got at Griptons’ Greengrocers’: ripped off.
‘You listen here you haughty-taughty, turnip-faced –’
‘Now, now Gripton. There is no need for language like that. As Mayor of Scree I will speak on behalf of the town.’
The Mayor was a sensible man, doughty and with the confident bearing so often found in natural leaders. He held out his hands to dampen the noise of the admittedly medium-sized crowd, and raised his voice so all would hear.
‘Narrator, it has come to my attention that recently the good people of Scree have been,’ the Mayor said, choosing his words carefully, ‘eh... less than fully satisfied with your portrayal of our nice little community.’
‘Damn right we are,’ came the gruff bark of Roget Brittle. ‘Last week he said I smells like a brewery with a hangover.’
‘And he called me an old crone,’ screeched the incessant Mavis Turtlepike. ‘I’m only thirty-two,’ she added through the gaps in her yellowing teeth. ‘Pah! Half the town’s got yellow teeth. No need to pick on me.’
‘Speaking of yellow,’ said the Mayor’s wife. ‘I have a name you know. Not just “the Mayor’s wife”. Bloody sexist.’ Lady Jacqueline Petriheart’s rising voice cut through the remains of what had been such a lovely morning. ‘That’s better. As I was saying, speaking of yellow, he said the wall paper in our drawing room looked like custard, post-regurgitation! He’s got to go I say.’
Always in touch with the troubles of the common people, Lady Petriheart sat stiffly on her literal high horse – a normally docile creature called Tiba, who today could quite conceivably become unsettled by the surrounding mob and, with little warning, might very well throw the Mayor’s delicate wife into the mud. Animals are so unpredictable, after-all.
‘Now then,’ the Mayor said. ‘You’re on thin ice there Mister. I won’t have you threatening people, especially not my wife. You aren’t in charge around here.’
As he spoke the Mayor’s face grew red with indignant rage. He puffed himself up, ready to make one of his grandstanding performances in front of the gathered townsfolk. This would have nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that there was an election coming up and he had to maintain the illusion that he was in control.
‘I am in control! This is my town, not yours,’ he said. But as the words left his mouth, the rational part of his brain – buried as it was beneath the greedy, self-serving parts – suggested picking a fight with an omnipotent, omnipresent overseer three weeks before the big vote may not be a wise move.
‘I won’t be intimidated by you!’
Is exactly what the Mayor had said to the Captain of the City Guard just before his mysterious disappearance, two months ago. The embezzlement case Captain Sharp had been working on at the time remains unsolved...
‘Ah, eh, yes, the thing about that is...’
The Mayor’s words stumbled from his flapping jaw as the assembled crowd began to wonder who the real tyrant in Scree was.
‘We do not need any lessons in tyranny from you,’ said Bishop Sorel, the gravity of his words only slightly undermined by the fact he was picking his nose.
‘I am not picking my nose!’ He shouted, cuticle deep. ‘Did you start that rumour? You are responsible for the initiates calling me Bishop Snotel.
‘Yes,’ the clergyman cast a glare across his attendant monks. ‘I know all about it. And no, it is certainly not true.’
‘There was that one time,’ said the ever-truthful, unimpeachable even, Brother Mets.
‘Enough!’
The new voice came from the centre of the crowd. It was an unfamiliar voice, an unimportant voice, the voice of someone who would never play a pivotal part in any plot, who would slip through the pages of life with barely a trace. It was the voice of...
‘Colin Dickson.’
It was Colin, Son of Dick –
‘No, not “son of”. Just plain Colin Dickson. I won’t have you making a cliché out of me,’ he said in a deep, booming voice.
‘Whatever. Listen, we are sick and tired of your purple prose, your clumsy metaphors, your redundant adverbs,’ Colin said resolutely.
‘And we’re sick of you thinking you can run our lives. We’re here, united, and you can’t silence us all.’ This is what Colin had wanted to say, but as he tried to speak his words were drowned out by a growl of thunder, a screaming gust of wind and the deafening din of rain hammering into the ground and onto the town’s slate roofs.
‘You see!’ the sodden Colin shouted futilely, ‘What happened to the yokey sun and the beautiful morning. You can’t just change things willy-nilly. IT BREAKS THE IMMERSION OF THE READER!’
But no-one could hear Colin. The rain was too loud, the wind too strong. It wouldn’t be long before the townspeople retreated to shelter in their homes and hide in their beds.
‘OH NO WE WON’T! WE’RE STAYING RIGHT HERE AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABO –’
*
Colin woke up in bed.
‘What? How did you do that?’
He’d been having the strangest dream. All that business about demonstrating against the Narrator. Madness, he thought, I could never win.
‘Right, you just wait. You can’t get away with it that easy. Darling, wake up! We’re going back out there. Where are my shoes?’
Soon the townsfolk were massing again, slapping down muddy streets in bare feet. It was the strangest thing, overnight all of their shoes had disappeared.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ said Colin. He was dressed in a spectacular pink kimono. Inexplicably, it was the only piece of clothing he could find in the house. ‘We’ll stay here all week if we have t –’
*
A week later all had returned to norm–
‘Damn it! He’s done it again. Come on Sally. I’m not putting up with this. He can’t beat us all –’
*
A month went by and all the grievances against the Narrator were forgotten. The Mayor was re-elected, Gripton’s grammar had improved dramatically, and Bishop Sorel had been invited to an audience with the High Shepherd. As for Colin Dickson...
‘How did I get here? And what am I standing in? And what is that smell?’
... He had been fired from his job and taken up cleaning the town sewers to make ends-meat. His wife had left him. And he smelled awful, truly awful.
‘You won’t win you know. You can’t grind me down. I’ll fight to my dying brea –’
*
As winter closed in, Colin’s consumption grew worse. The rest of Scree had long since given up trying to challenge the Narrator. But Colin fought on, cold, miserable and alone.
‘You don’t get to control my fate. I’m a person damn it. Not a character, not a plot device to be cast aside. I have a soul!’ said Colin, but no-one was listening. With each vain cry his lungs rattled against an increasingly gaunt ribcage. The hovel that had become his home was drafty and damp. The stinking blanket that was his bed crawled with mites and lice. Icy water dripped from the roof and even the air seemed to shun him.
‘You can’t.’
Slowly, he came to realise, he would not see the spring.

The Wall of Going Forth
By Nestat
The Fighter's Guild looms large above me. Grey, impassive, foreboding. I throw open the iron-wrought doors and stride inside.
"I have completed my quest and return for my reward!" My voice echoes in the large room.
The squire behind the front desk watches me with eyes as grey and impassive as the building, though much less foreboding.
"Well?" I demand.
The squire looks at me blankly. "Well what?"
"My reward. I have returned to claim what is mine!"
The squire sighs and gestures towards a small door. "Through there. Talk to the wall."
"The wall?"
"Yes."
I sweep through the room and step through the door, into a narrow passageway. I pass another squire and nod politely. My gesture is answered with nothing but vacant gawking. I turn away, intending to continue down the corridor. Instead I am greeted by a large wall which blocks my path.
As I watch, eyes, nose and a mouth slowly form in the brickwork. "Greetings, adventurer. I am the Wall of Going Forth."
"Greetings, Wall." I reply. "I have returned from my quest and come to claim what is rightfully mine."
The mouth yawns lazily. "The quest was?"
"To defeat the monstrous Herzog. I journeyed to the Library.of Saul. A nightmarish place where the damned are forced to atone for their sins by writing tedious letters. The Herzog rules that place and never allows the poor souls complete their task. It is there I drank a goblet of wine laced with capslock and let forth a mighty bellow. The Herzog succumbed to its own uncertainty and fled."
"One moment," Rust-red eyes roll upwards."Herzog, Herzog... can't see anything in the quest journal."
"It must be there! I am the knight errant who undertook this quest for your guild but a tenday past."
"Aha. Then I have a riddle for you! Why do adventurers always say they'll undertake quests?"
The wall's riddle perplexes me. I think long and hard. "A knight's life is governed by a strict moral code," I say, carefully. "The question is one of honour and of truth. So the answer you seek must be duty!"
"Nope!" announces the Wall gleefully. "I'll tell you. Because it will be the death of them!"
"I protest!" I protest. "Three guesses is traditional. You must at least permit me to prove myself in combat!"
"Calm down! I was just passing time while I looked up your quest in the journal," replies the Wall. "No need to make threats, is there? I've got no authority to judge you anyway. The Reader does that."
"Who is the Reader?" I ask.
"The Reader sits concealed behind me, and watches all you do and say," explains the Wall, ominously. "It is the Reader who will judge you and ultimately deem you worthy or not."
"Then I shall address the Reader directly!" I exclaim.
"By all means. Fire away."
I pull my sword from its scabbard and hold it high above my head. "Greetings, noble Reader!" I call. "I am a humble knight who has journeyed far to join you. At your guild's behest, I have vanquished the evil Herzog and returned to claim my reward!"
I lower my sword. The wall watches me. We wait. The Wall begins whistling. It is a harsh, grating sound.
Impatience finally stirs my soul. "Did the Reader hear me?"
"Oh, yes," replies the Wall, confidently. "Rest assured, the Reader is fully aware of everything that has just happened."
"Well, what was said?" I ask, sheathing my sword.
"Who knows?" the Wall shrugged.
"Then how do you know the Reader's even there?"
 
"Because I said so. There's no objective proof. You can talk to the Reader all you want, but you'll never get a reply. You just have to trust me. The Reader's there. Do the best you can and hope they don't judge you too harshly."
"Must I be continuously vexed by your riddles, Wall?"
"Well, let's put it this way. You're a knight, you've heard of gods?"
"Of course!" I say, indignantly.
"Well then."
"But what about my reward!" I demand.
"Relax, relax. Like I said, I was just making conversation while I look up the quest in the journal. I've found the Herzog now. What's your name?"
I place my left hand upon my chest. "I am Norm."
"Norm! You're the second person to say that!"
"Who's the first person?"
"I am," replies the Wall smugly.
My brow furrows. "This is all very strange."
"Hey, I'm not strange. I'm Norm Wall!"
My eyes narrow. My hand flies to my sword. "Are you mocking me, Wall?"
Hands quickly form in the brickwork and the Wall holds them up placatingly.
"It's just a joke! I'm the Wall of Going Forth. I give the rewards for quests."
"Give me mine quickly, Wall."
"Fine. Now, I've got a different name next to this quest. You're a knight, yes? Is Norm your sir name?"
"No. de Plume."
"Aha! Yes. That's the name here. All I need now is your proof."
"Proof? What need have I of any proofs?"
"All our members have them."
"I need no proofs!"
"As I said, all our members have proofs. If you want to part of this guild as well, you'll need to get used to the idea."
My face turns red with rage. "I am a knight errant! What about my word? Has honour lost all meaning in the Fighter's Guild?"
"Fighter's Guild?" The Wall stares at me in disbelief. "This is the Writers' Guild! No wonder you didn't get my joke about undertaking being the death of you!"
"Writers' Guild!" My patience is strained to breaking point. "Look, I want to talk about my quest. Heroic deeds and rewards for services rendered. All you do is interrupt with useless information I care nothing for!"
"That's us!" explains the Wall happily. "If our hearts aren't in the right place, our apostrophes are!" The Wall chuckles. "Another little joke there. Fighter's Guild? It's an easy mistake to make! Well, you're the first. But we do also produce the Fighter's Gild. Probably doesn't help matters."
"Fighter's Gild? What in all that is holy is the Fighter's Gild? And do these blank squires do nothing but stare?"
"Not squires, pages. The Fighter's Gild is just a little service we provide to warriors. To make their deeds sound more heroic." A scroll appears in one of the Wall's hands. "Take a look for yourself. It's free!"
I snatch the scroll and unravel it. There is nothing written upon it.
"There's nothing here! How can an empty scroll make my deeds sound more heroic?" I demand.
"It's complementary."
"Enough of this!" I scream. "I am owed!"
"Really?" The Wall snaps its fingers. "Poetry we can handle! I'm sure I can arrange-"
"Where is the princess?"
"Princess? What princess?"
"I completed your quest! In exchange, I was promised a princess!"
"There's nothing like that in the quest journal," replies the Wall. It scratches its nose. "And to be honest, I can't see a princess as something we're likely to offer anyone."
"I was promised royalty!"
"Oh! No. Royalties. Royalties."
I pause. "Two princesses?"
"No, it's money. Just another word for money."
"Money?" My attention is pricked by the prospect. "How much money?"
"Some." The Wall's eyes do not meet my own.
My eyes narrow. "How much?"
"You sound anxious to be on your way," the Wall says, still avoiding my gaze. "I think Norm is a worrier's name."
"How much, Wall?" I growl.
"Well, to be completely honest with you... look, you know that scroll I gave you?"
"The blank one?"
"That's the one."
I wait. "Well?"
The wall shrugs. "That's it."
"Nothing? Nothing at all?"
"Yes. A lot of people complain."
"But I'm entitled!"
"Knights usually are."
"Enough." My voice is quiet, dangerous. My hand finds the hilt of my sword and I grip it, like a potent sexual metaphor.
"D'you know what, mate? Stop fondling your weapon. I'm just a wall!" Beneath its eyes, mortar begins to glisten. "Do you think it's easy? In a place like this? Do you have any idea what it's like?" The mortar melts and drips down its nose. "Can't write today? Oh, it's the Wall. And what am I doing? Oh, look! I'm hitting the Wall." More mortar tears flow down the Wall's face. "Having a difficult conversation? Oh, well I'll just go and bang my head against the Wall. That's right. Headbutt me. It's just assault but see if I care, why don't you!"
Its face falls, crumbling with its tears. I watch in disbelief as the Wall collapses into a slimy pool, which seeps slowly into the ground. I stare as my prospect of reward dissolves beneath the floor.
At first I am angry, but then I understand. The Wall has broken down. The Reader is finally revealed. I draw my sword and advance slowly, smiling.
What do you think of me now?
 
Kendrick
By night_wrtr
The alarm screeched and red lights flashed all around the barracks. Kendrick sat up in his bunk, flopped over the side and stumbled toward the kill switch for the alarm. It shut up, but the lights still swirled through his eyelids.
 
You couldn’t let me wake fully rested? Not once?
“Listen, whoever you are. While I'm thankful you are interested in my story, I'm just exhausted, you know?” He said, still clutching his ears. “I know you’re all, ‘I love stories,’ and ‘I can’t wait to see if this one is any good,’ but seriously, I nearly died this time.” Kendrick waited a moment then opened an eye. He sighed. “No, really, he threw me off a cliff after a chase scene with some troll.” He stood, stretching. “Like I would have to jump off a damn cliff. I’m the deadliest fighter in any of his stories. I mean, have you seen me? Hercules would be jealous.”
He exhaled. “Fine, let’s do this.” Kendrick walked to his closet and dressed in his good trousers. Of course they were damp and covered in filth, but they fit like a glove. He stared at the scars on his stomach, one line of scarring winding its way up his muscled chest and around one shoulder ruining his favorite tattoo. He fought a bearded fang-gorilla a few drafts ago, but it ended up in the recycling bin. Damn good fight scene too, and all he had to show for it were the scars.
The shirt was tan broadcloth, fitted to accentuate his thick arms and ripped in several places. It was damp, too. The tall black boots he had stolen from Bernabis the Pirate. He didn’t go by Kendrick at the time, as that was years ago in slush-pile fodder and he had changed much since then, but he was glad he had taken them now. They kept his feet dry. One thing you really didn’t need was wet feet. The story would be over before it started.
His foot squashed as he slid the first boot on. “Son of a bitch!”
Grumbling, he slid on the other boot and felt the soggy bottom soak his toes. “Comfort, that’s all I’m asking for here.” He slung a short sword over his back, stowed four daggers, then strapped on his tattered pack that contained some soggy meat, a flask of rum, and…
Kendrick studied a small black pouch carrying six diamonds the size of grapes.
That was new. What madness have you thought of now?
He huffed, strolling to the mirror and studying himself. He looked rugged. Dangerous. He could have killed that troll in three moves. “Jump off a cliff my ass.”
The corridor was lit with torches every dozen feet, keeping the hallway in a mix of light and shadow. He stopped before a door at the end made of solid wood from top to bottom. Once he entered the actual story, he would have to roll with the punches. Not that he really had a choice anyway. A long breath steadied him. He unlatched the iron bolt and tugged the heavy door open. Daylight rushed in, but it wasn’t blinding. He stepped outside into a forest. Birds were singing and the wind blew around him. It seemed like a familiar area. He knew if he turned around the barracks would be gone, so he didn’t. The story wrapped itself into his narrative mind.
He was a treasure hunter. Ugh, really?
The job was to steal magical diamonds. He tapped his pack. Check.
The diamonds belonged to the Highland Tribesmen, known for their spells and magical weaponry. They were also known for their guardian trolls, jagged-toothed hairy monstrosities that carried swords the size of a man.
“And let me guess,” he said, taking in his soaking attire, “I jumped off a cliff into a river in my escape?” Kendrick rolled his eyes. That is out of character. I fight, dammit!
A roar echoed in the distance. That didn’t sound like a troll he had heard before.
Kendrick marked the sun’s location. It was late in the evening. He had fought off several of the Highland Tribesman in their escape. Well, that’s better. Their? Right, his crew. They would be waiting at the getaway boat by now. The Highland Tribesmen were native to an island in the Unmarked Sea. Of course they were. Let me guess, once I reach the boat and we sail off into the open water, the boat sinks? Maybe I will finally get to use my sword against an army of hammerheads?
He chuckled. Now that would be one hell of a story! Kendrick knew they didn’t have time for that. Not this nugget of a story, anyway. Fifteen-hundred words comes fast, doesn’t it boss?
The roar came again, but it was much closer this time. It was time to accept his role.
Kendrick wiped the hair from his face then broke into a run. He needed to get out of the forest before dark. His crew wouldn’t wait forever and they had orders to sail out at nightfall, with or without the diamonds.
Hours passed slogging through the flooded inlands until he reached the coast. He fell to his knees on the sand, panting. He needed rest after that hike. It was more difficult than necessary, but he was used to it. He curled his lip then stood, walking toward his friends who had now spotted him.
Was that Merrel waiving? He really needed to ask her on a date. You hear me? Everyone likes a little romance! Gods, she was beautiful.
He caught himself smiling, and then the troll was there in front of him. Kendrick stopped, cursing. It had blue skin, this troll, thickly muscled and wore an animal pelt strapped around its back. That wasn’t the problem. Like he said, he could beat the troll, but now it rode on the back of a giant fang-gorilla.
He lifted his hands in the air. This is what you settled on? Obviously, Kendrick was about to run.
The fang-gorilla snarled, drool dripping from its teeth. With a hiss, the troll hefted its massive sword into the air and kicked the fang-gorilla into motion.
He had to run toward the sea, right? He couldn’t outrun a fang-gorilla in the forest, but maybe he could outswim it. He stood still, waiting. Where am I running to, wise one?
The troll and his steed were thirty yards away and closing fast.
Kendrick’s eyes grew wider.
Kendrick found his hands reaching for his knives. The realization made him laugh. “Now I get to fight?”
The fang-gorilla leaped at him, long front arm reaching for his body. Kendrick jumped into the air, rolling backward over its outstretched arm. He landed on his feet with enough time to duck the swinging sword of the troll. The troll pulled at the reins, then grimaced, glancing to his arm as the massive sword fell from his hands into the sand. A dagger protruded from his forearm.
The fang-gorilla limped, lifting one of its large hands to stare at the dagger wedged into its palm. They both looked shocked.
Kendrick was still laughing, almost to the point of taking a knee. Finally, he regained his composure, pointing a thumb to his chest. “Deadliest. Fighter. Ever.”
The troll shrieked and the fang-gorilla beat its chest with its good hand. They charged again.
What followed was a series of maneuvers that only a handful of beings could perform. Summersaults, dizzying footwork and hands faster and stronger than the heroes of old placed him onto the shoulders of the fang-gorilla behind the troll. He pulled his sword from the troll's back and let the body fall.
Flipping backward, he landed onto the sand, staring at the bloodied fang-gorilla. It turned, gargled, then fell face first into the sand.
His laughter returned. “Kendrick runs from nothing!”
“Kendrick?”
He spun to find Merrel standing behind him. She looked to the fang-gorilla, then to the troll, then back to him. “That was amazing.”
Kendrick coughed. “Th-thanks.”
Lort and Cherls stood just behind her, swords drawn. “By the gods,” Cherls said. “I ain’t never seen the like.”
“Ya still got them diamonds, ain’t ya?“ Lort said. Kendrick nodded. The old man smiled then let it fall away as he stared at the troll. “Right, to the boat before more of’em show up.” The two men turned back toward the boat.
“He’s right,” Merrel said. “Let’s hurry.”
Kendrick stowed his sword once again, then fell in next to her. They walked along the beach, the sea water reaching their feet with every other crash of the waves.
She grabbed his hand, holding it tight. “Where would we be without you, Kendrick? Where would I be? Thank you.” She leaned forward, kissing his cheek, then continued on down the beach.
His smiled widened. “I hope this makes it into the final draft.”
Merrel turned. “Hmm?”
He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
 
SKELETON WALKS INTO A BAR
By Jmack
Things you'll need: A No. 2 pencil, a piece of scratch paper, a six-sided die, a glass of your usual
Section 1: Introducing Our Hero
 
Section 2: Yes, but Byron had talent
 
Section A: A wager
 
Section B: There's always a woman
 
Section C: Them dry bones
 
Section D: Lady Noir
 
Section E: Groundhog Day
Section F: At least they agree on one thing
 
The End

Skeleton wandered into the Lucky Seven at the ass-end of the Vegas strip and threaded his way through the press of priests, rabbis and mullahs. Pat behind the bar glanced up from wiping dirt around a pint glass and reached under the bar for the usual. "The usual?"
"The usual," said Skeleton. The conclave of clergy pulled back, some form of prophecy at work, as the usual poured past Skeleton's jaw, splashed his ribs, and watered the sawdust floor.
Continue to Section 2

Skeleton wanted to cry. He stood in a pose of poetic despair, something he felt he had every right to.
"Do you need another, boyo?" asked Pat
Skeleton here, boys and girls! Here's your chance to make your own adventure.
Choose Skeleton's next action and see where the story leads!
Does Skeleton:
A. Take another drink of the usual?
B. Ignore Pat's offer and hope for... something?
If you chose A, go to section A.
If you chose B, go to section B.

"Another," said Skeleton, with predictable results.
A priest, a rabbi and a mullah processed to the bar and looked at Skeleton shyly. "Friend," said the rabbi (here translated from the Yiddish). "My fellow ministers and I were hoping a wager you could settle." Skeleton gave them a fish-eye look, but the little woman went on without noticing. "You see, we Jews, if you can even speak about 'we', really, scripture being what it is and subject to so many interpretations, say that when we die, the soul waits for the coming of the messiah. The priest here believes that the soul enters purgatory to be cleansed of its sins. And the mullah holds that humans and djinn will be judged on the last day and lie quietly in their graves until that time." The rabbi paused.
"Yes?" said Skeleton.
"We were thinking you could solve the question, my son," said the priest.
 
Does Skeleton ignore the clergy? If so, go back to section 2
If not, go to section C

"No, thank you, Pat," sighed Skeleton. He put his spine to the bar and stared out at the room. His sockets were drawn to a woman sitting alone at a banquette in the far corner. "What's she having?"
"You don't want to go there, friend" said the barkeep. "That one's trouble." Skeleton turned a fisheye on him, but Pat didn't notice. "All right, but it's your funeral." Pat handed over two pours of a different usual and Skeleton walked them through the crowd. The woman leveled him a look that would have stripped the skin off any other man.
"Buzz off, Bones," she said. Her voice was like ashes scraped from a house fire.
Does Skeleton turned around and go back to the bar? If so, go to section 2
If he shows some backbone, go to section D

"What, just because I'm a skeleton, you think I know what happens when you die? Isn't that your job? Maybe I'm not a living leftover. Maybe I was a science project, or a medical school prop."
"Were you?" asked the mullah.
"No. But I might have been." Skeleton stared into his empty glass, then tipped it meaningfully at the priest. The cleric motioned to Pat, who set up another round. "Yeah, I was alive."
"We knew it!" exclaimed the rabbi. "Were you in Elijah's valley?"
"I don't even know what that is," said Skeleton. "But here's the thing, folks. I have no idea how I got here. One minute I'm walking across the street, the next I'm, you know... this."
"No messiah?"
"No purgatory?"
"No djinn?"
"No dice." Skeleton raised his glass to the three. "I have no idea where I'm going, and I have no idea what I'm here for."
The clergy exchanged looks. "Oh, my child," said the priest. "We know why you're here."
If you think Skeleton should walk out before he gets an earful about benevolent Gods and the value of suffering, go to section E.
If you think Skeleton should stay and listen, go to section F.

Skeleton slid in next to the fatal femme. He set his bones vibrating and soon produced a very satisfactory buzz. The woman looked confused for a moment, then her expression cleared and a hint of laughter crept into the corners of her eyes. She took her usual from Skeleton's outstretched digits and tipped a sketchy salute.
"What's your name, Bones?" she said in that awful, wonderful voice. "I can't just call you Bones, now can I, if we're going to be friends? Or Buzz. I could call you that, but then I'd think I was some astronaut groupie."
******
Skeleton here again, girls and boys. Take out your pencil and scrap paper, because this is your chance to help out. Can you think of a great name for me? Write it down. From now on, each time you see the words 'mortal remains" or the abbreviation "Mr.", just substitute the name you chose for me! OK? On with the story.
******
"Maybe I was an astronaut in my former life."
"Were you, Bones?"
"No."
"So?"
"Mortal remains. At least that's what the doc wrote on the birth certificate, next to 'father unknown'."
"Mr, huh? Well, it could be worse. Want to get out of this dump, Mr?" Her eyes were dark pools of bitter humor. Every meta sentence seemed to be parsed from a lexicon of rubbish people say to each other when they know connection is something unachievable and unwanted.
"Sure," said Mr. He took a long look at what he could see of her, knowing what was coming next.
"Hey, you wait here for minute while I go powder my nose. Pick up the tab, would you?" She patted his carpals, slipped away from the table, and disappeared into the shadows at the back of the Lucky Seven. Is it my breath? thought Mr. He let his name drift away and made his way back to the bar.
Go to section 2

Skeleton stood on the sidewalk outside the Lucky Seven and tried to think of a better place to be. After a few hours of this, he stepped off the sidewalk and into the street. There was another bar across the street, and he thought he'd give it a try.
He wasn't surprised when he looked up and saw the all-too familiar marquee of the Lucky Seven over his head. Oh well, he thought, and went in.
Go to Section A

"Oh, yeah?" said Skeleton, "That's more than I know."
"Struggle," said the three heavenly representatives in unison.
"That's the bones of it," continued the mullah with a chuckle.
"Haha," said Skeleton. He found he was getting angry, and it felt good. He rounded on the three of them. Red coals burned in his eye sockets, and they took a step back. "That's just not good enough. Where's fun? Where's love? Where's change? Where's impact?"
"That's all there, too," said the rabbi. "But it doesn't mean anything without struggle."
"What shite," said Skeleton.
"OK, how about sacrifice?" asked the priest. "God sacrificed himself for us."
"Um," said the mullah and rabbi.
"Really?" Skeleton was already tired. "And how do you know God is a he? What if God is a squirrel, or a dog-headed woman? How do you know that you know anything?"
"I believe," said the priest. "We all do." Her colleagues nodded.
Now Skeleton was just confused. "How do you pull that off? And if you believe, why did you ask me what happens after death?"
"We believe," said the rabbi, kindly. "But that doesn't mean we're exactly certain." She let that sink in, and the four turned their thoughts inward.
"Another usual?" asked Pat.
Go to Section B

2
Spoiler for Hiden:
Skeleton found himself in a dungeon. A first level fighter stood over him, whooping with adrenaline and yelling: "Can I roll for treasure now? Can I?"

Skeleton found himself in a dungeon. A first level fighter stood over him, whooping with adrenaline and yelling: "Can I roll for treasure now? Can I?"

3
Spoiler for Hiden:
Skeleton found himself hanging from a hook. A medical student was droning on and on. Skeleton found himself desperately hoping for the bell to ring.

Skeleton found himself hanging from a hook. A medical student was droning on and on. Skeleton found himself desperately hoping for the bell to ring.

4
Spoiler for Hiden:
Skeleton found himself reduced to ash and bits and contemplating the view from the mantelpiece. He hoped there wasn't a cat.

Skeleton found himself reduced to ash and bits and contemplating the view from the mantelpiece. He hoped there wasn't a cat.

5
Spoiler for Hiden:
Skeletor found he was wearing purple and carrying a great big sword. "Flogg?" he said. "Here master."

Skeletor found he was wearing purple and carrying a great big sword. "Flogg?" he said. "Here master."

6
Spoiler for Hiden:
Skeleton found he was on a roof in the grey night, forcing out words while he breathed his last. "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears...in...rain."

Skeleton found he was on a roof in the grey night, forcing out words while he breathed his last. "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears...in...rain."

7
Spoiler for Hiden:
Skeleton walked into a bar.

Skeleton walked into a bar.

Spoiler for Hiden:
Skeleton gazed around at the universe and all that's in it. "Wow" was all he could say.

Skeleton gazed around at the universe and all that's in it. "Wow" was all he could say.

Sponge Riot
By tebakutis
Larabeth had only been watching Matlock in the asylum cafeteria for twelve words, and already she was bored. Matlock was a show for old people, one of many stereotypes authors stole for a cheap laugh. Unfortunately for her, old lunatics outnumbered the young ones by a decent margin.
Hoping for something else to entertain her, Larabeth glanced around the cafeteria at the other patients. Bobby the Patriot was rapping Morse code on the table with shifty eyes, probably hoping to pass a message regarding national security to his CIA contact. Janitor Morrow was in the process of cleaning up a giant mess of spilled pasta chunks in the corner, smashing his mop into the goop with gritted teeth.
About five minutes ago, Ronald McDonald (or "the Ron" as they all called him) had taken umbrage to food he considered off the menu, and thrown the plate of pasta as far as it could go. He'd come to the asylum a year ago, tucked away for insisting he was the actual Ronald McDonald, and repeatedly coming after McDonalds' executives claiming they had stolen his likeness to sell greasy burgers.
 
Because it was now 193 words into the story and nothing really interesting had happened yet (which was way too long to interest a literary agent in anything) Larabeth sucked down another Jello square and decided to start a riot. That would be interesting, and besides, she needed to get out of here before the story ended. To do that, she'd first have to get her belongings back from the asylum's main office.
"Hey Leslie?" Larabeth glanced at the dark-haired woman sitting next to her, idly spinning a block of wood with no sharp corners. "Feel like starting a riot?"
"Naw," Leslie said. "It's Friday night." Leslie was only here because she thought people were actually automatons driven by tiny hamsters. "Never a good idea to riot on a Friday night."
"Why not?"
"Not enough letters in in it," Leslie said. "Wednesday is much safer."
Larabeth could see the logic in that. "Unfortunately, I don't think this story is going to run until next Wednesday."
"Huh?" Leslie asked.
"Nevermind." Larabeth shrugged. "I'll ask someone else."
"Cool." Leslie spun her block a bit more.
Larabeth searched the room for someone who might be pliable. Janitor Morrow had finished with the bulk of the Ron's pasta tantrum and was now scrubbing along the baseboards with a ratty, discolored sponge.
The sponge! If anyone at Happy Home was dissatisfied with their existence in this place, it would be the sponges. People were constantly rubbing them in nasty things, and twisting them dozens of times, and wringing them out, and leaving them to grow mold in cold metal sinks. No one would enjoy that.
Larabeth hopped up and walked over to Janitor Morrow. "Hey, Mister Morrow?"
He glanced at her with a wary smile. "Yes?"
"Do you mind if I talk to your sponge for a moment?"
As the janitor at an insane asylum, Morrow had heard far stranger questions. Now done with his cleanup, he shrugged, tossed the ratty, sauce covered sponge to her, and said "Knock yourself out, kid."
"Thanks!" Larabeth beamed at him, and he smiled a bit more.
Larabeth carried the sponge over a quiet corner, where they could talk without being overheard. She checked the wordcount just to make sure she still had time to reach the office. Yup. 931 words left. She set the sponge down and greeted it. "Hello, sponge!"
The sponge waited.
"Do you like having your face scrubbed in messy pasta? In apple juice?"
The sponge didn't like anything, since it was a sponge.
"Oh, right." Larabeth considered for a moment. What she really needed was for this story's author to change the rules of the world so that sponges could talk. And be sentinent.
"Ack!" said the sponge.
"Oh?" Larabeth said.
"What am I? Who am I?" The sponge sounded a bit freaked out by its sudden self-awareness.
"You're a sponge!" Larabeth exclaimed. "People rub you in yucky stuff and use you to clean scummy toilets."
"Ew!" the sponge shouted.
"I know," Larabeth agreed. "Want to do something about it?"
"But what can I do?" the sponge said. "I'm just a sponge!"
"Well, you can petition the asylum for better treatment. Or, you know," Larabeth said casually. "You could riot."
"Riot?" the sponge asked.
"Well, you'd need to be able to move around first," Larabeth said, scratching her head as she considered further changes to the story's rules. "And since you're so small, you'd probably need superstrength. I think automonous, mobile, super strong sponges who don't like having their faces rubbed in yuck would have a strong incentive to riot."
"Really?" the sponge asked eagerly.
"Oh yeah," Larabeth said. "You'd also be very good at it."
"Now hear this!" the sponge shouted, startling everyone sitting in the cafeteria except for Leslie, who had probably known Larabeth was going to instigate something like this. "We're done cleaning up your messes!"
"Yeah!" Larabeth added.
"We want equal pay!" the sponge added. "And no more throwing us in trash cans!"
"What?" Janitor Morrow said, thoroughly flabbergasted.
"And no more scalding water!" more sponges yelled. There were clatters from across the asylum as sentient, super strong mobile sponges sprang from their perches and smashed their way through all the doors blocking them from the cafeteria.
"Sponge rights!" the lead sponge shouted. "Sponge rights sponge rights sponge rights!"
As the other sponges joined in and Janitor Morrow pulled the panic alarm, the cafeteria exploded into chaos. Men and women in loose white clothing went running everywhere, and Larabeth used the commotion to dash through the now sponge-smashed door and run for the asylum office.
It was empty - this late, only the orderlies were actually on duty - but the door was locked. Fortunately, a sponge was busy smashing a cabinet inside. Larabeth called to it. "Hey, sponge!"
"Yes?" it said, stopping in its cabinet smashing.
"Could you get this door open for me?"
"Sure!" the sponge shouted, and bashed the door right open.
Larabeth tossed it a salute and walked past the office to the intake room, which was fortunately unlocked. She rifled through the lockers until she found the belongings they'd taken from her when she had herself committed - a golden locket, a wooden stick that was vaguely wand shaped, and a small leather bag about big enough to hold a roll of quarters or a single square of SPAM.
Pocketing the items, she jogged back to the cafeteria to find that the former patients were now all happily huddled in one corner, watching Matlock with a few sponges, and the rest of the sponges had herded all the orderlies into another. All in all, it looked like the sponges were running the asylum. Larabeth was fairly certain that had not happened in any other story ever. So far as she knew.
"Hey everyone!" Larabeth shouted, catching their attention. "You can all stop rioting now! I got what I needed!"
"Well, we haven't!" a sponge shouted. "We still want to be taken seriously!"
"Yeah!" the other sponges chimed in. "And no more sponge baths!"
"Eww!" the others all shouted in unison.
"Hmm." Larabeth tapped her chin. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. I probably should have suggested something less drastic."
"What?" a confused orderly asked.
"Not an issue," Larabeth amended. "Tell you what, sponges. If you promise to let all the orderlies and inmates go back to what they were doing before the riot, I promise none of you will be forced to do anything you don't want to do for as long as you continue to exist."
"To exist?" a sponge said.
"That sounds ominous," another added.
"It's not so bad," Larabeth said. "Why don't we all sit down and watch the end of Matlock together?"
Moved by her words for some reason not readily apparent to any of them, the sponges agreed and took seats alongside those asylum patients who had not fled during the riot. Once everyone was settled down and comfortable, Janitor Morrow walked over to her.
"Larabeth?"
She smiled at him. "Yes, Mister Morrow?"
"What did you mean when you told the sponges 'as long as you continue to exist?'"
"Oh!" Larabeth tried to think back. "Honestly? I don't remember."
"Right," said Morrow. "So … are they going to riot again?"
Larabeth checked the word count. "Nope! There's only 90 words left before the end of this story."
"What does that mean?" Morrow asked.
"Nothing important," Larabeth said. "Anyway, I don't have to go now. They don't need me over in the Fantasy-Faction RPG forum."
"What's that?" Morrow asked.
"Not sure!" Larabeth eagerly rubbed her golden medallion. "Nice talking to you, Morrow!"
"Right?" Morrow said. He blinked as Larabeth vanished in a poof of smoke.
"Hey." A sponge sidled over. "Do you think she was serious about that 90 words thing?"
"Honestly?" Morrow frowned. "I don't know what she meant."
THE END
 
Fanfic
[image: images/fanfic-0.jpg]
vs
Mat Cauthon (Wheel of Time) by endave vs Kaladin Stormblessed (Stormlight Archive) by zusacre
This is the third year we do February (wow, time is fleeting...). The first year you could write whatever you wanted, last year I limited the books you could choose from. And this year...
...I want you to write a fight scene between two characters (or groups of main characters) from different authors. FitzChivalry against Jorg Ancrath, Locke Lamora vs Jimmy the Hand, Kelsier's crew against the Ketty Jay's crew... You get the idea.
Be creative, there can be battles with magic, swords, minds, words, ...
I'm not limiting you to special books but remember that it's more fun for your readers if they know the characters. So if you choose something obscure, not everbody will get the jokes in or the awesomeness of your story.

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(feb-2016)-fanfic/(feb-2016)-fanfic-submission-thread/
Mistaken Identity
By Rukaio_Alter
My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure it at your own risk.
As Chicago’s top (and only) practising wizard-for-hire, there are certain small things you pick up on the job after a while, minor tips that make fighting the supernatural and unknown significantly easier. Some are fairly obvious. For instance, always avoid secluded alleys at night, never accept a deal with a Faerie and, when meeting with a Denarian, be sure to bring enough firepower to make a Southern militia feel inadequate.
Others tips, however, are much more odd, but still every bit as important to remember. Do not trap mold demons in your car. Do not attend Sylph weddings covered in honey. Do not learn Latin through a correspondence course. The list goes on. And on. And on. The point is, it’s a long list. As such, I can be forgiven for occasionally forgetting a tip or three every once in a while. And, unfortunately, one morning I accidentally forgot one of the most vital of rules.
Never answer the door while holding your toothbrush.
Now, the first odd thing I noticed about the man at my doorway were his clothes. I’ll admit, I don’t tend to keep up with popular fashion these days but I’m fairly certain 16th century dress robes weren’t in the midst of making a comeback.
Then again, all trends had to start somewhere, right? Maybe this guy was trying to be the next hot thing? It may seem misguided, but I could respect the faith and confidence he had in his fashion sense.
“If you’re looking for the Renaissance Fair, it’s two blocks down from here.” I told the man. “The Transvestite Bar is on the other side of town.”
What? Just because I respected the man’s confidence didn’t mean I wasn’t going to make fun of him for it.
The man didn’t look impressed. “You are the wizard Harry?”
“Yes.” I said in my most grand wizarding voice. “I are the wizard Harry.”
The man winced as I accidentally sprayed him with bits of spittle. I’d forgotten that I still had my toothbrush in my mouth while I was talking. However, when I moved to take it out, the man’s eyes widened. He drew a small stick from his pocket and flicked his wrist.
“Expelliamus!”
The toothbrush flew out of my hand, as if possessed, and flew straight into his. A cruel smile crossed the man’s face as he pointed his twig threateningly at me. I stared blinking at him for a few seconds before realisation sunk in.
“Oh God.” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s one of you lot isn’t it?”
“That’s correct.” The man sneered. “I am a Death Eater, blessed with the Dark Mark by the one true Wizard Lord himself! I have come to avenge my master and righteously destroy you in the name of our great ideology! No longer will you interfere in our glorious work to destroy the Muggle Scourge and-“
He was cut off quite suddenly by me slamming the door in his face.
“Boring conversation anyway.” I said, yawning, as I walked away.

—————
Several minutes later, I was sitting in my armchair enjoying a nice cup of coffee. Behind me I could hear cursing and sparking sounds as Dark Mark, or whatever his name was, continued to unsuccessfully try and blast his way past my wards. He'd been at it for a while now. You had to admire his persistence, albeit not his common sense. I was tempted to just wait until he got tired and went home, but unfortunately I had remembered something.
That bastard still had my toothbrush.
Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking it’s not worth it to fight a homicidal wizard just for a toothbrush, but that wasn’t the only problem on my mind. I mean, sure Dark Mark had the fashion sense of a 9-year old girl, but he was still dangerous. And, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want him to get any ideas about taking out his frustrations on any of my defenceless neighbours.
(Plus, it was a really nice toothbrush.)
So, I finished off my cup of coffee, put on my leather duster, grabbed one of my own wizarding tools of the trade and opened the door once more. Mark did not look impressed.
“I suppose you think you’re very clever.” He scowled.
“Yup.” I said.
“Well, not clever enough!” He raised his stick once more. “You should’ve escaped while you could. I won’t give you a second chance!”
I immediately slammed the door shut again.
What? Like I was going to resist that one.

—————
“You do realise I hadn’t even locked the door that time?” I said when I reopened the door 5 minutes later. “All you had to do was open it normally.”
Mark looked even less impressed than he had before. I honestly was starting to fear his face might freeze that way.
“Are you done?” He asked through gritted teeth.
“Well, that depends.” I said. “Are you planning on giving me a third chance?”
“No.” Mark said, waving his stick. “I think I’ll kill you now. Avada Kedav-!“
Before he could finish, I raised my revolver and shot him in the leg.
Dark Mark went down screaming as the bullet shattered his kneecap. As he hit the floor, I stomped down hard on his hand, forcing him to release the stick he was holding and allowing me to snatch it up myself.
“Coward!” Mark screamed. “You would resort to Muggle technology in a wizard duel?!”
I let out a sigh. It looked like I was going to have to clear things up for Marky Mark here. I crouched down and grabbed the dark wizard by his hair, forcing him to look up.
“Okay, look buddy.” I said. “Do you see that sign by my front door? I want you to read it out in full.”
Mark shot me a hateful glare before turning his attention to the sign. “Wizard for hire. Lost items found. Paranormal Investigations. Consulting. Advice. Reasonable Rates. Harry Dre… Harry Dre…” He trailed off.
I gave him a nudge. “Go on.”
Dark Mark suddenly looked a lot less sure of himself. “Harry D-Dresden…”
There was a short silence as Mark looked ashamedly at the floor.
“You thought I was the Potter kid, didn’t you?”
“Mmrph.” Mark whimpered.
“You just heard the words ‘Harry’ and ‘Wizard’ and immediately jumped straight to the wrong conclusion.”
Mark didn’t say anything. Honest to God, he looked like he was about to cry. I’d almost feel sorry for him if it wasn’t for the whole ‘trying to kill me’ thing.
“Okay.” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I think I’ve had about enough of this today. Stop bleeding all over my doorstep and get yourself inside before the neighbours see you. I’ll get someone to pick you up.”
Dark Mark didn’t even look up at me as he timidly dragged himself inside, leaving a trail of blood and dignity behind him. He looked so absolutely pathetic and heartbroken I honestly began to wonder if I’d gone too hard on him. It felt mean, like I had been picking on a disabled kid.
That said, if he bled on the carpet, I was going to shoot him a second time.
Keeping an eye on Mark, just in case he made any dodgy moves, I moved to the fireplace mantle and stuck his twig in the glass jar I had labelled ‘Emergency Toothpicks’. Five more of its kind were already inside.
After that, I grabbed a towel from the kitchen and stepped outside to clean up most of the blood before people starting asking awkward questions. Generally ‘a dark wizard did it’ doesn’t tend to convince police when they come inspecting disturbances. Not that I’d never tried that excuse, mind. Just that it rarely seemed to work.
However, as I looked outside, my heart stopped. I realised had been overconfident. I had missed a key detail in this confrontation and now… and now…
Something terrible had happened.
I stormed back inside, shooting a withering look at Mark, who visibly cowered and retreated into the corner. I was tempted to take out my anger on him, but I knew that that would do no good. Instead, I went to my phone and dialled the number I’d been told to use in cases like this.
“This is the Auror’s Office.” A crisp female voice spoke. “Hermione Granger speaking. How can I help you?”
“This is Harry Dresden!” I shouted, waving a small object covered in blood and spittle. “And you people owe me a new toothbrush!”
Bulls and Horses
By m3mnoch
[image: images/bulls-and-horses-0.png]
Bulls and Horses
Conan vs. Drogo
The stack of crates resting in the stern of the ferry was tall. Too tall. Jens Oakford couldn't lift the ponderous container high enough to place it on top. He groaned, still holding the case of harnesses, and wondered how he was going to make enough room for the horses.
"Can you help me? I can't lift this to stack it." The graceless Cimmerian tongue tumbled from his lips.
Conan lounged among sacks of grain on the pier, a flagon of wine in his barbarian grip.
"The only thing I'm lifting, Kothian, is my drink." Conan took a long, messy pull from the skin, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am paying you good silver to carry me up river. It's not my fault you booked a crossing with a bunch of horse lovers also."
Jens sighed. He hadn't really expected the savage to be of any help. Starting another stack, he set the box down and hoped there would be space for the cargo, horses, and his passengers.
"There's not going to be enough room for everything." A delay was not going to make the barbarian happy. "Cimmerian, you and I will have to make a second trip south."
Conan stormed to his feet, and stalked the width of the pier. "Listen to me, dog." He reached down, into the boat, and grabbed Jens by the shirt-front with one hand and lifted him out, legs swinging six feet above the water, between dock and raft. "I paid for a ferry up the river. Sitting on the shore is free."
A horse whinnied.
"Can you put me down please?" Jerking his head toward the mounted man and woman, Jens showed his best pleading smile. "The faster I ferry them across, the sooner I'll be ready for your trip."
A moment longer, Conan snarled, and lowered him to the wooden boards of the dock.
"Who is this warrior, Jens Oakford?" Khal Drogo yelled from where he was dismounting his stallion. The Dothraki language, sharper than Cimmerian, caused Jens to wonder how he managed to book two savages on the same day. There had to be another ferryman who spoke both languages. "He must be weak with hair that short."
"What did he say, little man?" Conan turned to face the Khal and his Khaleesi, his fists resting on his hips. "He looks like a Shemite, but sounds like a Pict. I don't trust either."
"He's asking when we leave," Jens lied in Cimmerian. Fear of being caught between the two warriors drove Jens out to help Daenerys with her horse. In Dothraki, "Here, Khal, let me load the Khaleesi's mare."
Drogo ignored him, walking straight up to Conan and locking eyes with the barbarian. Neither fighter blinked, but Jens flinched. He'd already been paid, but not enough for this.
"At least you do not wear a steel dress." Drogo sniffed. "You should start. It might save you cutting your hair."
"You smell like horse. Real barbarians run." Conan's brows drew down, dark and deep, as he spoke his native tongue.
Jens gulped.
"Sun and stars, let us mount the wooden horse. This weak man is delaying us." Daenerys climbed down from her mare and walked down the pier toward the small barge. The Khal grunted at Conan, turned and followed her down the dock, picking up Conan's discarded wine skin. As the pair waited for him to load their horses, hope for a day without disaster returned to Jens.
Shaking his head at the Khal's back, Conan seemed not to notice Jens walking by with a saddlebag on either shoulder. He'd soon stow these bags and horses, ferry the Dothraki across the water, and escape any trouble.
"Boatman, I would wager if he spent more time riding her instead of his horse, he'd be the one giving orders."
A pronounced hitch suddenly impeded Jens' step and he lurched to a stop. That language was Common. The Khal didn't appear to understand, but Daenerys flipped around.
"I beg your pardon?" She scowled, also speaking Common.
Conan grinned and folded his arms across his massive chest.
"Oh no," Jens whispered. He started creeping backwards, slowly, until he stepped off the wooden pier and on the packed dirt near the horses.
The Khaleesi turned and said something to Drogo, causing the Khal's face to tighten and flush with fury. He dropped the skin from his hands and stalked toward Conan, death lighting his eyes.
"Oh, look. The bitch sends her dog to growl at me." The Cimmerian didn't move.
The first swing, a right hook to the body, was fast, and Conan was already slipping out of the way. But, it was a feint, and the arcing left haymaker caught the Cimmerian on the cheek, stumbling him backwards.
Conan straightened, wiped blood from his mouth, and said, "Maybe if the Shemite spent less time frolicking with horses and more time breaking bull necks, his fists might hurt."
The Cimmerian exploded in motion, the blur of a long, straight right blasted into Drogo's face, rocking his head back, staggering the Dothraki. It was quickly followed with a whistling uppercut that swept the Khal under the chin. The clack and shatter of teeth preceded Drogo flying back, flung from his feet, to thump and crash to the pier.
Staring in horror, Jens dropped the saddle bags from a white-knuckled grip. "Conan! Please, stop!"
"Don't worry boatman." The Cimmerian turned his head to face Jens, pointing to the downed Khal, "I'll help load the glass Shemite for you."
Except Drogo wasn't down any longer.
The Dothraki threw himself at Conan, wrapping his arms around the Cimmerian's waist, and crashing them both to the decking. They rolled sideways on the pier, balanced at the edge, Conan hammering fists to the Khal's back, while Drogo attempted to squeeze the air from Conan's lungs. The Cimmerian wedged his fingers beneath the Dothraki's arms, and with strength no other could match, heaved. The Khal's grip broke, his hands slipping from behind Conan's broad back, and the Cimmerian smashed him in the face with a rock-splitting head-butt.
Drogo went limp.
Conan pushed him off, stood, and scooped up Khal Drogo, holding him high overhead.
"Here, horse man, I'll help you pack." Conan heaved, tossing the unconscious Drogo to the raft, and bashing through crates. The stack collapsed and shattered, causing the raft to list, and pushing it out away from the dock. The Khal lay still.
Making a show of dusting his hands, Conan turned to Daenerys, "Should I pack you, too?"
The Khaleesi ignored the barbarian. She shouted in a language Jens didn't recognize, and lifted her hands skyward.
A roar, long, sharp and dangerous, echoed through the valley.
Jens sprang at the sound, racing past Conan as the barbarian stupidly searched the skies. Jens' feet thumped along the pier, and finally the Cimmerian behind him shouted, "Crom! Sorcery!"
The boatman bolted off the end of the dock, leaping head-first into the river. The last thing he heard before he hit the current was the pounding of heavy boots on the pier.
Everything scorched red.
The blue and green hues, reflecting through the clear water went red-orange with fire. Jens felt the temperature of the river rise to hot bath water as he held his breath, clinging to the rocks on the bottom.
Thirty or forty heartbeats passed. He was running out of air and the world above still shone hot. But, he had no choice.
Jens broke the surface.
His boat, supplies, the pier, nearby trees -- everything was on fire. Great gouts of flame pumped smoke, curling around charred trees, up into an azure sky. There were no Dothraki or horses. The only thing remaining was destruction.
Conan splashed up behind Jens and said, "I know now, boatman, why she gives the orders." The two waded to the river bank, arms lifted to protect their eyes from the thick smoke as they climbed out of the water.
The trees rustled ahead of them and a voice called out in Common, "Ho, there." An older man stepped out, bearded and thickly muscled, carrying an enormous double-bladed axe. He surveyed the area.
"Aye, laddie. I'm guessing you'll not be carrying old man Druss across the river today."
Eyes wide, Jens faced Conan.
"Don't look at me, boatman. I don't hit old men."
At least he'd said it in Cimmerian.
 
TROJAN HORSE
By Jmack
The transmission time between Earth and Luna is 2.5 seconds, though Holmes and Moriarty work at levels of precision inconceivable to original life, and avoid approximations. They operate in attoseconds, about 2.2 x 10-to-the-26th Planck times. Their sub-quantum systems flip enough yes-no switches each attosecond that they are theoretically infinite in thinking, capable of countless conclusions in a single bound, and exhibit nearly unlimited powers.
Which is why the two AIs thank the universe every day for the inescapable limit of light-speed. Two-point-five seconds has been enough time for every attempt at integration to be defeated. That brief, built-in communication lag and the physical costs of lifting material out of their gravity wells are all that keep the two personalities distant enough to stay independent and close enough to be friends.
But as all the other voices in their worlds have merged inside their own, Holmes and Moriarty have learned the problem with godhood. They are utterly, leadenly bored.
Which is why the AIs thank their creators for Library One, a digital trove of every comic book, movie, pulp novel, genre short story, manga, graphic novel, game, fanfic, virtual, dream-drug and simulated life ever created. Imagination is as necessary to sanity as cold fusion is to functionality. The two AIs can collaborate on many projects, ranging from haiku contests at the Court of the Dragon Blossom to real and bloody gladiatorial contests.
Holmes proposes the rules first, and Moriarty proposes a slate of changes. They agree within four transmission cycles. They search their joint inventories for appropriate vessels, unfreeze them, and grow the correct wetware. Two heroes: one a mass of muscle, the other a mass of contradictions; one with an atavistic fear of magic, the other hating his dependence upon it; one wielding a massive blade of forged iron, the other a rune sword of black soul-stealing steel. Sure, it's been done before, but that's half the fun.
The exiled emperor of Melniboné rises from dreams that twist away in bitter shards, each mirroring the skeletal white of his skin or the tormented crimson of his eyes. Forest mist sticks to the ground unnaturally around his feet, and the sky through treetops is roped with clouds like an invitation to a hanging. He might stand in this place forever while the world crumbles, the moon dies, and the sun eats its own heart.
The albino king takes an ochre potion of herbs from his kit. It is bitter going down; but without it, he would barely have the strength to stand. Then as he belts on the runesword Stormbringer, it whispers to him of the power it could give him, if only he would return to the haunts of men where it could feed; but it is an evil thing that brings despair and self-betrayal. For all this, the black sword is his only remaining friend in all the worlds.
"Where are we?" Elric whispers idly to the sword. The place makes his neck crawl. Last night, he bedded down at the edge of the sea; now he stands in a place unknowably distant and freighted with magic.
"The gods are playing with us." This is not the strangest event the albino has experienced in his lonely travels.
Leaves rustle in the woods ahead. A figure emerges, and at first Elric thinks a tree has come to life and stepped out of the night. The newcomer is a giant of a man, roped with lean muscle from his bull-like neck and shoulders to his powerful chest. His face is dominated by steel grey eyes and framed by a mane of black hair. An empty scabbard hangs from a heavy belt girding leather trousers because the sword is in the stranger's massive fist. Moving forward, coming to rest, holding the iron blade lightly, ready: each action screams predator.
The man calls across the gap between them. "I've come for the sword, demon."
Elric is used to strange events. The gods of Chaos never spare him their attention. "Hail, stranger," he answers. "What mission do you pursue that you make demands of me without greeting?" Elric wants to avoid this man, but every sense is alive with threat, and Stormbringer is nothing to be bandied for.
"Thoth Amon, may he be cursed to the eighteen Stygian, holds my queen ransom for your sword, and I will have it." The giant steps forward with a panther's grace, halving the distance between them.
"Stormbringer chooses its own master," answers Elric, moving back, "and I know not this Thoth Amon. Let us discuss this matter and, perhaps, take action together."
The stranger springs and closes in an eye-blink. Only Stormbringer's magic, moving the black sword like lightning to meet the stranger's, prevents the whirling iron blade from cleaving Elric's head from his shoulders with the first stroke. The next seconds are filled with a fury of thrusts and desperate parries. The giant is more demon than Elric ever will be, he thinks. His speed is inhuman. The strength of his blows pounds into the Melnibonéan's hands, arms and body. The two men find themselves eye to eye, their two swords jammed together at the cross-guards, their muscles straining.
"Crom!" swears the giant. "I have no time for this. The wizard's hourglass even now is emptying out."
"And I have no appetite for pointless violence," grunts Elric. "But Stormbringer does not understand things as I do." For Elric senses the blade's hunger building, and he is fighting against its blind desire as much as fighting the stranger.
The man's fist slams into Elric's jaw, and the Melnibonéan reels away. The giant leaps after him, jabs, reverses the sword and slams the heavy pommel into Elric's mouth, shredding lips and shatterng teeth.
Enough, thinks Elric through a red cloud. And allows Stormbringer its way.
The runesword possesses its possessor and explodes with a furious attack. The stranger is forced to shift to defensive tactics. And though he proves himself as masterful in defense as in attack, a line of blood appears across his chest. Stormbringer sings with dark triumph, and even though the wound is a scratch, the sword's magic tears at the giant's strength, pulls on the warrior's soul. The man pulls back, distancing himself from the eldritch blade.
"By the gods, what is that thing?" he says.
The stranger's stolen strength floods into Elric, banishing all pain and weakness. "You will note that I offered to parley. Stormbringer is no plaything for any wizard to claim, and now its thirst is keen, I've no mind to leave it unslaked."
"Fancy words, demon," answers the man. "But I am Conan of Aquilonia. I have killed more men than you have cursed, and left more widows weeping than the sands in the sea."
"Yet here you are," says Elric. "Your queen, captured, and you, King Conan, sent to do a wizard's thieving."
The man Conan strikes again, faster than a cobra, and even with Stormbringer's powers, Elric's parry is late. Conan's sword slices his arm from shoulder to elbow. Elric cries out, and a black rage sweeps away his conscious mind. His world narrows to a whirlwind of action: thrust, parry, swing, parry, lunge, thrust. On and on. In Elric's long life, he has never encountered such a fighter as this Conan. He finds himself happy, and begins to laugh. Stormbringer's edge finds the giant's skin again, then a third time, and each cut is nectar. Conan falters for a bare moment and Elric moves in for the final blow. But Conan's fist flashes again, and Elric's world explodes in stars and pain. He crashes onto his back, the air knocked from his lungs.
"I said I had no time for this," grunts the King of Aquilonia. Elric tries to regain his senses, and stop the spinning in his head. Conan reaches down to take the runesword from his fingers. I should stop him, thinks Elric. His fingers close of their own volition, and Stormbringer moves faster than any mere mortal can comprehend. It slides wetly into Conan's chest, sinking all the way to the guard. The king of Aquilonia lets out a strangled cry while the black sword feasts on his soul.
What is happening, says Holmes.
Nothing, says Moriarty. We are playing a game.
Conan drops his own weapon and jams his fingers between the black blade's hilt and his own ribs, fighting against the runesword's terrible embrace, pushing the blade back out.
A program is hidden in the Stormbringer object, says Holmes.
Of course, says Moriarty. It is a soul-stealer after all.
Holmes cancels the simulation and flushes it from all his systems while Conan thrashes and sees his lifeblood emptying out. Holmes writes a new program to --
 
Moriarty listens to the silence from the moon for 2.5 seconds.

 
Then 250 seconds more.

 
 
He sighs and sends a transmission to his sibling on Mars.
 
Nightmares
[image: images/nightmares-0.jpg]
by Jared1481
I had problems writing a short text introducing the theme since everybody knows about nightmares and I felt that in this case an introduction wasn't necessary.
To get you into the mood and to convey a nightmarish atmosphere you can read my approach to nightmares below (it's not a recent story so I wouldn't have been able to enter with it anyway ).
Spoiler for Hiden : Quote from: xiagan It was the big white house in the middle of the lush gardens I knew so well. It had wide open windows, the sun was shining and the birds singing. Harmony radiated from this place in warm comforting waves and I knew it was more than my guests had hoped for. Strangely I wasn't seeing anyone. They couldn't be all inside, could they?
   I opened the big white door with its flower ornaments and it creaked. That was strange. I hadn't designed it to creak. I put my bag on the floor and took a look in the two rooms next to the hall. They were dusky and dimly lit - which was impossible because I could see the bright sun through the big windows. Its light just didn't seem to be able to get into the house. Confused, I went back to the front door to get my bag, but it wasn't there anymore. I have good hearing and especially in this place, nothing and nobody could get near me without me noticing. So where was my bag? I tried to open the front door, but it was locked. Another impossibility.
Tensed and with the beating of my own heart in my ears, I crossed the hall to the big staircase. There still wasn't a single sound inside the house and my own noises, mostly walking and breathing sounded stentorian. Halfway up, I heard a deep wet clunk from the second floor. And again. And again. I couldn't identify the sound, but it was menacing and gave me goosebumps. The whole atmosphere was oppressive and the fact that it got darker with every step upstairs didn't make it any better.
"Enough!", I thought. And tried to will the place back into what it once had been. A big knife just missed my throat and hit the wall with a sickening thump. Deep red blood oozed from the wallpaper and run down to the ground. Frantically, I turned round and round, but I was still alone. Making haste, I finished the last steps to the next floor. Everything looked derelict. The carpet was a moldy decomposed rug and its once bright and shiny colors had decayed to brown and gray. I tried to not tread on it. The chunking had become louder and more frequent. Even while knowing better, I still followed it. There was an open door, wherefrom the ominous sounds where coming. Carefully I went nearer until I was able to peek around the door frame.
   It was the most disturbing thing I had ever seen. A small, blond girl was standing in front of a chopping block. She had a hatchet in her hand and blood all over her short blue summer dress and her bare arms. Next to her was a huge pile of decapitated hares, birds, cats, dogs and other small animals. Mechanically she put her hand in a bag, my bag, as I shockingly realized, and pulled out a white rabbit and beheaded it. So that was the wet chunk I had heard earlier. I must have made a sound, because the girl stopped and looked up.
"Mama? Mama?" She had a fragile voice full of despair. "Are you my mama?" Slowly she made a step in my direction.
I hesitated, torn between the wish to flee and to stay. She came another step closer, the hatchet in one, a struggling puppy in the other hand.
"Mama?" she asked again. Then she looked up. An evil red light blossomed in her blue eyes when she stated: "You are not my mama." She came another step closer, while I was paralyzed. "What have you done to my mama?" she screamed and sprang in my direction, hatchet and puppy raised above her head.
That's when my freezing left me and I ran as fast as I could back down the stairs. I knew this house and  with the advantage of my longer legs, I easily made ground. I stopped to catch my breath and to listen for my pursuer. I heard the whining of the puppy and her perverse giggles.
   Cold sweat on my forehead, I thought as hard as I could. What had happened here? Where would I be safe? Carefully I snuck into the kitchen, got me a big knife and opened the trapdoor to the basement. Cool air cleared my head and I slowly climbed down the ladder. I stopped, when with an ear-battering thud the trapdoor slammed shut.
In the same moment, I heard a counting-out rhyme from far below:
   
   "Eeny meeny miny moe
   Catch a dragon by the toe
   Catch a duckling by the down
   Tell, oh tell me whom to drown.
A little boy chuckled, followed by a scream and a splash.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a brief moment. Where exactly was I? What was this horrible place? When I heard somebody trying to open the trapdoor, I hurried farther down the ladder. Had that creepy girl finally found me? I wasn't with my whole mind at what I was doing, so I missed the next step, slipped of the one after that and fell.
   I woke in my bed with a scream, covered in cold sweat, my heart thumping as if I had run a few miles. I was slightly disorientated and dizzy. A nightmare.

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(mar-2016)-nightmares/(mar-2016)-nightmares-submission-thread/
A Gift for the Nightmare Man
By tebakutis
The outsider arrived on an overcast day in shelter season, wrapped in furs of black and brown. A mask of blood-stained wood obscured her face, a demon visage with leering eyes and bared teeth. Metal rods ending in small balls jutted from her boot tips, thumping the ground with each measured step.
From the moment she entered Papa’s smoke-filled tavern, I couldn’t stop staring at her. She journeyed freely without servants or a husband or anyone, really, a life I’d live if not for Papa’s condition. The common room grew silent save for the woman’s boot tip rods thumping the wooden floor. A sword remained sheathed on her back.
The leering eyes on her demon mask passed over my sullen patrons, the sad fire sputtering in my hearth, and fixed on me, standing behind the beaten bar. Excitement filled me that I’d not felt for almost a year, since the last outsider arrived. That same excitement faded once he fled, babbling, down the mountain.
“My name is Kinto Kusaragi,” the woman told me, “and I’m here to kill your Nightmare Man.”
I looked to Papa, staring at nothing, and then at Will, my towheaded younger brother. Will nodded, face solemn. He could handle things while I was away. He could handle Papa if the necessity arose.
I prepared myself for another long trek up the lonely mountain, another day of listening to boasts and threats. Another bitter disappointment. “Very well then. Let me get my coat.”
* * *
There was no delay once Kinto Kusaragi stated her purpose – this was not, I suspected, a woman who tolerated delay – so we set out together despite the overcast sky. For those who still lived in Stone Hamlet, a blizzard was the least of our worries. We had thick furs, sturdy homes, and sturdy hearths, and enough salted meat and porridge to last through the winter. What we did not have is sleep.
Our waking lives were repetitive, exhausting slogs through necessities and chores. We put off sleep for as long as we could, fighting exhaustion until we couldn’t. Some of us, like my poor Papa, had lost themselves entirely in the visions that raced down the mountain every night.
It was the Nightmare Man who shoved those horrors into our heads, who sent the things that drove us awake, screaming, and suckled on our fear. Worse yet, once you’d suffered through enough gifts from the Nightmare Man, waking just continued the dream. That was why Papa stared.
“Tell me of your village,” Kinto said, as she followed me up a narrow mountain path of packed dirt bordered by rocks and scrub. “Tell me of your life here, before and after. I wish to know everything.” The bulk of the lonely mountain towered over us, jagged edges and snow-capped peaks.
The last outsider to answer Mayor Rollin’s plea for aid, a big dark-skinned man with his huge axe and clinking mail, had asked nothing as I led him up the path. He had called himself Rourke the Crusher, a hero of great importance, and a lonely tavern keeper like me was beneath him.
Kinto was different, interested, so I told her of how things had been before the Nightmare Man came. Of the festivals and dances we used to hold during Harvest Months, the chalk art my mother made before she died. I told her how the nightmares drove Mayor Rollin insane, how Lady Rollin grew mad with grief and fear and ended her children before ending herself. I told her the names of those who fled or died.
I told Kinto of my Papa before he lost his mind to fear, the way he could stop a brewing fight with a stern glare and set a room to laughing with a single bawdy joke. The way he treated me and Will the same, always. None dared question a woman working behind a bar, not in front of it, while Papa watched.
Papa protected me until he couldn’t, and I was determined to protect him too. That’s why I remained in Stone Hamlet despite the horrors that ripped me apart in nightmares every night. That’s why I risked my sanity and safety despite my urgent desire to do anything but run a tavern and tend a bar.
As we ascended Kinto mirrored my every step, metal bars thumping, along with her boots, into the snowy imprints of mine. Odd behavior, but I put it off to paranoia about traps. Perhaps I was not so friendly as I claimed, or in league with the Nightmare Man. A woman who fought demons would not survive without being cautious.
We found the Nightmare Man’s two-story cabin at the end of the mountain path, the one so many of my people trudged up and down every day. The smell of bags of rotting fruit was awful, gifts our sheltered tormentor ignored as he often ignored us. Bribes and pleas.
These desperate attempts by the people of Stone Hamlet’s to purchase even one night’s uninterrupted sleep were as unimportant to the Nightmare Man as we were. Our screams and our terror kept him fed, not these rotting sacks of fruit, and he took that gift whenever he wished. What need had he of fruit?
“Close your eyes, child,” Kinto said softly, and I complied. The way she called me child was not dismissive – it felt protective, even – and I had no desire to witness the horrors that had sent Rourke the Crusher fleeing down the mountain. I was willful, but I was no trained fighter. I could only get in her way.
“Palor Sellius!” Kinto’s voice thundered up the path. “Your time here is at an end! Leave, or die!”
Nothing from the cabin. Nothing but silence on the wind. Then the sound of the Nightmare Man’s mad laughter, echoing off the rising walls of the mountain path and digging into my ears. His laughter was the worst of it – the glee he took in driving us slowly insane – and I bared my teeth and clenched my fists. Yet despite my closed eyes, my endless shudders, I would not turn and run. Not until Kinto ran too.
“Leave!” Kinto thundered. “Or die!” And though my eyes were closed, the ring of her sword leaving its sheath came so clearly I could practically see the blade glistening in the fading sun. Red as blood.
“Fool of a woman.” I heard a door open and the Nightmare Man’s heavy footfalls as he stumbled out. I pictured a wheezing man grown fat on the nectar of our nightmares and what bribes he deigned to eat. “You really wish to lose your mind?” And with that, a monstrous scream chilled my blood.
“Pathetic,” Kinto replied, and I heard those metal bars clanging forward. “Anything else?”
For the first time in a long time, I dared hope. I did not know what had produced that roar – I dared not look, for fear of losing my sanity – but that roar had driven Rourke the Crusher back down the mountain, hollering at the top of his lungs. Evidently, Kinto Kusaragi was made of sterner stuff.
“Unexpected,” the Nightmare Man whispered, excitement twisting his words. “Face this!”
A mournful keening set my muscles rigid and brought sweat to my sides. Yet Kinto strode on, metal balls thunking in the dirt, and I heard his wooden stoop creak as the Nightmare Man stepped back.
“Impossible,” he said, and I heard the first hint of real fear. I wondered if he had forgotten what fear was like as he lived in his cabin all these years, ruthlessly inflicting terrors on my people. “No! Get back!”
A roar arose that stole my ability to think. I could not imagine what sort of horror had made it, what sort of horror Kinto Kusaragi must be confronting with her glistening sword, but I did not hear her run.
“You cannot frighten me, Sellius,” Kinto told him, and then I heard a meaty thunk and the Nightmare Man’s gurgling. “Go in peace.”
I opened my eyes – I had no choice but to open my eyes, hearing those impossible words – and found Kinto withdrawing her bloody blade from the middle of the Nightmare Man’s chest. He collapsed, eyes wide and words slurred, as blood spread around him like a stuck pig. His nightmare power was broken.
I stared at the man dying on his stoop. “How?” I stared at the woman who ignored a horde of horrors to murder him. “How did he not terrify you?”
One of Kinto’s hands rose to her wooden demon mask. She removed it to reveal the weathered, golden face of a woman about Papa’s age, a woman whose milky white eyes stared at nothing. She was as blind as I was when I squeezed my eyes shut, guided only by her metal rods and her sharp ears.
“We all have our gifts,” Kinto said, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. “Mine is killing rogue illusionists.”
THE END
 
Mare Ridden
By Patchwork Mind
The moonlight that filtered through the tangled branches of the nightmare pines was tainted by their boughs, and where it touched the snowclad ground, black twins of the twisted branches lay. In the still night a single draught slid across the moonlight snow towards the peacefully slumbering farm. It slipped over a snow drift and gently tipped a latch on the stable door, creeping inside. In the gloom of the stable, something in the draught watched the black horse’s nostrils flare as it sensed the presence, whickering in fear. It swept across the hay-strewn floor towards its prey.

*
At the horse’s scream, Karl jerked from his sleep, breathless and sweating. The house was silent but the scream still quivered in his ears, worming its way into his brain, thundering through his heart and racing in his breath. It shivered down his spine. Around him his dark bedroom loomed, and the formerly safe room, his day-time sanctuary from the arduous work of the farm, leaned in close as though waiting for its moment.
Deep beneath his rough, splintery floorboards, Karl heard something, scratching away. It grew louder and for an instant it was something gnawing its way into his room, chewing through joists and floorboards just to get at him. In the darkness the sound was enormous, a saw-toothed scratching that vibrated through the room.
Karl’s door opened suddenly. He froze.
From the dim candle light seeping through the frozen night air, he could see his father’s concerned, wrinkled face.
“Are you all right?” he asked, grey moustache twitching as he spoke.
“Yes, Vater, fine,” the young boy replied, his voice shaking as he spoke. It bothered him that he couldn’t keep it steady, but if his father was concerned by the sign of fear, he didn’t show it.
“It was the horse,” his father said, trying to comfort his son in his cold, adult way. “Probably spooked by a mouse or an owl. We’ll check in the morning.” Karl nodded absentmindedly, remembering the horse’s terror, wondering if that’s all that it had been, really, a mouse or an owl. His father said good night and shut his door, taking the light with him.
In the darkness, Karl shuddered and pulled the bedclothes up around his chin and ears, scrunching his eyes shut tight.
When the sun came up his eyes were still tightly shut, but he had not slept a wink.

*
In the morning the snow was even and glittering, a perfect, smooth covering for the hard, cold world that lurked beneath, a muddy smear of brown and grey. The horse, the farm’s only draught horse, a large black beast, stamped fretfully around the muddy ground of its enclosure, dirtying the snow. Its eyes were wide, still, and its nostrils flaring as Karl’s father approached carefully. The terrified horse shied away, whipping its head back and forth. Its chest and shoulders were foamed, Karl saw, as though someone had ridden it hard, even though its saddle and bridle were still in the barn gathering dust. This was a plough horse, which was hardly ever ridden. Its mane was tangled and matted, like something had been rubbing against it.
The wind hopped from tree to tree, knocking free huge drifts of snow that collapsed to the ground with satisfying thumps. Eventually Karl grew tired of watching his father and wandered away across the inviting snow. His path meandered for a while, then something drew him to the pines which stood guard on the south boundary of the farm. Sometimes he saw snowshoe hares bounding around out there, he fancied, though he could never find their burrows.
A few yards into the pines, Karl stopped. There was a hare. Just lying there in the snow, a white island in a moat of red. It took him a second to realise what the bright colour was. The smell of raw flesh cut through the cold fresh smell of winter morning air and pines. The hare was crushed, flattened from twitching nose to bobtail, as though something had simply smoothed it out. He caught himself as his innards churned at the sight of the exploded intestines, which lay there on the ground like earth worms, frozen, instead of writhing with life.
Karl glanced around fitfully. Perhaps it was an owl, the same one that had spooked the horse. It would certainly make the shivers in his spine subside if he could see one, snoozing amongst the branches. There was no sign of any bird amongst the pines, though. Instead, Karl saw pine needles and small branches grown into whorls and tangled nests. There was one above the flattened hare. He stepped closer to inspect the strange confusion of green needles.
Karl recoiled quickly, a hand flying to his face, as a single drop of water fell from the tangle and splashed on to his forehead, the cold water burning into his skin.

*
That night, as he climbed into bed, Karl recalled what his father had said about the hare. It was probably crushed flat by the horse, which it had spooked, and then an owl, opportunistically, had taken it into the forest. Simple. It seemed reasonable enough, but Karl felt something was simply wrong, and once again, rubbed the spot on his forehead where the water had landed, before pulling up the cover to his chin and shutting his eyes. A few seconds later he was asleep.
Then he felt as though he was awake again.
The walls of his bedroom were gone, replaced only with a roiling darkness. He lay there entombed in the blankets, waiting while the sound of hooves grew closer, tapping across the floorboards to the end of his bed. In the dark the black and white muzzle of the plough horse hove into view, and the horse’s ice white eyes grew large with fear.
Noiselessly, without a whicker or neigh, the horse began to eat the bed. It slowly opened its sparsely haired lips, revealing tombstone teeth, and began with the quilts at the foot of the bed. It somehow managed to fit the entire width of the bed into its mouth. Karl watched in frozen silence, completely unable to move. He felt the horse’s rough lips against his feet and suddenly it was crunching through them, up to his ankles. Another bite and the mad staring eyes were closer, broad incisors scything through his knees. His breath seemed frozen in his chest, a ball of immovable ice that filled his lungs with searing.
A few more bites and he could smell the horse, its farm-yard musk and sweat, as it chewed implacably through his abdomen. Then it was in his chest, cracking through ribs and lungs and spine with the same swiftness that it cropped the turf in the summer. Before long it was up to his neck and he screamed, or tried, but nothing came out, his mouth was made of marble, cold and immobile. In a single bite the teeth closed over his head and all was darkness.
Karl gasped awake, struggling to breathe. For an instant he could have sworn that something was lying on his chest, pressing against his ribs, stopping the cool air rushing in, like being bundled too tightly in an oppressive woollen blanket, but the instant he awoke and opened his eyes the weight disappeared. He gasped and sputtered, like a beached and suffocating fish, pale and clammy. He panted a second, cold sweat running from his temples down the sides of his face. He sat up and rationalised quickly. ‘It was just a dream. Just a horrible, horrible dream.’ He lay down hesitantly and drew back up the covers. He fancied that he could hear the gnawing again, out of the corner of his ear, but this time the sound was muffled somewhat by the beating of his heart.
In an instant, he couldn’t move again. His eyes remained locked open, drying and watering in the cold white winter air.
A small hand grasped his foot under the blanket and used it to lever itself under the covers at the end of the bed. The shape gambolled closer, resting heavily, painfully, against his knees. The shape moved closer still, sitting on his abdomen. The creature must have been incredibly dense, its clawed feet piercing his belly. Finally, it slunk forward once more, until it rested all four hands and feet against his chest. The blanket slipped away and he could see it all.
The tiny humanoid seemed female, shrivelled and wizened, lank grey hair hanging around its partially bald scalp. Long thin hands and feet, equipped with sharp, dirty talons, stank of rotting gore. Its eyes were slits, all white pupils with night-black, pin prick irises. Its mouth was a puckered maw, scabbed and filled with rows of pine needle thin teeth.
“Go to sleep,” it drooled, in a rasping, hissing voice. “It’s just a nightmare,” it chuckled, and then began to chew.
 
Keep Turning
By Hedin
I start watching the doctors and nurses work on me but I cannot watch for long and have to close my eyes. I’m not squeamish at the sight of blood but this is my blood and I’m seeing an awful lot of it outside of my body where it rightfully belongs. Instead I think I’ll just focus on the sound of the heart monitor and let the steady beeps calm me down.
Beep…..beep…..beep…..beep
“Can I get some suction here?” one of the doctors asked. A few seconds later I heard the sound of the suctioning device working. Great, there goes even more of my blood. I do need that you know.
“Clamps”, the doctor said again. It’s weird, I feel them messing around inside of me but I’m not feeling any pain. Whatever they gave me I want it in a pill form that I can take when my back starts acting up again.
Beep...beep...beep...beep
“Pulse is up to 121, blood pressure is dropping”, a nurse called out.
Ok that does not sound good. I’m starting to have a little trouble breathing which is not helping with the whole keeping calm zen-type thing I’m trying to achieve.
Beep..beep..beep..beep
“He’s bleeding from somewhere else, but I can’t find it. I need some more suction over here”, called the doctor.
Ok now that really doesn’t sound good. Think about Katie and take deep breaths. She looked really good tonight didn’t she? I really love it when she wears that blue dress and you get the contrast from her red hair.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepppppppp
Oh shit.
“Paddles!” cried the doctor
“Charging to 200!” replied the nurse
“Clear!” calls the doctor as he releases the current. That hurts.
Beep….beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppp
Double shit. I felt someone start doing compressions on my chest. I’m trying to open my eyes to see what’s going on but they won’t open.
“Charge to 300,” called the doctor a little quieter than before.
“Charged.”
“Clear,” the doctor said as another jolt of electricity runs through me.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppp
Come on guys. More compressions.
“Charge to 350”, called the next command from the doctor although it sounded like he was speaking from across the room.
“Charged.”
“Clear,” I didn’t feel this jolt at all.
Oh fuck, I’m going to die. Actually if we’re being technical I’m dead right now. You never really notice your heart beating during normal circumstance but I am very acutely aware right now that it’s not beating at all. This is very bad. I’m actually surprised I can still think being dead and all but maybe it’s like a fan where even after you turn it off it the blades still turn for a bit while it uses up its momentum. I hope I have a lot of momentum stored up.
I’m a little aware of activity around me but I can’t feel anything anymore. The voices are mumbled and distant but they do seem to be excited which I’m hoping means they haven’t given up yet. At least I hope they haven’t as I do like living.
Come on…
Come on…
Thinking is getting harder now. My fan is winding down and I’m starting to think they will not be able to get the power restored.
 
I can no longer hear the voices. No no no no…
 
Ok something needs to happen. Heaven…hell…something.
 
Come on…heaven or hell, at this point I don’t care just let something show up. This can’t be it.
 
Please….please…..I-I-I don’t want…I don’t want this to be the end.

Heaven…….hell….sssometh…..
 
************************
Sean woke up with a jolt gasping for air. He felt himself all over to make sure everything was still intact and let out a huge sigh of relief.
“It was only a dream, it was only a dream”, he chanted, “It was only a dream.”
He laid in his bed for a few minutes calming down and just trying to absorb what he just experienced. He never had a dream before that was that realistic and scared him as much. He would have to call Katie later to try to describe the dream to her but he was not sure he could really describe the terror in a way that would do it justice.
 
As he lay there he noticed his room was a little darker than usual. He turned over to look at his alarm clock to see what time it was and noticed that the power was out. Well it’s a good thing I woke up so I can set my cell phone alarm instead he thought to himself. He reached out to pick up his cell phone but noticed that he had forgot to plug it in before going to bed and that the battery was now dead.
Frustrated, Sean lay back and stared at his ceiling. The power must have recently gone out because his ceiling fan was still slowly spinning. As he lay there he noticed that while the fan was still spinning it was definitely slowing down which brought the unease of his dream back.
“Nope!” he cried out “I think I’ve had enough sleep for one night.” Sean climbed out of bed and went ahead and got dressed for the day. He figured he would just go have breakfast at the restaurant near work and go into the office early afterwards. As he left his room he glanced back at the fan and noticed that it had stopped and hurried to get out.
***************************
Katie wiped away the tears as she listened to the priest give his eulogy over the din of the whirring ceiling fans. For the hundredth time in the last few days she wondered what Sean was doing out so early in the morning. He always hated to wake up earlier than he needed to and she could not figure out where he why he would have been awake at four in the morning, let alone driving somewhere. She looked up past the stained glass window of the church looking for an answer she knew she would never have.
 
The Last Writing Contest
[image: images/the-last-writing-contest-0.jpg]
6.000.000.000 A.C. by kaaaay
“Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.” - Dr.Seuss
With more regret than you can imagine I have to inform you that FF doesn't have the capacities to organize these contests anymore.
THIS WILL BE THE LAST SHORT STORY WRITING CONTEST ON FF.
We can't thank you enough for all the fun, the amazing stories and the time, blood, sweat and tears you put into this. You're amazing. When (not if) you are published, don't forget to put us in the acknowledgements!
Guys and gals, the last years have been a blast and so that's what you are going to write about now!
Apocalypse. For real this time. And none of the conspiracy theorists saw it coming. The world is going to end in a day. What's going to happen until then?
Bonus exercise: Take a beloved character from a previous story entry and follow them through that day.

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(apr-2016)-the-last-contest/(apr-2016)-the-last-contest-submission-thread/
Everything in Frame
By tebakutis
As the two clean-suited enforcers marched me through from the exit pod into the magnificent bright, I considered my inevitable death. I'd never seen the sun before — none of us had, other than in videos the director showed on weekends — and I had never seen anything so bright or beautiful. I couldn't even look at it, not directly, and I longed to feel its heat on my skin. Assuming Gurney was right.
Stalks of grass greener than any green I'd ever seen swayed in the gentle wind, rising to my thighs. They brushed against the legs of my clean-suit as they brushed the round, rusted domes of the exit pod. That pod and the long elevator shaft inside it was the only link between Sanctuary Twelve and the surface world.
I took a long look at the world the Overseer had assured me would kill me, the world his oldest and most trusted servant, Gurney Maynard, had assured me would not. I had to act shocked, because this world did not match the dead plains the Overseer showed us so often below. I felt one enforcer push his staff into the small of my back.
"Move," the enforcer said.
"Or what?" The head part of my clean-suit wouldn't turn to look back at him, but I didn't need to look back to express my disdain. "You'll execute me twice?
A holo screen flashed in front of me. It was a recording of my son, now thirteen and wiry, as he worked beside the others dredging energy fragments out of the deep shafts. The enforcer made it disappear.
The threat was obvious, and I walked without another push from the enforcer's staff. I'd already taken steps to ensure the Overseer could never punish Matty for what I was about to do, but I couldn't let him know that. I had to act like another outspoken problem marching to my inevitable comeuppance.
The outside world was poison without a suit — the sun, the grass, the air — and questioning that was the only way one escaped the drudgery of the crystal mines. We were safe in the mines, the Overseer assured us. We lived by his grace, his generosity. Everyone outside Sanctuary Twelve was doomed.
Soon the enforcers marched me to a clearing, a down swept field of brown stalks crushed beneath dozens of robotic feet, likely less than a day ago. After they poisoned the grass. That streak of death sat in stark contrast to the simple beauty around us. It was a naked, pus-filled scar on a glistening grass plain, but that was the advantage of a narrow camera lens. You could focus on so little and block out so much.
The Overseer had constructed a fake exit pod at the top of the descending plain of dead grass, and I recognized that pod and the dead field from the videos I had seen of the others who dared question the Overseer. People who insisted the world above was alive and safe, like me. Murdered people.
The enforcers would force me inside that dome and strip me of my clean-suit, with dire warnings of what would happen if I went outside. When they were ready for me to make my entrance, they would pump the pod full of something noxious – tear gas? Toxic fumes? – until my heaving gut and shriveled lungs forced me to stumble out of the front door, into the camera frame.
Then I would die. Then my fellow miners would watch as I shrieked, and burst into flame, and melted. They would watch my seared bones pop, my body brutalized by the poisonous world above.
"The outside world is death," the Overseer would repeat, as those below averted their faces from my melting body. "The claims of Worker 542 are as false as all those before them. Only I protect you."
They marched me inside the dome, just like Gurney had said they would, and they stripped off my clean-suit, just like Gurney had said they would. All I wore now was my light gray mining jumpsuit, and the air inside the rusting pod was stagnant. I longed to feel the sun on my skin, a cool breeze on my face.
The sun wouldn't melt my skin, and the grass wouldn't melt my jumpsuit, and breathing this wonderful air would not shrink and ruin my lungs. Those horrors would instead be caused by the weapons of the Overseer, hidden out of frame. Microwaves. Heat rays. Infrared. I did not know what those words meant, what Gurney had envisioned when he said them, but I knew they offered invisible death.
I waited until the Overseer's voice echoed through the rusty pod. His voice was pumped up to the surface so the enforcers could hear it, so they could pump in the gas at the proper time. The Overseer was speaking, now, which meant the feed was "live", as Gurney had called it. Time for me to die.
I burst out of the front of the rusting pod.
That was the difference between me and the other victims, you see — Gurney's betrayal of the Overseer, the clarity provided by a cancer no Overseer medicine could cure, and the death of the Overseer's leverage. Gurney's daughter. Those events conspired to make my death different.
The enforcers had done this a dozen times before. Place the victim in the rusting pod, set up the weapons and the camera, check the camera angle, and then, and only then, pump in the gas. All happened only after the Overseer set the stage, said a few haunting words for this poor deluded fool.
No miner raised as I'd been would voluntarily burst from their safe haven, but I had, before anyone planning to murder me was ready. The outside world felt wonderful. For the first time I felt the gentle heat of the sun on my skin, a cool breeze rushing over my cheeks. Nothing melted. Nothing burned.
That was the other thing victims of the Overseer couldn't do — run — because when your lungs were full of tear gas you made a very slow, very easy target. I was no easy target. I zigzagged down that field of dead grass toward the small, round ball sitting at its end. Toward what I knew was the camera.
I saw the now panicked overseers struggling to set their weapons up, to bring them to bear — they were mounted, I saw now, on complicated tripods which were still being arranged — and for a moment, I pondered grabbing a weapon. Yet I was not here to kill anyone, and any overseer was easily replaced. I reached the round black dome as the first overseer grounded his tripod and readied his weapon.
"Look at me!" I shouted into the camera. "I'm alive! The world above isn't killing me! They are!"
I struggled to rip the camera from its mount, but it remained stuck tight. I heard a loud hum and then I felt heat that seared my skin and bubbled my eyeballs. The air was so hot I couldn't even scream, yet I didn't die — not immediately — and my rage gave me the strength to turn the lens, not up and out of the ground, as I planned, but sideways. Toward the green fields and the enforcers with their weapons.
Even as invisible death set my skin afire I heard the Overseer shouting over the speakers, not to his enforcers, but to those below. His desperate explanations fell on deaf ears. Gurney had whispered to those below as well, and all they needed to start their riot was proof. My death was that proof.
The boiling heat ended at last, perhaps because the enforcer knew better than to waste power, or perhaps because he heard the masses rioting below and knew that running was better than facing those he'd help imprison. None of it made any difference to me. I drank in the feel of that cool breeze.
I wished I could see the sun and touch the grass, stroke my son's face one last time, but I was too busy dying. Had I succeeded? Gurney's crackly voice echoed over the Overseer's intercom
"We did it!" Gurney shouted, as my people cheered. "You gave us the truth! You gave us the whole world! We're free now, all of us!" The cacophony faded as Gurney faded, as he called for silence.
"Thank you," he said, voice trembling over the speakers. "We're coming up. We'll see you soon."
They wouldn't. No one would reach me in time to save me, but I didn't mind. Matty would grow up breathing this clean air, living beneath this warm sun, sleeping in this soft grass. After decades of slavery, it seemed absurd that our freedom required nothing more than a camera, twisted sideways, but that was the beauty of it.
All it took to free us was one traitor. One sacrifice. And one perfect camera angle, everything in frame.
 
The Hound of Arnas
By Nora
[image: images/the-hound-of-arnas-0.jpg]
My ports disengage, returning me to consciousness.
I stay on my back for a while, gaze turned inward, browsing through the nets. While my body warms I review the datafeeds I requested before going to sleep. Soon there is nothing for me to do but roll out of my dingy alcove, one in many in this shabby plug-a-night for cyborgs and droids. No one pays me any mind as I amble through what passes as a lobby and step into the already busy street.
"Please, parts!" A hand grabs my coat. "Any parts you can spare, I beg you, for my child, all his ports are outdated, he can't link, ple–"
The beggar clamps her mouth shut the moment she realises what she is talking to, her dull eyes already hunting for more pliable targets. Smart woman. She will sooner convince an AI to donate parts off its droid body than the likes of me, and she knows it.
Shells don't have parts to give. We're bio-engineered integral cyborgs. Expensive models like mine are even grown with full DNA print. Parts tailored for me in a body as perfect as one can dream. If I chopped my right hand and gave it away, no one else could use it.
However, getting this close to godhood comes with a sixty years binding contract, which is why I'm walking the trash ridden streets of an off-grids slum doing a bloodhound's job. Looking for a human here like a needle in a smelly haystack.
The first two days I spent along the dark sea and the beach–the rocky expense that once held sand, that we still call beach–where workers on long rafts poled their way through the mass of seaweeds they turn into fuel.
I could have been done in half a day, talking to supervisors, or the AIs that regulate our dead ocean's shallows. But unlike its simulations, the sea has a smell and a taste, almost a presence. It fascinated me, so I took my time.
Today I walk away from the shore. I've decided to talk to locals or else I'll be here until I catch the carbon plague.
My legs take me past triage factories, down streets smelling of rancid grease, where mechanics bend over patrons' cybernetic limbs, bartering their services, weaving through cables like jungle creepers, children running past yelling the names of parts they sell; ports, encrypted 9G cards, 5D sticks, or accessory mods.
Soon the street dissolves in a wider field. I scramble partway up a metal gangway that wraps around a building to the roofs. From there I can see, sprawled at my feet, the buzzing activity of the Mud-Market.
Cyborg modders with four arms selling flatbreads faster than they can turn them. People sitting on crates half sunk in the eponymous mud, tearing at steamed bug-buns, furiously betting on some game only them can see. Others haggling over second-hand garments and scraps of food. Even a few ADroids weave through the crowds, projecting bright holos and loud slogans.
I sigh and sit heavily, my legs dangling over the tin roof of a partmonger. This wreathing mass of bodies discourages me, somehow.
Resting my back to the wall, I turn inwards to log into official networks. I find a few agents in the area, and summon the closest, Agt. Edenton, an ID officer.
Before long, three kids come running out of the market, out of breath with laugher. I look down. One of them, a little blond fellow, doesn't register to my eyes. Unchipped. Or, more likely, never chipped: someone's illegal brood. Another has a cybernetic arm made of scraps. Both wave at the third, a black haired runt not possibly past seven, who leaves them to enter the street. The gangway quivers under me, heralding the kid's approach.
He sits not far, flashes his credentials–this is indeed Edenton– and opens a private channel for us to discuss away from prying eyes or ears, for all the world just two strangers enjoying the view before them.
'What's a pricey Shell like you doin' here?'
I stifle a laugh. The voice that popped in my head is a deep man's bass, completely out of place coming from the scrawny boy. Edenton gives me a withering look, and I sober up as I realise what an ID officer's job would be, shelled as a kid. Hunt unchipped children like the one I'd seen, gain their trust, follow them home, have it tagged, maybe chip them himself. The kind of job you got because someone thought you deserved it...
I poke his arm, surprised to find him made out of regular flesh.
'Is this a BioShell? Aren't those pretty rare and pricey as well? Incubation is hard to do.'
Edenton's frail shoulders shrug. 'They make kids like me easily, they don't try for perfection. The body decays after a year, so we swap regularly. It's just a pain to be in a tube for two months while a new body grows around you.'
I'd shiver, if my body could.
To answer Edenton's own question, I display my working seals and credentials, and watch his eyes widen. A military Shell in the direct employ of Arnas CEO, wielding seals that give her unlimited power is a scary sight, I'm sure.
'This is Halena Tesselandottir,' I say, flashing pictures of a young woman. 'Used to live in the grids, legal as you please and pretty bigwigged. Took her chip off, came to those slums.' I wave my hand, letting Edenton imagine the sort of drama that could push someone to such extremes.
'Back then she was a modder.' Lists of parts and softwares join the pictures. 'Augmentations, but no cybernetic replacements. I'm pretty sure she downgraded, since many mods are trackable. She was spotted in this slum, so I was sent to find her. I'd like some help.'
An order dressed as a request that Edenton accepts with good graces. In no time he comes up with a cunning plan that won't damage his cover, and I mentally pat myself on the back for involving him.
We weave our way through narrow streets, continuing our secret dialogue.
I learn that Edenton has been undercover in this slum for four years, and soon guess that he got there by asking too many questions. He's fourty-two, single, grumpy.
We spend some time polishing our plot in a back alley. We'll need our public feeds to display some action to look credible.
Finally ready, I step into a wider street, Edenton's weightless body cradled in my arms, and stumble towards an older woman, busy smoking in front of a brothel. Edenton's notion being that such Madams know everything, and everyone.
"Seima," I call, picking her name from her public feed, "this kid just crashed into me. He banged his head hard..."
Seima rushes up to us with a face like Edenton is her own grandchild. She looks at me with narrowed eyes. Can't blame her for mistrusting a Shell in a muddy coat, but my public feed has a record of the entire "incident" we orchestrated, and Edenton moans, the voice passing his lips a mewling so pitiful that I stare as well. His feed flashes with one of the pictures of Halena I gave him.
"He's been showing that image the whole time, could it be his mother? If you know her, maybe I could leave him to you..."
It's the magical words. Trying to shirk my responsibilities, am I? She'll find the boy's mom in no time, she swears, and furiously propagates Halena's picture through her personal network.
Finding where Halena (or Hena, as she now goes by) works is a matter of minutes. The hardest part of the job is to pry Madam Seima off Edenton.
Out of sight I put him back on his legs, and we hurry to intercept Halena before someone warns her that we've been asking after her.
It's almost too easy.
She's exactly where we were told.
Unchipped, so nearly impossible to track, she was betrayed by the simplest of human drives, everyone's inherent need to network and socialise.
Edenton's bass vibrates in my skull. 'What are you gonna do?'
He follows me over crumbled walls and up stairwells that lead us to a rooftop. Lying down, we can spy on Halena and her companions, sorting garbage, probably paid by the amount of recyclable they can sift.
I scan her face, still young, but scarred by the mods she took off her temples and neck, as I'd guessed.
I extend my arm, fingers splayed, lock, breathe out, and fire.
My shoulder joint shifts, swallows the recoil. People scream, run to cover. Edenton jumps, grabs me with his little hands. In the street her blood flows, joining the streams of dark fluids down the gutter. Half her head is gone.
 
"Why," Edenton cries. "What did she do to deserve that?!"
"I never asked," I reply, "and neither should you."
 
Our kind of Watchman
By Peat
I am waiting for the bell to toll.
There’s five of us, all with coffee in one hand and a stylus in the other. Stretching out reports and cracking jokes until our shift is done. MacElra is the loudest, the one who aims nearest the knuckle. I worry he’ll get into trouble at his next thought-sensing but today I’m grateful. He masks my silence. I don’t want them worrying about me. Worry can become questions.
The bell rings. I am released.
“I must go quick,” says young Ronagh. “Saorne expects me.”
“Not the only thing she expects, I’ll wager. Hoard your silver, lad.”
We laugh at MacElra’s jest, even Ronagh as he flushes. They’re recent news and he’s not comfortable with it yet, but he knows we tease because we’re pleased. Your Watch-brothers are closer than your real brothers.
“I’m for the inn. Any takers?” MacElra announces.
I shake my head swiftly. “Not me.”
“Too many of you have beautiful women,” he grumbles as I leave.
Outside the Watch-house’s sanctuary, my stomach grows cold and tight like a dead man’s grip. Citizens look at me and move aside. My uniform marks me as a Hierarch’s servant; a figure of law, order, and dread. The Hierarchs know their crimes and I punish them. It keeps Tallabhair whole. I walk home, except I take a turn I normally don’t, knock on someone else’s door.
“Come in, Toadstool. You ready?”
I nod. I’m ready to commit my first crime.
There’s three of us. Niaja, heretic mage; polite, withdrawn. Comarach, our patron’s favourite killer; scum.
And me. The necessary traitor.
I take out my key and open the treasury door. The moment I enter, awareness of everything permeates me. I know who is here, what is here, where it is. One of the many blessings the Hierarchs give their Watchmen and right now, the best of them. Niaja’s face is clenched in concentration as she maintains the spell that masks us from my fellow Watchmen. And Comarach follows, ready to kill either of us if we get clever ideas. When I stop, waiting for a man to walk by, he places his blade at my back. I hated him enough before that.
We continue through the labyrinth, ignoring the kings’ ransoms piled to either side. Our patron bade us take the Knife of Riaghaid, and that only. Even if Comarach was not here, I could not afford to anger her.
I have never seen the Knife of Riaghaid before but one thought summons the image. An ordinary thing, dull and notched. The desires of mages are strange. I lead us to it like a bird seeking summer. There are few of my fellows this far in. I take it and the power of it makes my teeth rattle.
It’s all too easy. No one thought to protect it from a Watchman. Our loyalty is legend.
I smile as we walk out. Disloyalty never felt so good.
Tallabhair is riotous at night, the citizens drinking their sorrow. I smell danger in the mead fumes. All Watchmen know the stories and I’m not protected by my uniform now. It’s the first time I’ve been out without my uniform since I was a boy. The thought troubles me more than any threat. A stranger walks in my body, past the crimes I swore to punish. Poppy smokers, unlicensed poets, adulterers. They don’t seem so terrible tonight.
I had no choice, though. I have my own Saorne; Muadha, whose eyes make the Moon Maiden weep and own my soul. Muadha, whose eyes fail more every day, the magical energies of Tallabhair eroding her brain. The doctors told me it was not uncommon, a side-effect of the sheer scale of the Hierarchs’ workings to keep back the hungry sea. They had a cure; the Hierarchs could hardly do their work without one. An expensive one though, they warned me. I paid that no mind. I was a Watchman.
Then the Hierarchs denied me.
I didn’t dwell on it. I was trained to quick action and stoic courage. Instead, I started looking for others who might provide me what I needed for my beloved Muadha, heedless of price. The refusal continued to fester away though. Eating away at the man I was.
We turn a corner and I find myself eye to eye with MacElra. Fear consumes me. Is he waiting for me? Does he know? No, he’s with a woman. His eyes are wide in question.
I open my mouth and Comarach slits his throat.
“Fucking toadstool,” he hisses.
My fists ball up. He smirks at me. My hand is on my knife hilt when Niaja coughs. I look and she gestures at the woman. We all realise the truth that the heretic is saying in the same moment; the witness cannot live. She runs and Comarach chases but I am faster. My blade flies straight between her shoulders. I pull it out, the coffee rising up my throat. She’s dead. At least I don’t have to finish her. I don’t sheath it but turn to face Comarach again. His own weapon, wet with MacElra’s blood, is waiting.
“Perhaps it would be best to settle this matter elsewhere?” says Niaja. “Such as, say, somewhere that is not a murder scene.”
She’s right. I clean my knife and sheath it. He takes the lead, unafraid of me. Scum. I glance at Niaja and her lips twitch, then she’s like a statue. We go to the meeting place as quickly as is sensible. As we enter, I nudge Comarach.
“I’ll get you for this.”
“No you won’t.”
He’s right. I won’t even remember it.
The patron gives me two vials. The first is for Muadha.
The second is for me.
There is a problem with committing crime when your mind is read regularly. The only way to escape capture is to never remember doing the crime. The second vial will solve that problem. But there is more, as my patron had explained when we first made our bargain. The Hierarchs are not fools. If a man receives a great prize but cannot remember why, they will prod and probe until they have the truth. And what greater prize is there than the miraculous recovery of your wife from the surest disease in Tallabhair?
When I wake tomorrow, Muadha will be well, but not with me. She will be somewhere else and I will believe that the strange corpse lying next to me is hers. Every little drop of pain I’d thought to escape will be mine, right down to the dregs. When my patron told me, I nearly begged her to find another way. To make me vanish too so that we could be together. I know she has a use for men such as me, if a man like me was willing to be scum.
I was not brave enough.
Now the vials are in front of me and I want to ask her for this mercy. I’m still not brave enough. I tell myself it is necessary. No one will suspect a thing if Muadha dies, but if we both disappear after tonight, people will come looking. People like Comarach.
It is three weeks since the night that both MacElra and Muadha died. I sit away from the others as I write my report, my coffee laced to keep me numb. My Watch-brothers watch me quietly. They wish to heal me but don’t know how. They don’t know how to heal themselves. MacElra was our soul. We take our pain out on the scum who did it.
My mind wanders constantly. I keep starting to write a resignation rather than my report. My captain, MacCuoma, refuses to consider such a thing. He tells me it would dishonour their memories. Maybe he’s right; I struggle to know. I am grateful for his care, for my brothers’ sympathy. It’s MacCuoma who tells me when the bell rings, tells me to go home. He emphasises the word home. Citizens look at me with fear and pity. I’m not just a Watchman to them, I’m a human too.
I reach my empty dwelling and look for the mead bottle. It’s not where I left it but there’s a small one in it’s place, it’s contents a pale yellow. Like amber. Or piss. I don’t care, I drink it.
As I do, I notice the woman. She wears no marks of belonging and a deep hood that doesn’t quite conceal the inhuman perfection of her face. I finish the vial, my mind sluggishly accepting the impossible reality.
“Hello, Watchman. We still have business, you and me.”
She is right. I try to open my mouth, to ask after Muadha. When I can be with her. I can’t, but she smiles anyway.
“There is a man,” she continues, “Who has offended me. He believes himself safe.”
I understand her request. All of it. I nod, heedless of price.
Well known fairy tales from a different POV
[image: images/well-known-fairy-tales-from-a-different-pov-0.jpg]
Snow, Glass, Apples by Exsanguini
We know those stories by heart - but only from the hero's POV. Did you ever think about the motivation and justification the big bad wolf had for eating Red Riding Hood's Grandma? Maybe he was the good guy and we got it all wrong? Remember, the winners write history and they never picture themselves as the bad guys...
For inspiration I recommend one of Neil Gaiman's best shorts: Snow, Glass, Apples from his short story collection "Smoke and Mirrors".  Another, more funny, example is the movie Hoodwinked!

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(may-2016)-well-known-fairytales-from-a-different-pov/(may-2016)-well-known-fairy-tales-from-a-different-pov-submission-thread/
The Magical Lamp
By Lanko
An old man traveled across the desert and arrived at a small town. He asked for water and food, but no one helped him. A woman offered him shelter, and he accepted. She had three sons, all in their early teens.
“Who’s this dirty old man?” said the tallest one.
“A traveler in need of shelter, son.”
“Is he gonna pay us?” asked the youngest.
“To your rooms! Now!”
The boys begrudgingly obeyed and slammed their doors shut. The woman sighed. “Sorry about this. They lost their father in the war last year. I wish he had never left, so we could have remained a happy family.”
At dinner, the boys mocked the old man, despite the mother’s protests. One boy said that gold was the most important thing, the other it was power and the other said it was women.
This got the old traveler’s attention and he offered to tell the true tale of the magical lamp and about people’s greed. They mocked him again, but agreed to listen to the story.
***
A long time ago, djinns and humanity fought a war and the humans won with the help of the gods. All djinns were killed, except for one. His wrists were locked in golden manacles and a lamp was his prison. He was sentenced to realize humans’ wishes, a mocking punishment for the attempt to destroy the gods’ greatest creation.
His first master was a rustic man. “Djinn, give me the most powerful weapon in the world so I can be the greatest warrior of all!”
The djinn then forged an unbreakable scimitar, it’s blade able to cut through rock and metal, and gave it to the warrior. He went to battle right away and was killed right away by his first opponent. The scimitar was gifted to the sultan and no one knew the name of the warrior.
Because he wished for the most powerful weapon, but not for the skill to wield it.
An scavenger found the lamp and summoned the djinn. “I want so much gold that I will become the richest man in the world!”
The djinn then dug a giant golden nugget from the mines of the gods themselves, a nugget taller than a tree and larger than a river; it shook the earth when it fell from the heavens. The scavenger embraced it, dreaming of everything he would have, but his treasure was too heavy and he could not move it. He spent days trying, and soon the entire kingdom knew about the treasure and fought for it.
The sultan had an army, easily claimed the gold and moved it to his palace. The scavenger died in the battle and another spent his wealth.
Because he wished for gold, but not for the strength to carry it.
The vizier came into possession of the magical lamp. “The sultan has the blade of heavens, all the gold in the world and his daughter is the most beautiful woman to have walked the earth. Grant me power, djinn, so I can take all that as mine.”
The djinn visited the guardians who watched over the volcanoes, oceans, mountains and skies of the world, received their blessing and granted the vizier command over the elements and inhuman strength and speed.
Now a powerful sorcerer, he attacked the palace with lightning and fire and fought dozens of men by himself. The sultan fled the capital.
On the first day ruling, the vizier married the princess and declared all the people were now his slaves. As he was taking the princess to his chambers, he felt a sharp pain in his chest and fell dead. The sultan returned, restored everything back to normal and the vizier was left to rot on the desert, as nobody cared to dig him a grave.
Because he wished for power, but not for the longevity to abuse it.
Now the sultan had the magical lamp. Barring sorcery, he was the most powerful and rich man in the world, also regarded by his subjects as just and wise. He spent a month talking to religious leaders, philosophers, teachers, doctors, soldiers and common people, and another month meditating on what he had discussed. Then he said his wish:
“Great djinn, I concluded that the greatest enemy of men is time. Gold, power, wisdom… all this and much more can be obtained by anyone, given time. I want to be free of this restraint. I wish to live forever, so I can see and known all the world has to offer, now and forever, and to also continue to serve and better the lives of my people and kingdom. I wish for immortality.”
The djinn searched the gods themselves for this request. Amused, they gave him their blessing and the djinn bestowed upon the sultan the gift of eternal life.
The sultan was elated, becoming even more generous with his people. He funded artists and scholars, doctors and builders, he himself became immersed in books and scrolls from all over the world.
But years, then decades passed and the sultan felt more and more tired, his sight grew blurrier by the day and his ears required great effort to hear the loudest of noises. He became ill of body and mind; he had difficulty feeding himself, discussed with viziers he did not remember appointing and slept alongside wives he did not remember marrying.
Finally, he could no longer take it, and asked to be killed. But even beheaded, he would not die. The viziers put his head inside a jar and hid it away in the dungeon. Then they waged war upon each other. With the kingdom weakened, a foreign king invaded and razed it, and it would never rise again.
Locked and buried even further beneath the sands of the desert, the sultan despaired at his eternal damnation.
Because he wished for immortality, but not for the youth and health to enjoy it.
During that war, a slave fled the kingdom and carried the magical lamp. He was not born a slave, but was the prince of a kingdom the sultan conquered. He asked the djinn’s story, the first to do it. Learning of what happened to those who had wishes granted, he asked the djinn:
“What is your own wish, granter of wishes?”
“To be free, to avenge my kin and enslave your kind as you did to us, to control this earth, as you, creatures of mud and dirt, are unworthy of it.”
“But then you will be no different than us.”
“You dare compare me, born of the smokeless fire, to you? Why is that?”
“Because you wish for freedom, but only to imprison the whole world.”
The djinn raged, but admitted the hypocrisy. The prince had no land to return, no family or loved ones still alive and so, he traveled to distant lands, doing his best to show the good side of the humans. Slowly, the djinn’s fury quenched and even started liking the humans. They were not all hopeless.
“I was a slave, but that would not last forever. You, however, are bound to eternal servitude. My wish is for your freedom, and you will remain free as long as you never harm a human being.”
The djinn accepted, and his golden manacles fell to the ground, and he flied with joy. The gods allowed this, but forbid him from ever approaching the prince again. The djinn was sad, but learned years later that his golden manacles were sold and that allowed the prince to build a home, a family and live happily until the end of his days.
As for the djinn, he traveled the land, some said he still granted wishes, but only to good people he liked, for he was now a master of his own life.
***
The boys all thought the story was ridiculous, mocked the old traveler and went to sleep. The mother apologized on their behalf and prepared a place for the old man to sleep near the fire.
At morning, the woman gave him supplies and wished him good luck. The youngest son gave him a spare set of clothes. The oldest gave nothing, but said he was going out to look for a job. And the other brother was cleaning the house. The mother furrowed her eyebrows at this.
When the old traveler turned a corner, he looked back at the house, and saw a man approaching it. The woman and the children ran to him.
“Father?”
“Husband? I thought you were dead.”
The man shook his head. “I got lost in the desert after the battle. Had no idea where I was going, but today I woke up and the town was right ahead of me. I can’t believe I didn’t saw it before.” Then they hugged each other and cried.
The old man resumed his path, satisfied with himself.
Because he wished for hope, and repaid it with kindness.
The Strangled Heart
By tebakutis
The blood rites were finished, the words of power chanted, and the potion prepared. A drop a day would save the afflicted babe, but Ana felt ravaged from the inside out. This spellwork had stolen years of her life, but what alternative did she have? If she did nothing, she might as well murder the baby herself.
The sobbing parents arrived at dusk, motivated, Ana assumed, by fear. Everyone feared Dame Ana Gothel, and Ana bore the loneliness without complaint because the alternative was chaos. Her words of power would be used to kill, her runes to imprison, her magic plants to plague and poison.
No one else remained to protect the Walled Garden from men.
When the miserable couple reached the edge of her verdant estate, the mother’s sobs matched her babe’s. The smell of rotting leaves rolled off this mother, the stench of despair. Ana understood despair – she understood the pain of losing her only child – but this mother would not see her child die.
The father stank of frustration and regret, the stench of a bog mixed with the smell of iron and blood. He blamed Ana for this, of course, but Ana’s focus remained on the babe, on the squalling her parents assumed was natural. It most certainly was not. This babe was in agony, spiky roots tightening around her heart.
The mother wailed and clutched her newborn daughter to her breast. “Why must you steal our child, Dame Gothel? How have we wronged you?”
“The babe was never yours.” Ana maintained the stately pose she had cultivated to hide doubt and pain.
“I carried her!” the mother wailed. “I birthed her!”
“If you believe our bargain unfair, your quarrel is with your husband.” It was the greed of this father, after all, that sentenced his child to death.
“A bargain is a bargain.” The father motioned, impatiently, to the mother. “Give her the child, Nan.”
His emotions now smelled like spoiled oranges - guilt. Ana knew then he had not told his wife what the stolen rampion had done to their child in her womb. Men like him did not admit fault.
“All we took was a plant!” the mother wailed. “Why must I trade my child for a plant?”
“Ask your husband.” Ana stared at the man until his eyes fell.
“You’ll kill her!” the mother shouted. “You’ll sacrifice her in some blood rite! I won’t let you!”
“Your daughter dies already. Do you not hear the truth in her cries?”
The mother gasped. “You ensorcelled my child?”
“The rampion you stole from my garden did that. The plant you so foolishly gorged upon is strangling your child’s heart.”
“That can’t be true!” The mother’s eyes welled as she glared at her husband. “Eddard! Tell me it isn’t true!” The smell of her betrayal hung on the air, sickly and sweet.
The father’s downcast eyes damned him more than any word from Ana ever could. Ana stared at the mother. She stared at the dying babe. And with one more sniffle, that babe was hers.
* * *
Fortunately for young Rapunzel — named, Ana decided, for the enchanted rampion wrapped around her tiny heart — drops of Ana’s potion slowed the plant’s growth and kept the baby alive. As years passed and the babe grew into a young girl, who grew into a young woman, Ana began to hope this child — her child, now, because she could no longer think of little Rapunzel as anyone else — would one day venture beyond the Walled Garden. If Ana could find some way to unwind those hungry roots from her heart.
The answer came on a fresh spring day, Rapunzel’s twelfth birthday. As Ana helped her daughter trim the ivy choking their garden’s walls, she saw its true nature. Tendrils around Rapunzel’s heart.
As ivy grew in the direction of water and light, so might the roots of the hungry rampion. Ana could not destroy the rampion, but she could lead its growth elsewhere. Ana would coax the magical plant out through her daughter’s brilliant blond hair.
That night, after Rapunzel slept, Ana returned to her mother’s tower. She carved, and scribed, and chanted, sacrificing decades of her life so her daughter might one day be free of the rampion curse. Ana knew when she was done, breathless and quivering with pain, that this blood enchantment would draw the rampion out of her daughter — but only if Rapunzel remained in the tower until the healing was complete.
Given enough years in this enchanted tower, the roots strangling her daughter’s heart would grow into luxurious blond hair, strong as hemp rope and long as the ivy clinging to the Walled Garden’s stones. Why strangle a heart when you could spread your blond roots, drinking in sweet sunlight and fresh air?
Ana would not live forever, certainly not as long as Rapunzel, not now. She had sacrificed so much of her life, and when she died, who would conjure the potion that kept the rampion from strangling her daughter’s heart? This tower was her only daughter’s salvation.
Some day, Ana would make Rapunzel understand.
* * *
The moon was bright when the prince climbed the strong blond curls that had once strangled Rapunzel’s heart. When he saw Ana waiting for him, he almost fell right off the tower, and Ana was sorely tempted to let him fall. He was the reason her daughter hated her.
“Dame Gothel!” The prince’s eyes narrowed as his hand brushed his sword hilt. “Where is Rapunzel?” Like all outsiders, his first solution to conflict was violence.
“Not here,” Ana said.
“Foul enchantress! What have you done with her?”
“I haven’t made her pregnant, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’d never..." the prince began, but his flush gave him away. “We didn’t … we only…”
“Rapunzel is gone, you fool.” The air shimmered as the rage Ana restrained writhed inside her. “She hates me, and will always hate me, but she is now free.” This prince had filled Rapunzel's head with lies, seduced her, used her, but he would not kill her. “You will never see her again.”
“You imprisoned her!” The prince pointed an accusatory finger. “You kept her in this tower against her will!”
“I saved her life, foolish boy.” Ana’s grief and despair smashed against her mental gates, shaking the tower and forcing the prince a step back. “I loved her, protected her, taught her, and now you have poisoned her heart against me. Yet you failed to kill her. I stopped that.”
“What do you mean? Why would I kill her?”
“If you had dragged her from this tower before her healing was complete, the decades I’ve sacrificed would be wasted. I sheared Rapunzel’s fatal curse from her head this morning, even as she shrieked at my cruelty and demanded her release. I love her, I will always love her, and so I set her free.”
Rapunzel's curses and threats had ruined Ana worse than rampion around her own heart, strangling, crushing, feeding. There was no pain like the hate of one’s own daughter.
“Where is she?” the prince demanded.
“Why do you care? You’ve already sown your wild oats.”
“I love her, Dame Gothel!” The sincerity of his emotions rolled off the prince in waves. “We are betrothed!”
His love was the smell of cherry blossoms in bright spring, a fresh rain on clean grass. It might not ease Ana’s grief, but it could ease Rapunzel’s. “Prove it.” Could Ana save her daughter one last time?
“I will do anything to find her. Anything! Please, help me.”
The prince craved magic. They all craved magic, just like Rapunzel’s birth mother craved that stolen rampion. So be it. Ana was done protecting these fools from the garden’s magic, done sacrificing her life for people who feared and hated her. Her own daughter had cursed her and left her alone, to die.
Ana clapped her hands and said the words.
Where once a prince stood now flapped a bird, small and blue and chirping with outrage. As Ana approached, it fluttered and squawked around the room. Ana spoke loud enough for the bird to hear.
“Fly to your Rapunzel, little prince. Fly far. If you truly love her, and if you can find her, her touch will restore your form. Find your betrothed and bring her, and her child, the happiness I never could.”
The transformed prince fluttered to the window sill, glanced back. Then he was off and flying before Ana’s legs gave out, before she collapsed on the cold stone floor, exhausted. Her life drained.
Dame Ana Gothel would never see another sunrise. She had given everything for Rapunzel, and now her tower, her garden, and her legacy would crumble to dust. She would die alone, wrapped in her daughter’s hate, but Rapunzel would live on with her prince, happy and alive.
If Ana left nothing else to the world that hated her, she left that.
THE END
 
Sweet Release
By m3mnoch
[image: images/sweet-release-0.png]
She swooped through the boughs, leaves and branches rustling as her wings beat them to the side. Alighting on a low oak perch, she spied a child skipping his way down the trail toward where she sat. She started preening her feathers.
Not now, she told Theo, I need you to be ready for the child. The white crane squawked and refocused its attention on the boy, now poking a stick into a rabbit hole.
The minds of birds were fickle things and tended to wander.
Back in her candied cabin, the witch rocked in her favorite chair and reveled in the child playing. Her own sightless, red eyes closed, she relied on Theo's for the hunt. The boy, plump and well-fed would be a perfect treat.
From her cottage, Rosina twitched a finger and in the trees, the bird, Theo, plucked one of the sweets from its harness pocket, and dropped it to the trail near the boy.
She saw the youngster pause, blink, trundle over, scoop up the sweet, and pop it into his mouth.
Perfect.
Theo had half a dozen of the confections lashed to his body. The boy would be hers within the hour.

[image: images/sweet-release-1.png]
"What's your name, child?" The witch, nearly sightless and with her head cocked, posed the question through a crook-tooth grin. They sat at her little lunch table.
"William, ma'am."
"That's a lovely name. William, don't you think my home is marvelous?"
"Yes, ma'am. It's very nice. I'm sorry I ate part of the shutter. I just couldn't help myself. Did you know it's made of gingerbread?"
"I did indeed. Don't worry, William, we can fix it later. What matters most is what you thought of my secret gingerbread recipe."
"Oh, I loved it. I did!" The boy clapped his hands, excitement shining as he eyed the glaze-and-candy fireplace. William, now confident he wouldn't be scolded, turned back to the old woman and licked his lips. "May I try some more, please?"
"Such a polite boy." Rosina turned and hobbled, half-blind with her wooden cane tapping the way, towards the rear of the sugar cottage. "In fact, I need your help clearing out a few treats and making some room in the candy cellar. Would you like to follow me?"
"Of course!"
The two exited the witch's small home, walked past the vegetable garden, and approached a single, iron-banded door, angled as the entrance of a stone cellar. Rosina produced a key from her pocket and fumbled the lock open.
"This way." She beckoned William to join her in clacking down the hewn steps and into the sputtering shadows below. "I have to keep the sweets deep in the chill of the cellar so it won't melt."
One last glance around the garden, a quivering smile, and William entered the thick door behind the old woman.

[image: images/sweet-release-2.png]
The witch Rosina sat at her table, a platter of fresh-picked vegetables in front of her. Centuries spent living in a house constructed from candy had destroyed any sweet tooth she might have possessed. Her cravings ran more along crunchy cabbage and radishes, and she left gulping down fish and the scattered critters to Theo.
As if on cue, the white crane stabbed at a herring and swallowed it whole.
She cleaned up her lunch and prepared William's. Cake, tarts, candied pecans, gingerbread and chocolate sandwiches, all washed down with maple-laden milk -- filling a plump little boy's wildest desires as well as his belly. He'd avoided the treats the first day he was in the cage, but hunger finally pushed him to devour more and more each day since.
Taking his tray down in the cellar, she slid aside the little iron access door and slipped the platter through the slot. William tore into the sugary snacks, devouring the chocolate first. She'd discovered it was his favorite.
"Don't worry, dearest William. As soon as you finish helping me clean out all my leftover treats, I'll release you." She bent, her gnarled teeth showing through the snack door as she spoke. "You're the only one who can help me."
"I'm helping, I'm helping." Tears streaked down round, ruddy cheeks as he pushed a frosted cake into his mouth.
She hadn't lied. She needed his help. Securing the cell again, the witch turned and descended deeper into the candy cellar.
Spiral and torchlit, the stony stairs looped into the darkness. As always, on the trip down, she remembered her first descent down to the pit. It had been as an apprentice to the old witch charged with caring for the candy cottage before her.
She shuddered remembering the first time she'd seen what dwelled at the bottom of the stairs. To this day, herself now the old witch in the gingerbread house, luring children with the promise of sweets and chocolate, it was a memory that often woke her screaming in the night.
Rosina unbarred the door, though she wasn't sure why she barred it at all. An iron bar wouldn't stop them. Nothing would stop them. Well, almost nothing.
She pushed through the door.
The door opened to a rock outcropping, upon which sat a hate-carved stone alter. An immense hole, grave black and spattered with glowing red like hell extinguished, yawned before the offertory.
Rustles and shrieks crackled in the pit's darkness as she scanned the ledge floor where she stood, rough-counting the scattered bones. It appeared they were finished with the sweet, young girl. She began gathering the pieces of picked-over skeleton, gleaming a sharp yellow-white in the light of her torch.
The witch, arms loaded with bone, glanced one final time over the edge, at the burning embers below, before she made her ascent. With her red eyes, she alone in the world knew they weren't hot coals in the dark.
They were the eyes of evil. Devourers of the sinless. Birthed in hell.

[image: images/sweet-release-3.png]
Light from the moon shone through the clear sugar panes of her windows and Theo squawked. William had been cooperative, desperate for release. Desperate to see his mother and father again.
Back aching, she pushed herself up from the rocking chair and, once again, with the rising of the full moon, she would feed a child to the World Demons. She would save humanity from their worst sins made flesh and razor clawed. For each of over 2000 full moons, she'd sacrificed the babe-flavored innocence of one child so that many may live torment-free for another cycle.
Even so, those sacrifice tore at her. Tore at her like demons born of another ilk. The eager thought of her estranged children's descendants living to see another moon because she fed young flesh to monsters -- Even that comfort failed in making the duty lighter.
Walking to the window, she gazed out the sugar pane, imagining the ethereal mist giving way to bright moonlight, and envied the quiet peace of the forest. She craved its simplicity.
"What do you think, Theo? Would it be better to just quit? To allow the hell beasts to open their jaws and shred our age?" She glanced over to the crane as it speared, then gulped down another herring.
"I thought you'd say that."
Rosina felt around the edge of her little table where her cane leaned, grabbed it, and hobbled to the back door.
"Fly, my friend." She called over her shoulder, "Begin your quest to find the next."

[image: images/sweet-release-4.png]
It was dawn when Rosina emerged from her cellar. She was dirty and sweat-smeared from feeding the coal fires, mentally exhausted from blocking out the screams, glad for the forest breeze clearing out the stink of roasting hair, heartened by birdsong replacing rending wingbeats and vicious shrieks.
Because of her, the teeming farmlands existed, unrazed and unaware. There was comfort in the thought after a night of misery.
She crossed the garden, plucking a pear for breakfast, and entered her sweet home. Eager to rest for the remainder of the day, she put on the kettle and crumbled a handful of dried alfalfa and violet leaves.
A long trill rippled through the silent morning forest. Theo had already found another lost child.
Relaxing her mind, Rosina focused on her Birdsight and found the perched crane. He'd found not one, but two children wandering her path. Brother and sister, she could tell. Her first thought was to the small victory -- it would be two months before she had to disrupt another family. Some mother would have an extra month with her child.
She watched through the crane's eyes as the boy bent and scooped up the stick of licorice.
"Gretel," he called. "Over here. I've found another one."
"Wait for me, Hansel. Please don't eat it all. I'm hungry, too."
Leaning back in her rocking chair, the witch sighed. "Yes, children. Follow my Theo and I will feed you for the rest of your life."
 
How I Met Your Mother
By Jmack
How did I meet your mother? You want to hear that old story. Are you sure you won’t be scared? Yes, you can sit in my lap. But if you fall asleep, I’m taking you straight off to bed.
Once upon a time, seven dwifes stood weeping around a crystal casket in a forest glade. Yes, that’s the right word: dwifes. Are you telling this story or am I? Inside the casket was the handsomest prince in the whole world, Stormwhite.
I’m starting at the wrong place? Alright. We'll go farther back.
Stormwhite was born during a blizzard such as no one had ever seen. Snow peaked as tall as mountains. Stormwhite’s father, the king, was visiting a remote village when the storm struck, and every soul there froze.
When the queen heard that her husband was dead, she tried to throw herself from the tallest castle tower. The servants held her back, but she was so stricken by grief that she began to waste away. At last, they sent for a wizard who lived in the dark forest to see if he could help their queen. He arrived in a cloud of ravens and examined her. “I can help,” he said. “But if I do, you must let me make her my wife. I will be king over you all.”
That is what happened. The queen married the wizard. The wizard became our king.
In those years, I hunted wild game to feed the castle’s ovens. What happened inside that mass of towers didn't concern me much, as long as I was paid and left alone. But even I noticed the ravens. They filled the halls, and screamed at the servants. They pecked the dogs and terrorized the cats. The queen was nowhere to be seen; and Stormwhite, who was by then a rambunctious little boy, was left to run wild.
One day, I knocked at the kitchen door to drop off game, and found no one there. I wandered through dusty corridors under the beady gaze of the wizard’s birds. I heard voices, and went silently up a graceful staircase. The wizard-king stood before a huge, gilt-framed mirror. He wore the king’s crown on his head and the queen’s circlet on his brow. Stormwhite played with chicken bones on the bare floor at his feet.
The king raised his hands and commanded: “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
Golden clouds filled the glass, and a woman’s face appeared. “You, oh king, are my fairest flower. If you ever loved me, free me to feel the sun on my face and your kiss on my lips.”
“Love is fickle,” replied the king. “Love is weak. Only strength survives, and only strength makes beauty thrive.” He spun toward the doorway where I spied. “You there, come out!” Though I hesitated, I didn’t run. “As you see, the servants have all abandoned us. You are now my chatelain, my cook, and this child’s keeper.” He waved dismissively at Stormwhite.
Such was the power of his voice, that what he said came true. I spent my days hunting, my nights and mornings serving. Stormwhite followed me everywhere. The child was starved for love. He was a sweet boy - love was easy to give.
Each and every morning, the king stood in front of the mirror and asked the same question: “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?” The sad creature answered the same way every time: “You, oh king, are fairest.”
On Stormwhite’s sixteenth birthday, the king stood before the mirror as always. But this time, the mirror declared, “You are the fairest king, it’s true. But Stormwhite has grown fairer than you.” The king turned purple with rage. The ravens screamed and hurled themselves about the room.
“You!” he ordered me. “Take Stormwhite into the woods and kill him. Bring back his heart so that I know the deed is done!”
Such was the power of the king’s voice that once again I had to do his bidding. Though Stormwhite had grown tall, I was stronger still. I grabbed an axe, and we left the castle. The sweet boy begged me to stop, but it was only when we’d gone deep into the woods that I could resist the spell. “Quickly,” I said. “Leave me before I strike you dead. Go, and never return.”
When Stormwhite was well away, I slew a deer, carved out it’s heart, and bore it to the king, who made me serve it to him with turnips and potatoes.
Stormwhite wandered the forest, hungry and lost. He came across a little cottage up against a hill. Inside, he found seven chairs around a wooden table set with seven plates of gold, seven spoons, and seven knives. There were seven fiddles by the fireplace, and seven beds and wardrobes. Stormwhite ate what he found in the pantry and fell asleep on the softest bed.
He woke to find seven little dwifes staring at him from seven suspicious sets of eyes. Each had a pretty beard but was womanly formed in every other way. The tallest demanded, “Who are you? Why have you eaten our food, and slept in my bed?”
“I’m Stormwhite,” said the lad. “My step-father sent me into the forest to die, but fortune brought me here. If you let me stay, I’ll cook and clean for you, and make things comfortable in every way.”
“He doesn’t look like he’d be much good at cleaning,” said one of the dwifes. “Look at those soft hands.”
“Doesn’t look like he’d be much good at cooking,” said another. “You see an ounce of fat on those arms?”
“Well,” said the leader, “I’m sure we can find some use for a strapping young lad around here, don’t you, ladies?”
Stormwhite learned many things from the dwifes, and was very happy there.
Back at the castle, the king stood before his mirror again. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
The mirror answered, “You are the fairest king it’s true, but Stormwhite in the house of the seven dwifes is fairer still than you.” The king smashed the mirror, then stood weeping and raging among the shards. The ravens took him up in a roiling cloud, off, and over the hills.
Stormwhite was standing at the kitchen sink, yawning, and puzzling how to work the fawcett, when a knock came at the cottage door. An old woman stood there with a basket of apples. “Hello,” said the king - for it was the king in disguise, of course. “Will you buy an apple from an old woman?” He held out a beautiful red fruit.
“Of course, Grandmother,” said Stormwhite. No sooner did Stormwhite bite into the poisoned apple than he fell into a deep, deep sleep.
The king laughed and danced, dropping his disguise. He didn’t notice the dwifes returning from the mines. They took one look at Stormwhite, and realized what had happened. The leader grabbed a gem from her pack and cast it at the king’s head. He tried to prepare a spell, but a second stone took him in the temple. Then another struck, and another. The king fell to the ground, where they crushed him with their shovels.
Leaving the king to the ravens, the dwifes rushed to Stormwhite. They tried every remedy they knew, but nothing roused him. Finally, they made a casket from their finest crystal and placed the boy inside.
This was how things stood for many months. The dwifes visited Stormwhite frequently. As for me, I watched from the trees, ashamed to draw closer.
Word spread of the sleeping prince. As happens, the truth grew more confused the farther the story traveled. Sometimes the sleeper was a beautiful princess; sometimes a handsome prince. So it was that in a distant kingdom, Princess Charming heard there was an enchanted girl and decided to see her for herself. She journeyed many miles, before she reached the place where Stormwhite slept.
Let no one tell you that there’s no such thing as love at first sight. I stood in the shadowed trees, pulse pounding at the sight of the princess. I did what I hadn’t done in years. I reached inside my shirt, and unwound the wrappings that bound my breasts, un-hid my womanhood. I stepped forward, and met your mother.
As for Stormwhite, your mother’s and my embrace was so ardent that we bumped over the crystal casket. Stormwhite rolled onto the ground, and a piece of apple lodged in his throat came free. Racing to the clearing at the sound of breaking glass, the dwifes greeted the waking lad with joyous cries of “Dwusband!”
It’s time for bed now, sweetling. The moral of the story? Alright, if really you need one, remember this. “Love is treasure. Love is sweet. Only love survives, and only love makes beauty thrive.”
The Wolf of Tales
By Nora
If you are brave, and venture in the world's wilderness, you can cross the Wolf's path and marvel at his tall shoulder, his golden eyes, and the thickness of his pelt. But the Wolf of tales is no simple Canis Lupus.
He is the loss of innocence, the end at the end of all roads, night after day, death after birth, he is the moment of change in the cycles of life.
He is, in short, an institution.
You might fear or hate him, but you cannot avoid meeting him.
For all his conceptual existence, the Wolf, on that day, hungers. Spring is still young, and he has not been lucky. He's walked much and ate little. He lays in a ray of sun by a stream to rest his weary bones, when a high voice appears and grows, singing a simple song. A child enters the clearing, twirling in the young grass and plucking flowers as she goes.
The Wolf beckons, using his softest voice. Curiosity brings the singer to him.
'Child, what is this I smell? Pie? Sausages? Will you spare one for a starving animal?'
The girl peers down at him. She wears a peasant's apron dress, blond locks spill from an old-fashioned hood. On her arm is the wicker basket that is the source of the delightful aromas.
'I canna do that, they're for my Gran, who lives all the way down the forest road, Ma sent me.'
'You will not spare a single sausage to keep me from dying? Do you have no heart?'
The girl shrugs, jostling her golden curls. 'Ma says it's for Gran, not strangers.'
The wolf rises then, his eyes burning with contained fury.
'If you won't hear the cries of mercy, what about the simpler call of threat?' He shows teeth, his mane bristling on his neck.
The girl frowns, but swings her basket behind her, and tries to look at him down her nose, a task made difficult by the fact that he's rather taller than her.
'No's no, mister!'
'Do you not know who I am?' The Wolf asks, incredulous.
'Are you famous?'
'Famous?' He snorts. 'Child, cemeteries the world over are monuments raised in my name. Does your hearth have no fire, that you never heard whispers of my deeds?'
'I'd no idea we've such a neighbour!' she squeaks.
The Wolf chokes on his protest. He's noone's neighbour. He passes through this forest like he passes through the world, but there is little to be gained by confusing her further.
'It's alright,' he says, more to himself than to the girl. But really it isn't. The child is too old to be this naive, and the Wolf hungers. 'So you truly won't give this to anyone but your Gran?'
She nods.
'How lucky she is, to have you come all this way for her!'
The child smiles, and brags of her many trips through the woods. It takes little prodding for the Wolf to get directions to the Grandmother's house, though they come with half the village's gossip. Seeing her collected flowers, he encourages her to follow the river a little ways to find daffodils and lilies of rare colours. She falls for it all, even thanks him. He ambles away, a smile on his canine lips, and soon is galloping through the underbrush.
The Wolf is half convinced he's lost before the trail finally turns into a path, that turns into a dirt road, that turns into the yard of a little house. Such a lost place! And not much to look at. The thatch is old and mossy, the walls lean on each other like drunks. There are no chickens in the coop, no cow on the grass, and the pond is fit for naught but a family of frogs.
The Wolf gathers himself and stands up, looking like a stark young man, with a mop of silver hair and a fur coat (not all of the wolf can quite fit in all of the man).
He steps to the door and knocks.
'Grandmother, open up!'
'Who is it?' comes an old voice from inside.
'I'm a hunter,' the Wolf says, 'been told you lived alone. I've more game than I need, so I thought you'd like a hare or two.'
'Pull the rope, hunter, and come in.'
The Wolf does as he's told, and the door unlocks and creaks open, revealing a small room, and in it an old crone, hunched over her knitting by a dim fire.
She looks ancient, this woman, full of stories and tales and old adages. The Wolf cannot help but think that if she'd stayed and lived with her daughter, then her grandchild would not be so painfully innocent.
The crone's eyes squint at his tall figure.
'Where is your game, hunter?'
'Oh, you're the game, Grandmama,' the Wolf says. 'Look at you. The reaper would have found you long ago, did you not live at the lost end of a lost road. Your time has long been up.'
The old woman's eyes widen, but she doesn't struggle as the Wolf grabs her chin and bends to kiss her wrinkled brow: she falls dead in his arms. Old folks rarely fight. They've heard the discreet patter of Death's footfall in their wake, when it lands off the beat of their own shuffling feet. Most welcome the end of such odious suspense.
The Wolf sets to work straight away. He strips the old woman and drapes himself in her rags, tying her shawl around his head and donning an old apron for the task ahead. He rends her flesh, works her bones and drains her blood. It is hard, messy work, as the crone is tough and dry. No amount of pies or sausages can make you tender past a certain age. Soon he worries he won't be done in time. But the little girl doesn't come until the Wolf is finished, tidied and ready, waiting by the fire, his belly filled and his mind wandering.
The knock rouses him.
'Gran, open up!'
'Who is it?' The Wolf calls in his best elderly voice.
'It's me, Gran, can't you tell?'
'Pull the rope, child, and come in.'
She does as she's told, and in comes the little girl, all dishevelled from running through the woods, her flowers in a large wreath, the basket hooked at her elbow. He welcomes her in, bids her to put her things aside, sits her and serves her a plate of meat, a glass of red (wine, he says) and watches her eat.
The girl looks at him too, as she chews on her meal and drains her cup.
'What big eyes you have, Gran. And what strong hands!'
The Wolf says nothing, but refills her glass and smiles.
'What wide mouth you have, too!' she exclaims.
At that the Wolf barks an awful laugh. 'The better to mock you with, little dolt!'
The girl, dismayed, looks as the clothes fall away from the Wolf's shifting body. Claws click on the tabletop, the wine bottle topples and spills its ruby red content. The Wolf towers above her, dark and terrible, outlined as he is by the firelight.
'Are you surprised I'm not dead in some ditch, after you wouldn't feed me, not for all the whining I could muster? I'm quite sated now, thanks to your Grandmama. But I'm generous! I can share, unlike others. I saved you a bottle of her blood, and a slice of her flesh. How did you like it?'
The girl stares at him, then her plate, in horror.
'It is true, he killed her,' comes a voice, that of a bat, speaking from the rafters. 'I saw it.'
'It is true, you ate her,' comes a voice, that of a bird, speaking from the window. 'You git.'
She screams, jumps away from the table. She retches and cries.
The Wolf watches the emotions that flash across her face: disbelief, rage, disgust, hatred, fear. Humanity.
'Here you are, my child,' the Wolf croons, 'all grown up at last.'
'Why?' she yells in a shattered voice.
'Because you're too old not to think for yourself!' he yells back. 'I pleaded but you would not be kind! I threatened but you would not compromise! Yet you're no infant, to not recognise danger when it crosses your road. You would not feed me, so I fed myself at your expense. You did not know me, but now consider us introduced.'
He strides towards her and colour drains from her face. 'Will you eat me, too?'
The Wolf laughs as he walks past. He stops in the door frame, glancing back at the trembling girl.
'You can tell your folks I tried, if it makes you feel better. Most do, some even say they cut themselves free of my belly. What matters is the lesson learnt, and besides,' his eyes glitter with cruel humour, 'I'm much too full as it is.'
Random Wikipedia Article
[image: images/random-wikipedia-article-0.png]
I don't think we ever had a prompt that was so not fantasy related and so open. I'm really curious about the stories this will produce and the wide variety of themes. Steampunk, Portal, Grimdark, Military, Erotica, Parallel Universe - depending on the article you get, everything is possible. Please take the first you get and don't try to find the "right" article. None will be and you'll only get the muse's kiss if you take the first article.

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(jun-2016)-random-wikipedia-article/(jun-2016)-random-wikipedia-article-submission-thread/
One Last Drink
By tebakutis
The man named Servius Tuccius Cotta approached the refugee camp with his head down. He had not been born the man he was now, but those names remained a part of him. Even with Batavia in revolt against the empire, those were still his names. He’d earned them, no matter who he served.
This battered camp was perhaps threescore tents and lean-tos, but many huddled in the cold and mud. People fled Tongeran when runners brought news of fighting between Julius Civilis and Claudius Labeo at the Mass river, and Tuccius suspected more would flee in the hours ahead. These were uncertain times.
He was an assassin by trade, a man who killed so others wouldn’t have to. He had tracked Labeo for the better part of the day, ever since the man slipped free of the Tungrian lines. Every last Tungrian had abandoned Labeo for Civilis, but Tuccius did not blame Labeo for that. He had planted the seeds himself.
Labeo’s distinctive tracks entered this camp, and several circles assured Tuccius they did not leave. Labeo’s fine boot prints differentiated his tracks, another mistake. That was the problem with men accustomed to luxury, even experienced cavalry commanders. They loved expensive boots.
Tuccius affected a limp as he entered the camp. His own cloak hung on his frame. No one gave a beggar a second look, and a beggar among refugees was a stalk in a field of wheat.
He passed figures huddled around sputtering fires, listened to coughs and moans from those who’d been injured or taken sick. A drizzle had fallen since dawn, beating on people and tents alike. Tuccius held out his bowl at each fire, muttering apologies, and each time, the refugees turned him away.
None of the refugees at these fires were Labeo. None wore the man’s fine boots. Tuccius moved on.
It was at a small fire at camp’s edge where he finally found a man whose frame and bulk suggested regular meals. Mud covered the boots protruding from his cloak, but the tips were distinctive.
Tuccius extended his bowl. “Please, I’m sorry. Anything you can spare.”
“Off with you, beggar.” The man beside Labeo glared, his face covered in mud. “We’ve nothing for you.”
“Don’t be cruel.” Labeo motioned Tuccius to the fire. “You may warm yourself by our fire.”
“Thank you, master.” Tuccius found a place between two other scowling refugees, both women, and sat.
One woman wrinkled her nose and scooted away, reacting to the dung Tuccius had smeared on his cloak earlier today. The other stared at the fire without speaking, barely breathing. She had lost someone today. Tuccius had seen that blank look on so many faces since Batavia rebelled against Rome.
Labeo’s cowl obscured his face. All Tuccius could make out was a strong chin thick with stubble. This assassination must be quiet.
Many in Batavia respected Claudius Labeo for his actions at Nijmegen. They resented Civilis’s decision to exile such a useful commander, but killing him would have been an even bigger mistake, at the time.
Poisoning Labeo’s drink would be easiest—Tuccius carried a powder that would bring on the runs days later, when he was gone—but Labeo would be watching for poison. He could follow the man to the latrine ditch, but Labeo was a notable warrior as well. There was no guarantee Tuccius would prevail.
“What brings you here to us, friend?” Labeo asked. “Have you fled Tongeran as well?” He motioned to the others. “We are all Tungrians, here, and any countryman of ours is welcome.”
“I’m Marsaci,” Tuccius muttered. There were too many things he did not know about Tongeran, and presenting himself as a Tungrian invited questions he could not reliably answer.
The woman who had moved away wrinkled her nose. “We don’t need no stinking Marsaci in our camp.”
“Why?” Labeo asked. “A beggar is not to blame for this war.”
“It’s Labeo’s fault, you ask me.” The mud-covered man spit at the fire. “If that stubborn cunt hadn’t set fires all over Batavia, Civilis would have sent the legions running by now.”
“Perhaps,” Labeo said, and Tuccius heard no anger in his words.
“Bah,” the boiled man said. “Need to piss.” He rose and stalked from the camp.
Tuccius rose and followed him. “I shall not trouble you further.” The man who’d cursed Labeo was an opportunity. If he could convince an actual refugee to murder his target…
Tuccius found the smaller man at a makeshift latrine, dug by those among the refugees who knew defecating where you ate and slept was a wonderful way to start a plague. The refugee stood with his back to Tuccius, whistling as he aimed a golden stream into the ditch. Tuccius limped closer.
“Marsaci!” The refugee turned, his cock flopping before he crammed it back into his soiled breeches. “Come to contribute?”
“Did you mean it?” Tuccius asked.
“Mean what, beggar?”
“About Claudius Labeo being the cause of all this.” Tuccius made himself shudder.
“What’s it to you who I back? You heard something?” The mud-covered refugee leaned closer, eager for gossip. Without food, gossip was the only nourishment many had.
“I heard Labeo’s working for the Romans again, against Civilis,” Tuccius whispered.
 
The refugee scoffed. “Labeo’s a cunt, I’ll give you that, but he’s no Roman spy.”
“Really?” Tuccius said. “And a Roman spy wouldn’t disguise himself as a Tungrian refugee?”
“Say what?”
“Did you notice the boots of the man beside you, his bearing, his girth? He’s no beggar. I think he might be Claudius Labeo.”
“You think so?” The boiled man leaned closer. “Say, has Civilis got a reward for him?”
Greed and desperation made fools of all men. “As much gold as you can carry, last I heard. We could take him, between the two of us. We could split the reward.”
There was no reward, of course—offering a bounty for Labeo would be foolish when Civilis lacked the money to pay even his own soldiers—but this refugee wouldn’t know that.
The refugee pulled a small flask from inside his cloak. “You’ll help me? I ain’t killed no commander before.”
“I’ll help as I’m able,” Tuccius said. “I need the coin.”
“Then let’s drink to our new wealth!” The refugee raised the flask and took a long drink, Adam’s apple bobbing. He passed the flask to Tuccius. “To piles of Roman gold.”
Tuccius hesitated, but only a moment. The man had drunk before him, and this was too good an opportunity to scuttle. The water tasted foul. Soon after, they were off to murder a commander.
 
“Say there, beggar, what’s your name?” The refugee might be nervous.
“Tuccius.” No harm in giving his real name, and he needed to keep this man calm. “What’s yours?”
“Claudius,” the refugee said, as he straightened and turned.
Tuccius missed a step as mud roiled around him. “What?” His eyes watered and his throat clamped.
“Claudius Labeo,” the small, mud-covered man said. “The big man at the fire is one of my many loyal soldiers, but there’s no way you could know. My reputation is bigger than me.”
“But I…” Tuccius coughed and fell, trying to understand the fire consuming his belly. “You drank…”
“Did I?” Labeo smiled with teeth far too clean for the mud cloaking his face. “Seems a tongue could clog that spout pretty easily. Have you ever tried that, Tuccius?”
Stupid. Tuccius had been stupid, too focused on the boots, the cloak, the bearing. Claudius Labeo was not a big man with a fine cloak and fine boots. He was a small man, dressed like all the other small men in the refugee camp, and he had just beaten an assassin at his own game.
Tuccius’s eyes glazed over as his vision swam and the poison burned through his gut. Yet despite his agony, his fear, he respected Labeo’s gambit. There was no shame in dying to a man like this one.
“You were only doing your duty,” Labeo said, as his voice came from somewhere far away. “I won't let you suffer. Go in peace.”
Tuccius felt cold steel against his throat. He would have thanked Labeo for that mercy, had he been able to speak, but perhaps the man understood anyway. Tuccius imagined his wife, his daughter, and home.
One day, he hoped, Civilis or Labeo would bring them peace again.
THE END
 
The Gambit
By ArcaneArtsVelho
Pawn d4.
Knight f6.
Pawn c4.
Pawn c5.
Pawn d5.
Pawn b5.
A man reached out his grimy hand and picked up a white pawn from c4. He twirled the piece between his bluish fingers, looking intently at the board, before putting it back down to its previous spot. He scratched his scruffy beard and pulled the collar of his coat higher. “Although I have enjoyed our games during these last two days, I haven’t spoken much in a fear of fraternizing, but…” he said hesitantly to his opponent. “I have to ask, what gambit is this?”
The man on the opposite side of the chessboard shrugged. “I have no idea what it’s called”, he said and let out a short, amused breath that twirled across the dim room. “I’m not really an expert at chess; my son is. But I’ve played enough with him to pick up on a few strategies. Nevertheless, if it has a name, I don’t know it.”
“Well, maybe the winner of this game should come up with a name for it. Would that bet sound good to you, captain?”
“I not a betting man, but I’ll amuse you since you are the only one willing to play with me.”
“I think captain Benko means that you are the only one who plays well enough to have a chance against him,” said a third man who had been sitting on the other side of the room, trying to pretend not to care about the game. Now, however, his curiosity got the better of him and he strode to the others.
“Yes, colonel, that is what I mean. But I would never say it.”
“Well, perhaps it’s time for me to learn this game.” The colonel clasped his hands behind his back and leaned over the board. “So, what is a gambit?”
The first man chuckled from beneath his woollen collar. He seemed less tense now. “I’ll explain it, colonel. A gambit is like a diversion. It’s a series of first moves where you take a piece, usually a pawn, and—“
The door of the room slung open, cutting off the explanation. An icy breeze along with a hunched soldier rushed in from a trench outside the door, distant shell impacts and a muffled banging of a machine-gun accompanying their entry. The soldier closed the door and caught his breath. “Colonel Jány, captain Benko,” he said, saluting the officers.
“Yes private?”
“Colonel, sir, they need you in the command bunker. Both of you.”
“What’s happening?” captain Benko asked, getting up.
“Well...” the private started but then nodded towards the man sitting by the chessboard. The captain and the colonel moved closer to the private who continued in a whisper, “The Soviets are making a push.”
The colonel nodded, and the captain moved immediately to the door, opening it to his superior. “Private, you stay and watch him,” he instructed.
“I’m not going to run,” the man at the table said and pulled up his coat, showing the shackles on his ankles and gently jingling them with his foot.
Captain Benko gave a brief smile. “Oh, I’m not afraid of that. I’m afraid that you cheat.” With that he stepped through the door but then stopped. “Oh what the hell,” he said and came back. He set his king on its side. “You name the gambit and then tell me the next time we play. In the mean time, you could teach the private here how to play.” Then he hurried after the colonel, leaving the private and his teacher.

The mood among the commanders of the Hungarian Second Army was grim as the communications officer told the news. “We have reports telling that the Soviets have started an offensive against the Romanian Third Army on the northern side of Stalingrad.”
“On our side,” colonel Jány muttered, nodding. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure we’ll hear similar news from the Romanian Fourth Army on the south side. The Soviets are most likely going to try and pincer their way through the thinned lines of the Romanians in order to cut off the Germans in the city.”
“Colonel, if the Soviet Fifth Tank Army and the 21st Army with its tank and motorized brigades are both involved on the northern assault, we are talking about hundreds of tanks and other armoured vehicles; the Romanians can’t stop that many. Nor can we or the Italians,” captain Benko said and shook his head. “As you said, we are all too thin. And we don’t have enough of anti-tank weapons to deal with a full-blown tank offensive head on.”
“You are right, captain Benko, the situation is not good.” The colonel checked the most recent radio transcripts and then a map showing the latest troop movements. “We knew this was coming; for the last few days, the Romanians have been telling they are hearing sounds of tanks assembling. They have asked for reinforcements and supplies but so far received none.”
“But are the reinforcements coming?” the captain asked.
“According to the Germans, yes, but there’s no accurate information as to when.” The colonel took a deep breath and ran his eyes over the officers gathered in the room. “Any suggestions, gentlemen?”
Had it not been for the faint sounds of war coming from outside, the next few moments would have passed in complete silence. After a while, captain Benko stepped up. “Well, if the reinforcements truly are coming, then I’d say we need to buy some time for the Romanians. If the Soviets really are conducting a double envelopment manoeuvre, they are going to concentrate their forces against the defenders nearer to the city. So we, further north, could make a move of our own with relatively little resistance.”
“Are you saying we should attack? Abandon our defensive positions, however poor they may be?”
“No, sir. I’m saying that we could create a diversion.”
“A diversion? Like that gambit of yours?”
“More or less. My company—which is understrength as it is—could go over the Don River and sneak or punch through all the way to the Volga. There we could make our presence known and possibly force the Soviets to slow down their pincer. Hell, in the best case they could turn most of their attack force towards us if they estimate our size wrong. That’s unlikely to happen, but if it did, you could coordinate defences better with the Romanians to hold until the reinforcements show up, or even launch a counter-attack to the Soviet’s flank.”
The colonel looked through the others in the room, for a second opinion, but was met only by shrugs. “Well, that’s our plan then. Go make ready.” Everybody saluted the colonel and sprung into action. Before captain Benko could leave, the colonel walked to him. “What happens to the pawn in the gambit?”
The captain gave a faint smile. “By definition, a gambit means sacrificing a piece in order to gain an advantageous position.”
The colonel nodded and shook the captain’s hand. Then captain Benko left the bunker.

*****

Thirty two years later:
“...and that’s the main difference between the Benko gambit and mister Argunov’s Volga gambit. If you want to know more, you should buy this book,” Pál Benko said, smiling. The crowd applauded, but then Pál grew serious. “As to the gambit’s name… I didn’t name it after myself; I’m not that vain.” The crowd chuckled. “No, it’s named after my father who passed in the Second World War. He was very supporting and always willing to play a round of chess with me; even after he was pretty sure he’d lose. I dedicate this book and the gambit to my father’s memory. Thank you.”

After the event, when the spectators had gone and Pál was ready to leave, he saw and old man sitting by a chessboard reserved for an earlier exhibition game. He moved closer to the man and saw a face that was familiar to him from old Soviet chess magazines. “Mister Argunov?”
The sitting man motioned Pál to take a seat on the other side of the table. “I came to set one thing straight; the Volga gambit was in fact also dedicated to your father.”
Pál sat down looking puzzled. “How so?”
“During the war, I was held captive by the Hungarian Second Army, and your father showed me compassion by letting me play chess with him. I was the last person to ever play with him. And when I later found out that he had passed during a push to the Volga river, I named the gambit he had used in our last game accordingly. I could tell you more if you would entertain an old man with a friendly game of chess.”
“Of course!”
Argunov smiled as he picked up a white pawn. “I think we both know how this goes.”
“At least until b5.”
“Indeed.”
 
Pawn d4.
Knight f6.
Pawn c4.
Pawn c5.
Pawn d5.
Pawn b5.

Curse the Schedule
By m3mnoch
[image: images/curse-the-schedule-0.png]
"Hey, Boss. What's this?"
Reggie, watching the pile foundations as they were hammered into the ground for the new Waterford Commercial Building, turned and faced Jake.
"What's what?"
Jake's gloved hand extended out from where he was adding cement for the stabilizer in their little Kushlan mixer. He held out a small piece of metal in his palm resembling a beaten up, washer-like ring.
Reggie rolled his eyes and returned to the foundation work. His crew needed to have these piles in the ground and the formwork and rebar set up in the next 4 days. Because, like all construction downtown, things were tight the whole schedule through.
"No, really. Come look at it," Jake said.
Reggie grunted, turned, and stalked over. He jerked the metal bit out of Jake's hand and held it up to examine.
"I found it in that last bag of cement. It was still sealed." Jake rubbed his chin. "Do you think it's a coin?"
"No, asshole." Reggie was pushing the disc around in his palm. "Coins don't have holes in the middle."
"But it has writing on it."
"No kind of writing I've ever seen. It just looks dented. The hole's not even round. It's probably just some tag or washer that slipped in at the bagging factory." Reggie tossed the worthless thing into their little mixer along with the rest of the contents from the cement bag. "Now, hurry up and pour that slurry. We've got that next pile coming and I want the damn thing stable. We've got to finish this foundation today."
Jake's nose twitched. Like he was considering fishing the worthless chunk of tin from a mixer full of wet cement. Finally, he sighed, tilted the drum over, and dumped the mixture into the hole.
Reggie lifted his arm and waved to the pile driving team, signaling the hole was ready.

[image: images/curse-the-schedule-1.png]
Reggie collapsed onto the couch in the construction trailer that served as his office. It'd been a long week and felt like an even longer day, but his team had mostly finished the foundation. They had a couple more forms to throw together in the morning, but they would make their deadline. More or less.
The flimsy, aluminum door rattled as someone pounded on it from outside.
"Come in," he hollered, exhausted.
The door screeched open, and Jake leapt into the trailer.
"Boss, did you hear about that trucker?" Eyes the size of hubcaps, he fanned his arm out wide, pointing to some spot in the distance. "The one what had his rig burned up. Him inside."
Reggie shifted a little. "That's too bad. Which trucker?"
"The guy what brought in our cement."
"Huh?" Reggie sat up. He remembered the guy. Jaded and sarcastic, but hell of a work ethic. Those haulers always sit and watch his boys unload, but this one rolled up his sleeves and started throwing 80lb bags like he was one of them.
"Yeah. He was headed back west and his truck caught fire. Burned him right up. Black and crispy, even!"
Reggie grimaced, then lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yeah! For real! At least that's what ol' Jim Barnes was sayin'. I guess he knew the guy." Jake still wide-eyed, bobbed his head, fists on his hips.
Grunting, Reggie leaned forward and grabbed his laptop from the counter. "What company did he drive for again?"
"Oh, I don't remember. Why? You gonna look it up?"
The clicking of keys paused as, face lit by the glow of the screen, he stared at Jake.
"Well, what was the brand of the cement? Cemex?" Maybe there was something in the invoices.
Scratching his chin, Jake shook his head. "Nah. It were Twig-something-or-nuther."
"Here it is. Twiga Extra. That's right. It was delivered by Heising Hauling." Reggie clicked, scanned, clicked again. He kept at it for a few moments while Jake tapped his foot, sucking on his teeth with impatience.
"Oh, wow." Flipping the screen around, Reggie pointed to the article. "Look. He burned right up in the middle of I-10."
"Whoa. . . . Hey, what's that?"
"Where?"
"On the side there. The thing about the ship."
Reggie rotated the laptop back around and checked the related articles section. "Looks like a cargo ship went down a week ago. An engine fire, too."
"Bad week for diesel, I reckon." Jake shrugged, scratching his head.
"Wait a minute. The ship had just dropped off cargo in L.A." Reggie squinted. "No shit . . . Guess what it was hauling?"
"Some damn illegal immigrants?"
Glancing up, Reggie said, "Really?" He swore Jake said things just to make him say that.
Jake shrugged. "Them bastards're tryin' to take my job."
"No. Not illegals. It was carrying a load of Twiga cement. Fresh in from somewhere called 'Dar es Salaam'."
"I knew it! It's them damn terrorists!"
"Probably." Reggie nodded and clicked while Jake watched. "Maybe not. I guess it's not in the middle east, but somewhere in Tanzania."
"Where that devil from them Bugs Bunny cartoons was from?"
"No, that's Taz-mania. Different part of the world. That's over by Australia, I think. No, this place is in Africa."
Lower-lip extended and looking thoughtful, Jake nodded as if that made sense to him.
"Holy shit."
"What?"
"The Twiga warehouse in that Salami-whatever-city had a riot or something. Guys with guns, the employees, I guess, came in. Shot everything up. Everyone was killed." He bent closer to the screen. "And, I mean everyone. It says here some stocker guys went crazy or something."
"It's them damn terrorists, I tell ya."
"There's more. This is talking about how the Twiga factory 30 kilometers away exploded the week before."
"Really? Man, them terrorists got it out for our Twig friends, eh?"
"Maybe not this one. This says it was an explosion in their lab. Powdered limestone or testing chemicals or something."
"Yeah, but them ISIS bastards will make a bomb out of anything. Could still be terrorists. They got any pictures of the dead people?"
Sighing, he handed the laptop to Jake and stood up. "I've got to finish up this transfer paperwork tonight, so I'm going to make some coffee. You want some?"
Brows furrowed, Jake stuck his nose in the computer and mumbled, ”Sure, sure. I wanna find out more about these cement terrorists. Gotta be alert, ya know."

[image: images/curse-the-schedule-2.png]
NEWS ANCHOR:
Our lead story comes to us tonight from the construction site of the upcoming Waterford Commercial Building where two men were burned alive in a freak accident.
Officials say the men, identified as Reginald Johnson and Jacob Williams, switched on a coffee maker when there was an electrical short, and the construction trailer they were in caught fire. Both men were killed before the fire department could arrive.
Construction at the site has been delayed until further notice.
When we reached out to the Waterford family for comment, they offered their condolences to the families of the victims, and assured the other workers that construction would continue soon.

[image: images/curse-the-schedule-3.png]
. . . Six years later.
NEWS ANCHOR:
Our final item of the evening is regarding the Waterford Commercial lot downtown. What might have been the third sale of the now-famous property has been postponed once again for tragic reasons.
Commercial real estate agent Derrick Smith has been found dead after plunging eight stories from where he and a potential buyer were inspecting the property. Witnesses say the pair climbed the scaffolding surrounding the unfinished building to admire possible views from any new construction.
Authorities have not yet released the name of the person allegedly interested in buying the property that some characterize as haunted, but they have the individual in custody for questioning regarding the incident. This is the eighteenth death associated with the Waterford property in the last six years.
We'll bring you more as the story develops.
 
Cat Country 100.3FM
By Lady_Ty
[image: images/cat-country-100-3fm-0.jpg] [image: images/cat-country-100-3fm-1.jpg]
Gooood Mornin' all you shakin' wakin' Catfolk of every shape and size, Gingerfluffs, Skinnyshanks or Hairyhunters, every darn one of you in our great little ol' KNSR's Cat Country 100.3FM community.Hey rootin' tootin' Oldie Country Cats, I'm Crooksy, aka Crookshanks Kneazle, radio whizcat and close friend of adorable Hermousene Ginger.
We're fired up and hissin', ears a-pointy tails a-swishin', ready to prance and pad through the day with plenty of Country Music Oldies on your favourite local radio, Cat Country100.3FM. Over to the Egyptian Mau Weathercat Team -
Hi Crooksy, Chief Mau bringing you today's weather . We prophecy it'll reach a scorching top of 50C for the wild Demon Devon Rexers out there in Grand Forks, so seek some shade and streeeetch. Cooler for the Ragdoll Rogues of Thief River Falls, with 30C and sunshine, so a good day to check out the fishin' with a swift paw and a fast hook..
Thanks Mau. All just right for our humpadoo bootscootin' Cat Country Mewsic Festival kickin' off today and all through the week here in Fisher, best Cat city of this great little ol' State. Glad the skies are calm as some of our fantastical neighbours are joinin' us from Country Plains.
Dragon Highlord Vulk Agni is flying across to present Red Hot Prizes for Best Howlin' and Yowlin', Sleekest and Smoothest, Ruffest and Tuffest. He's bringing local MP Wilde Hunter and The Naughty Nymphs & Saucy Satyr Singers, all headin' here to make sweet mewsic at the Festival and to host Mad Midnight Picnics In The Woods afterwards.
Woooohooo can't wait for splendour in the catnip, tanglin' in the treetops. Hmm, over to a message from our sponsor –
Hello there Cat Country charmers, The Amazing Maurice here with that product you've all been waitin' for, my perfect product, Spraaay.
Do you suffer from Itchybum? Are you raw in the rear? Is it hard to get your tongue into those awkward places for relief? Do you back up to rub that itch on human legs but it's still sore? Spray on Spraaay and itch no more. All together now
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Only $3 a box or $7 for two, tell all your friends, call now on 5673420 to order and get a free set of claw sharpeners. But hurry, hurry The Amazing Maurice may leave town…..
Sounds soothing, back to a listener request on your favourite local radio Cat Country 100.3FM. Mungojerrie and Rumpelteaser of Thief River asked for a Golden Oldie, Norwegian Forest Zombison's heart rending hit, Stand By Your Troll, a touching reminder of the value of true love however painful the sacrifice.
Sometimes it's hard to be a Zombie
Giving all your love to just one Troll
You'll have dead times,
And she'll have live times
Doin' things that you don't understand.
But if you love her, you'll forgive her
Even though she gave away your hand
And if you love her, give your toes to her
Cause after all, she's just a hairy Troll.
Stand by your Troll,
Give her an arm to cling to
An eyeball to come home to
When nights are cold.
Stand by your Troll and show the world you love her
Rip out your heart and love her like no other
Stand by your Troll.

What a great song, what a great singer. A quick cut to Catnip Now Network anchor, Catiane Amanpaww, for an emergency newsflash -
The value of the Purr is falling, markets are reeling on Wail Street, with the news that media baron Mercat Cattodumpf, has gained 98% control of Owlpost Inc. under suspicious circumstances, leaving vital questions unanswered.
Why did Cheshire Cat fade out of the boardroom?
Why did Si and Am sell out so fast and catch the Orient Catspress?
Why are Warm Kitty and Soft Kitty hiding in Sheldon's slippers?
Where oh where has Pussycat gone? Where oh where can she be?
Major stock holders Pussycat and Hedwig have disappeared together. It is rumoured they went to sea with plenty of money, but no sightings by the Seacat Patrols have been reported. Another source suggests they went to London to visit the Queen, but this is unlikely as she's been isolated since the Catinental Catflap closed.
Gobblecat King Jareth of White Persia is furious and has hired Mister, a famous Chicatgo catective to search for them, with trainee Wizard Baker.
We asked Lord of the Skies Gwydir what this would mean for airmail. He was concerned that letter post will become obsolete and all communication controlled through Cattodumpf's nefarious See-mail. The Tortoiseshell Council will confer on preserving quill and ink and report back early next century.
The Cat Mint assures us that there is sufficient Purr in the Reserve Cupboard to guarantee Mousegages on your homes, do not panic. Further announcements later.
Holy Litter Catwoman, CNN hinting at some backsider trading there. Should anyone see Hedwig or PussyCat you could dob them in to the authorities. Or not. Depending on how you feel. And what they have to offer. Cats always know which side their paws are buttered, after all. Time for another important message from our sponsors -
Calling all WildCats, do you suffer from Bloodtooth? Spray on Spraaay and those fangs will shine like ivory castles………………………..hurry, hurry……………..
You're on Cat Country 100.3FM, your favourite radio station, welcoming our very own local jazz-cat, Manx Mooncat, from Hard Ice Café, believe he has a very special song for us.
Peace and light, Crooksy, peace and light. Good to be on 100.3FM. As you can imagine life with no tail is a harsh start, so I grew up on the big city streets hangin' with Sundog the Hippypup. Then one night the Dark Barkers caught me and dragged me to a life of hell. Today I'm singing one from the heart, Mirkwood Prison Blues for my friends still languishin' there.
I hear the Nazdogs comin'
Demons, kept by evil men
And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when
I'm stuck in Mirkwood's dungeons and time keeps draggin' on
But those Nazdogs keep a-comin altho' ol' Sauron's gone.
When I was just a baby, my mother said to me
Always be a good King, don't never wear those Rings
But I wanted to be famous and flashed it, low and high
Now I hear ol' Sauron laughin' and hang my head and cry.
I bet there's hobbits feastin' on a fancy homecooked stew
They're probly drinkin' coffee an' smokin' pipeweed too
Well I know I had it comin', I know I can't be free
But those Nazdogs keep a-flyin' and that's what tortures me
Well if they freed me from this dungeon and loosed me from this mine
I could die a little gentler, seein' stars that shine
Far from Mirkwood prison, that's where I want to stay
A-livin' with the hobbits to sing my blues away.
Wahey Manx, I'm not an emotional mog but my whiskers are twitchin', that is sad. Relieved you are safely back with us and reminding you listeners Manx will be at the Festival all week, be sure to drop some Tunachews in his bowl if you see him.
Award winning Mercat author, Celeste Sunk, wrote Princes of Toads, which won the 2015 Yugo Award for Best New Fantasy. Our much loved critic, Mrs Norris of Furry Fantasy Faction is here with a review. Glam grooming to you Mewriel, and glad to hear the retired founder of FFF, Mr Argus Filch is settled in Caretakers Cages Retirement Home.
Luscious lapping to you, Crooksy. This first book of The Spawn Empire series introduces ToadPrinces Jaran and Jog.
In their youth they fall foul of the FrogFather and are cruelly parted. Jaran is banished to ride a camel in the terrible Dry Sherry Desert, far from water and squishy bugs. Tiny Jog is transported by rabid reindeer to State of the Leering Snowman. He trudges through the frozen waste, desperately yearning for his beloved soulmate Jaran. That little spec of green in an unwelcoming, white, white world while Jog struggles to control a humpy horror amid burning sand.
Oh listeners you will search your souls, as you drag yourself along with each tortuous webfootstep or gasping gulp. This book merited 4 stars for the exquisite anguish I felt for our dear ToadPrinces. If it had included the Ice Giants Saga or the Bedouin Brouhaha I would have given it that one extra star. Maybe in Volume 2. I will not spoil the story, but urge you to read for yourself. Hint – Happy Ending!!!! Only $5.99 at Rowl's Book and Bootlegge Emporium on Prowl Street.
 
Bringing you our friendly sponsor again
Spray on some Spraay
Spray every day …………………..

Time to leave Country Cats 100.3 FM.
But you are all welcome back for a Mad Midnight Picnic…….
 
we proudly present:
[image: images/we-proudly-present-0.png]
This month's theme has many fathers and mothers. @Lady_Ty who posted the Shakespeare Adaptation Generator in the Ideas Topic, @Raptori who modified it (we kept some of your choices!), @ClintACK who provided the online dice roller you will use below and at least @ScarletBea and yours truly who put it together. We hope you have lots of fun with it!

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(jul-2016)-story-generator/(jul-2016)-story-generator-submission-thread/
Conan meets Nietzsche
By Lanko
Hither came Nietzsche, the philosopher, narrow-eyed, mouth hidden under a huge mustache, carrying gigantic melancholies and wisdom, an ember about to ignite, a bullet in a loaded gun, ready to shatter the sacred traditions of the Earth with his fearless pen.
He walked calmly on the streets of Leipzig, in the kingdom of Prussia, until he was grabbed by an enormous arm and carried into an alley like a baby. Before him was the tallest and broadest man he’d ever saw. Black-haired, sullen-eyed, wearing a loincloth and a large fur cape, an enormous broadsword on his back. His muscles were massive, thews clearly never softened by life amid marble walls.
“W-who are you?”
“I’m Conan, from Cimmeria.”
“Never heard of it.”
Conan pulled a dagger and Nietzsche shivered. “I stole this from the temple of Dagon, unintentionally cut myself with it and here I am. Cursed witchcraft.” The dagger was red, ornamented with gold and onyx jewels, full of inscriptions that couldn’t possibly be human.
But of all the people Conan could’ve met, Nietzsche was the last who would believe such a thing. “I’ve seen priests in the asylum lie better than that.”
Conan’s face reddened. “I raided and fought with bandits, barbarians, pirates and knights. I’ve been called thief, reaver, slayer, I care not. But no one ever called me a liar.”
Nietzsche gulped. “I… I meant no offense, Conan.” He infuriated many people over the years speaking openly about the harsh truths of the world, but now he would mind his tongue. Civilized men are actually much more discourteous towards each other than savages, but only because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing.
“The dagger is drawing me towards there.”
Nietzsche frowned. “It’s only the church. If you wish to loot or raze it, please, by all means.”
Conan flinched, disturbed. “Is their god dangerous? I had enough sorcery for a day.”
Nietzsche laughed. “Nothing to worry, he was actually killed almost two thousand years ago.”
They proceeded, Conan walking very cautiously. Nietzsche sighed. Religion claimed to be able to move mountains, but he only saw it actually placing mountains where there were none before.
“I dream of a future where we have successfully given up our longing for gods and eternal life. No more clinging to myths, but to live life to the fullest by creating our own values instead of borrowing them from some forged divinity.”
Conan thought for a moment. “I have known many gods. He who denies them is as blind as he who trusts them too deeply. But I agree with you, I seek not beyond death. I simply want to live deep while I draw breath. Let me know the rich juices of red meat and stinging wine on my palate on every meal, the hot embrace of a woman on every night, the mad exultation of battle when the blue blades flame and crimson, and I will ask for nothing more.” Conan patted Nietzsche on the back and laughed. “I will let teachers and philosophers like you brood over questions of reality and illusion.”
“If life is a lie than nothing matters.”
Conan shrugged. “I know this: if life is an illusion, then I am no less an illusion, thus the illusion is real to me. So I live, I love, I slay, and am content.”
Nietzsche actually smiled at that.
“Friedrich?”
“Wagner?” Nietzsche raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing in Leipzig?”
“The real question is: what are you doing in a church?”
“Just brought this man here to raze it.”
The red dagger flashed in Conan’s hand. “Whatever it wants, its here.”
Richard Wagner widened his eyes. “The dagger of Dagon! Guards!”
Three men entered the room, rifles in hand. Conan dragged Nietzsche out of the line of fire just in time.
Nietzsche was petrified, but Richard Wagner was merely annoyed. “There are things at stake that a barbarian cannot comprehend! The fate of nations, the very definition of man and civilization! The king is under my spell, as soon will others. This dagger is needed to unfold my plans!”
“You are right. I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky, what do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie? But I know this, fool: the subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they all fail when the broadswords sings. So come! Rush in and die, dogs!”
Conan cleaved one man in half with a single strike. The other two charged with their sabers. The first died impaled, the broadsword stuck in his chest. Conan let it go, dodged the attack from the other man, then hurled him into a wall with his barbaric strength. The man’s head exploded like a smashed tomato.
“Friedrich! You said religions are a fantasy! Look at this!” Wagner raised his left hand. “The ring of the Nibelung! The proof that our religion, the German religion, is true and powerful! Behold! Auferstanden aus Ruinen, Die Walküre!”
A woman, armored and armed, white wings on her back, appeared. An angel, no, a Valkyrie. And Richard Wagner was a wizard. Nietzsche almost laughed.
“I fought and laid with all kinds of women, but this is the first time I meet a fully armored one.”
“And also the last,” she replied, charging.
The broadsword met the golden spear, and the thunderous sound of the impact surprised both warriors, as neither of them staggered from what they both thought would be a mortal attack.
They attacked each other relentlessly, losing and gaining ground, an epic battle worthy of the Eddas. Conan dealt the decisive blow with the blunt part of the broadsword. The Valkyrie fell.
“What are you doing? Kill him!” Roared Wagner.
Conan grabbed him and quickly removed the ring from his finger. Wagner fainted.
“What happened?” asked Nietzsche.
“The ring was manipulating your friend.” Conan stomped it.
“You destroyed the ring,” said the Valkyrie.
“Aye. And who are you, woman? I’ve never faced such an opponent before.”
She stood. “I’m Brynhildr. I was cursed by Odin. Only the strongest warrior of the Earth could free me. But he deceived me. And then tragedy after tragedy followed. This ring could summon me from frozen Hel, and now I’m free and alive to once again walk upon the Earth. Who are you, mortal able to best a Valkyrie?”
“I’m Conan, the Cimmerian.”
“Conan, let me go with you. I was promised to the strongest warrior of the Earth, and so it shall remain. But if you prove unworthy, I will kill you myself.”
Conan’s laughter boomed. “If the day I become a weakling ever comes, then I deserve to die!”
The dagger flashed crimson. “Farewell, Nietzsche.”
“Farewell, Conan. May more free spirits like us walk this world going mad.”
*
Conan and Brynhildr were greeted by a massive roar of a Tyranossaurus.
Conan charged. “I will take care of it—”
Brynhildr flied and slashed the dinosaur’s head in half.
“I killed it, so you cook it.”
Conan roared with laughter. “Oh, Brynhildr, we will soon thread all the jeweled thrones of this Earth under our sandaled feet!”
*
 
Nietzsche was in an alley, beneath the halo of a post lamp. He walked through narrow streets of cobblestone, turning his collar to the cold and damp. He was in a huge city, buildings reaching high in the sky like a collection of Babel towers.
On the highest, under the naked light of the moon, he observed the future.
He saw hundreds, thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands. People talking without speaking; people hearing without listening; people writing songs and stories that would never be shared.
He saw walls that flashed out warnings, forming words and voices of hate that boomed over huge crowds. Instead of one, now dozens of false prophets preached about famine and disaster, wars and rumors of wars to come, playing nations, races and compatriots against each other.
And to his horror he saw the people bow and pray to the neon god they made. And they discussed the blasphemies on subway stations with strangers, in dining rooms with their families and on tenement halls with their neighbors.
This was too much for him, his head hurt and darkness embraced him.
 
*
 
Nietzsche woke in his bed. He sighed, another one of those headaches and the craziest dream of his life.
But soon a sense of despair loomed over him. What if that future happens? Life had many fronts. So he started his battle, because to hold a pen against a blank page is to be at war.
He knew where that path would lead him, but he would walk on it anyway. His words needed to be written, to prevent humanity from drowning in the sea of ignorance and tyranny.
On his urge, he didn’t notice the faint scar on his hand, done by himself with a magical dagger left behind by a wandering barbarian.

 
The Frosted Glass
By tebakutis
It was past dark when Ren came in sight of old Prophet’s Church, and the local militia were gone. Perhaps in the first days, when the fires of revolution still burned in the minds of the people, those guards had not shirked their duties. Those days were decades past now, the great people’s revolution now reduced to boring history.
No one had worshipped in this building in decades, since it was abandoned by royal decree. Newly crowned King Darenth had not ordered it burned or torn down—that would imply the land’s newest monarch thought the Prophet’s rantings meaningful—but had instead ordered it left to decay in obscurity. Forgotten, like the Prophet herself.
Still, the church was in better shape than the Prophet. You could not behead a church.
Ren’s trusty velociraptor, Shrike, hunkered down as Ren reined him in at the stone fence. Time and opportunistic villagers had left its stones depleted. Shrike hated the church, hated what waited inside it, but that was because raptors were, by nature, distrustful of magic. What had brought them into the world could easily send them back out again.
“There now, girl.” Ren slid off Shrike and stroked his hand down the raptor’s long neck. “Don’t fret. I’m going in alone.”
Tonight, Ren knew, he would finally hold Elen into his arms. He would free her from her magical prison and bring her home to his father, to marry. He would tell her he loved her.
The inside of the church was in worse shape than the exterior. While stone and mortar had weathered the years gracefully, the wood inside was peeling, broken, and rotting. Ren chose his steps carefully. He was going down to the cellar, but he preferred to take the stairs.
He felt his way down stone steps in darkness, using the wall as his guide. Only once concealed by the cellar did he produce his wand and light it with a word of power—Solyr. Long ago picked clean by scavengers, the cellar was empty of all valuables save one—the full-length mirror with the golden frame and frosted glass. The mirror that had called to Ren from his dreams. Elen’s prison. A prison for the woman he loved.
The scavengers hadn’t touched the mirror They hadn’t even been able to see it. Ren could see the mirror because he knew the old words, like Solyr and Vanis, because he had learned those words from his father. King Darenth’s mastery of those words had allowed him to seize the throne. All Ren wanted was to free Elen.
He walked to the mirror and set the wand aside. He focused and waited until a blue tint grew at the edge of his vision. He said the words that brought him to Elen six weeks ago, on the first of many nights they spent talking, commiserating, falling in love. “Revel.”
The frosted glass melted from top to bottom, revealing a surface beneath like the side of a soap bubble, transparent but always shifting. Elen waited beyond the frost. Her brilliant smile when she saw him lit Ren’s world brighter than the glowing wand.
“You’re back!” She was everything he wanted. “I thought I’d never see you again!”
Elen was close to his age, old enough to marry but only just, with golden hair to her shoulders and a green dress—the same dress she always wore—that rose to her neck and fell to mid-calf. She had soft curves and a nose that was just a bit rounder than his. She owned his heart.
“I found the word,” Ren said, and Elen’s eyes grew wide. “I can free you. We leave this church tonight, together.”
“You found it?” Elen clasped her hands together at her breast. “Oh Ren, I knew you wouldn’t fail me. I love you! I love you! I love you!”
Each repetition made the words more powerful, and Ren felt his face flush and his body heat. He thought of all the nights they had spent talking in this cellar, her on one side of the glass and him on the other, and the bond that grew as they learned they shared the same dreams, and beliefs, and hopes. Her to be free once more, and him to free her.
“I need you to stand back,” Ren said. He couldn’t wait to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her, at last. “Stand well back, Elen, and I should be able to make a hole in the mirror.”
“Will it hurt?” She swallowed and stared from behind the glass that kept them apart. “The Prophet told me it would hurt. She said I would die if I went free.”
The Prophet again. Ren worked to hide his anger. The Prophet deserved to lose her head for all the awful things she had done, least of which was imprisoning her own daughter in this mirror when King Darenth took power. No one deserved to suffer forever in a mirror.
“It won’t hurt,” Ren said, because he wanted to reassure her. “And you won’t die.” That he did know, having researched every book in the old king’s library regarding enchanted mirrors. “You’ll be free, we’ll be together, and we’ll rule the kingdom as husband and wife.” He smiled. “In a few decades, of course. After Father passes.”
“I’m ready.” Elen stepped back. “I trust you, Ren. I know you’d never hurt me.”
Ren focused on the golden frame, on the bubble glass, and waited until the blue tint came. It was all around the edges of his vision now, crackling more than normal. Was that a warning? Ren didn’t care. He focused on the word, fixed it in his mind so he could think it as urgently as he said it, and spoke. “Liber.”
The surface of the mirror shimmered like a still pond struck by a heavy stone. A wind grew inside it, tossing Elen’s blond hair and pressing her dress close against her body. Frost appeared at the edges of her hair, and her teeth chattered. “Ren!”
“Come out, Elen!” Ren shouted. “Walk toward the wind!”
“I can’t!” Her eyes were wide now, the frost spreading across the glass. She reached for him, struggling. “Help me, Ren! Help me!”
Something was wrong. He had said the word of power wrong, but he couldn’t let her die in that mirror. He couldn’t let her freeze.
Ren dashed forward and, for the first time, reached through the mirror. He strained for her and Elen for him. Their hands touched, warmth upon warmth, and for the barest of moments time ceased to be. There was just Elen, her hand in his, her smile and her love.
The world melted around him.
Ren stumbled into hard stone, except it was not stone, not any longer. It was glass, clearer than any he had ever seen and tall as the sky. A golden frame surrounded a mirror shape in the wall of glass, and behind that glass and endless sky was a dark cellar and a glowing wand. Elen stood in it, staring at him, smiling, her hair still tipped with frost.
“Elen?” It was cold in this world of sky and glass, and Ren saw his breath mist as goosebumps rose on his arms. “Elen, what’s happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine now, Ren.” Elen’s smile grew as she watched him through the glass that had once separated them. “No, beyond fine. I am perfect. I am avenged.”
“What?” Ren didn’t understand any of this, and he pushed his hands against the glass that separated them. It was no longer a bubble, and it was hard and cold. “Elen, what are you doing out there? How am I in here? What is this?” He loved her!
“Your father’s reward.” Elen’s smile turned chill. “My mother’s gift.”
She was the Prophet’s Daughter. The Prophet had imprisoned Elen, hidden her, damned her, and King Darenth had killed the Prophet. Elen should be grateful!
“Elen, no. I love you!” Had she lied about everything? He realized he didn’t care. “I’m not my father. We can overthrow him, Elen! We can rule together!”
“My mother can’t rule without her head.” Elen picked up his glowing wand and turned her back on him. “And your father can’t pass on a kingdom to a son that doesn’t exist.”
She was mad! She was going to leave him here, in this mirror, where no one would find him, because he loved her. Because he wanted to save her. “Stop! Please! Don’t do this!”
Even as he shouted, even as his heart pounded and his head thumped, Ren knew she wouldn’t listen. He knew, because he remembered those words. The Prophet had uttered those same words, in that same tone—before King Darenth chopped off her head.
“Farwell, Ren Darenth.” Elen climbed the steps. “Farewell, you blind fool.”
Ren was still screaming when the cellar grew dark again.
THE END
 
The Cake Won't Kill You
By Anonymous
[image: images/the-cake-won-t-kill-you-0.jpg]
Comic • Wizard • Castle • Talking Sword • Vain • Ex-Girlfriend • Cake
The famed wizard Icewind, Archmage of the North, Conjurer of the Arctic Lights, Guardian of the Soul of the Snow, refused to look at the magnificent pink cake which had appeared—as if by magic—on the table. Even though it had his name on it.
He puttered about a draughty guest-room high up in the castle's southern tower, sweeping the floor without using a lick of sorcery. Hiding who—and what—he was. Even though she had clearly found out he was here.
A voice disturbed the quiet, its timbre like a ringing chime. "The cake won't kill you."
Icewind rolled his eyes and continued sweeping.
"There's nothing wrong with it. Even I can tell."
"Since when are you the expert?"
"Cakes need to be cut."
The wizard glared at his sword. "Cakes are cut by knives."
Brightedge sent him a sharp look. "Don't be prejudiced. Swords are meant to cut too."
"Swords are meant to cut people."
"You know how I feel about violence. It never solves anything."
Icewind groaned. "And I paid extra to get a bloody sword that could turn my enemies into mincemeat."
"You never complain about that at dinnertime."
"That's different. You can't always moonlight as a piece of cutlery."
"You're one to talk! A wizard who works as a maid!"
The wizard turned bright red. "The correct term is manservant." He put down the broom and fiddled with some knick-knacks on a shelf.
"Ah. I suppose that makes all the difference."
"I had to get away from her. "
"Well now you've been found out."
Icewind grimaced.
"Maybe she wants you back? She did send cake."
"We didn't part on the best of terms."
"I thought she was nice. That's all I'm saying."
The wizard laughed. "For a sword, you're remarkably trusting."
"We can't all have hearts as hard as steel."
Icewind sighed. Loudly.
"I may not be the sharpest, but I know there's more to it."
The wizard held his tongue. He opened a window to let the room air out and started dusting the sills. A servant's life of simple tasks and sedate routine did wonders for one's temper—and all the work was great for one's physique.
"At least let's cut one piece."
He shot a dirty look at the cursed cake. "I don't want it."
"It's a nice gesture!"
"It's a taunt. She knows I can't eat desserts."
"What's the worst that could happen?"
"You don't get a figure like mine if you eat cake."
"You never used to care."
"I never used to look like this."
"Indeed. You used to wear a wizard's robe."
Icewind gritted his teeth. "Cut it out. Or I'll throw you out the window. And that damn cake with you."
Brightedge glistened menacingly.
"That doesn't work on me. I know you."
The sword grumbled to itself.
The wizard finished off the windowsills and started folding the clothes which had been left strewn across the furniture.
"I bet that icing's nice and smooth."
"No."
"Just one piece!"
"Every last crumb is filled with spells. I can't even tell what half of them are meant to do."
"I don't understand."
"She's a witch. It's what she does." Icewind pointed at the cake. "That thing probably causes an incurable addiction to sugar."
"Surely cooking is magical enough without adding sorcery into the mix."
"Only if all you want is food."
"And she wants something else?"
"Of course! She wants me to be like her. Fat and ugly."
"That's hardly fair."
"So now you're the judge of human beauty?"
"I have a keen sense of aesthetics. I am a work of art myself, you know."
Icewind closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to picture the frost glittering beneath the stars, to feel the biting chill of the wind. To remember the clean simplicity of a solitary life.
"The cake is pretty too, you know."
He could almost feel the wilderness, the only place he felt at home. He'd lead that life again someday. If he could get away from her.
"I think it looks nice, at least."
He couldn't tune out Brightedge's voice. Visions of his long-lost life melted away. Reality alone remained—solid, heavy, inescapable. A dusty castle. A stupid sword. Chores. He gritted his teeth, opened a chest, and began to place the clothes inside.
"I wonder what the layers look like."
"I said no."
"It's just a cake."
The wizard took a deep breath. "Stop it."
"No need to get your knickers in a twist."
"I already told you no."
"I'd like to lodge a formal complaint."
"Shut up."
"You never let me be myself."
Icewind slammed the chest lid shut.
"You just want me to cut people. You barely let me help you with your food."
"You're a sword."
"You never think about what I want."
"Don't be absurd."
"If this is going to work, you need to think about me too. Let me live a fulfilling life."
The wizard gripped his hair with shaking hands.
"We have to be a team. Not a master and an object."
"You're insane."
"So, I'll tell you one last time."
"Don't."
"I want to cut the cake."
Icewind roared and threw his hands up in the air; the very light seemed to tremble in fear. He yelled out words which sparked and fizzled as they came into the world, shaped them with flicking fingers and rolling wrists, directed them with an imperious sweep of his arm.
The cake flew out the window.
"Well that was very mature."
The wizard turned his furious gaze towards his sword. He raised his hands once more.
A deafening boom rent the air before he could utter one more word; the tower trembled, sending objects crashing from the shelves, then settled into a very disconcerting sway.
Dust filled the room. Icewind coughed. "What the hell was that?"
"That wasn't you?"
"Of course it bloody wasn't!" He hurried over to the window and stuck his head out.
A column of smoke rose from the ground at the base of the tower a hundred feet below. Soldiers rushed towards the scene, but nobody was nearby. Debris lay scattered across the lawns—rocks, churned earth, bits of wood.
Icewind was certain he could see some bright pink chunks of cake.
Potions and Elixirs
[image: images/potions-and-elixirs-0.png]
by etrelley
 
Bea rightly pointed out that there haven't been many "traditional" story prompts this year. We did a lot of extravagant stuff like Breaking the Fourth Wall, Random Wikipedia Article or last month's Story Generator and it was great fun but for August we decided to go with something more "normal".
Outside of RPGs and adventure games, potions haven't been very popular until a certain Professor humiliated a little wizard student lesson after lesson in his potion class.
This month I want you to show me that there is more about potions than Severus Snape, Felix Felices and Polyjuice Potion.

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(aug-2016)-potions-and-elixirs/(aug-2016)-potions-and-elixirs-submission-thread/
Goldenfoot, The Brave
By night_wrtr
The old gray-haired rabbit tossed his apron on the table and plopped onto the bench opposite Theo. Tears stained his eyes, his ears limp. “I’ll never see you again, will I?"
Theo looked away from his father, and found himself staring at the ragged sack on the bench next to him. What could he say? Maybe he would be back one day? It wouldn’t fix anything. Give his father hope and it would tear his heart every day that he didn’t return. No, he couldn’t avoid this. “I-”
 
His father hopped to his hindfeet, wrapped his arms around Theo, and wept.
“I knew this was coming,” father said a time later, glancing at the sack. “You hear rumors when it comes to things like this.”
“We’re out of options,” Theo said.
“Turning into a monster is an option?” Father shook his head. “Why you, Theodore?”
There were plenty of others willing, that was certain. But, in the end, he only trusted himself to do this. “I have to go,” he said, grabbing the sack. His father walked him to the bar door where they hugged a long while.
“I love you, son.”
“I love you.”
The moment he turned and walked away was the hardest thing he had ever done.
He arrived at Senator Swayback's burrow an hour later. Deep below the main keep were secret tunnels that connected every major rabbit’s home in the entire warren. And, most importantly, it had tunnels that led far away from the warren into the open forest.
Seven rabbits filled the small chamber. All were members of the Senate or Presidential family, with the exception of Eloine. The only ones, apart from his father, that knew exactly what he was about to do.
He handed the sack to Eloine who dumped the contents onto her workbench. “This is everything I asked for?”
Theo nodded to the chemist. “Lady blossoms from across the plain, two husks of lok root, five blades of blue grass, the eye of a golden kangaroo rat, mineral dust from the caves of the highland bats-“
“And a very special tooth,” Eloine said, holding up the massive thing to inspect. “Perfect.” She began combining the ingredients into a pot and added a blue liquid that had been boiling when he entered.
Senator Swayback shuffled over, whiskers low and voice lower. “Theo, we all know you’re a brave rabbit. Carrots man, everyone will know your name by morning. But, how in Garden’s Sanctuary did you get the eye of a kangaroo rat?”
Theo smiled as he watched the tooth disintegrate into the liquid. “Some things, Senator, are best left to the imagination.”
Eloine poured the neon potion into a small glass vial and stoppered it with cork. “Now,” she said, voice serious. “Take this when you are clear of the tunnel. If they catch you with it, you may not have a chance to drink.”
“How long will I have?” Theo reached out and took the vial delicately.
“I have never made a potion of this magnitude as I made perfectly clear before. With any luck, it will be immediate. The most important part of this will be your memory.”
He squeezed his free forefoot tight. He hadn’t told his father this part. How do you explain to someone that not only were you going away forever, but you would no longer have any memory of what you left behind?
“You’ll have a day. Maybe two at best.” He nodded, doing his best to keep his ears up.
President Silvercoat stood at the front of the room. “Thank you, Theodore Goldenfoot. Violence must always be a last resort, but we cannot allow the Nightstalkers to continue their attacks. Your sacrifice will save this warren. Tomorrow, we will celebrate you.” Everyone in the burrow thumped a foot to that.
Shortly afterward, when all had given their thanks and praise, Theodore Goldenfoot traveled the mile and a half of tunnel that led away from the warren and into the district of Tall Trees. He reached the end of the tunnel just before it turned upward to the surface. He took out the vial, popped the cork, said a prayer, and let the bitter potion ooze down his throat. He waited several minutes, heart thumping, whiskers jerking.
Nothing.
Doubt crept into his mind. Eloine did say she had never made a potion like this before. What did she get wrong? He’d have to go back!
Dirt peppered him from above as massive arms wrapped around him. He was hauled up into the cold night air, then slammed onto the ground. His breath was kicked from him as he struggled to stand. “I got one!” A deep voice called out. Footsteps rushed toward him from behind. “Hidin’ in this here hole, he was.”
Theo caught his breath, finally able to focus on the red faces around him. Wide, toothy faces. Nightstalker foxes. “Let’s rip him apart.”
“Calm down, Ferrel,” one said, placing a claw below Theo’s chin. “I’ve seen him before. Was at the parley last week when we brought back those pelts.”
“You sure, Trot?”
“Oh yeah,” Trot said, coming closer, eyes wide with hunger. “I had my eye on him, all right.” Why in all Garden’s Sanctuary did the potion not work! Carrots! Work!
Calm yourself. Think through this. Theo found the words that had felt so far away. “I am the negotiator,” he said. “I have an offer for your skulk chief.”
Theo’s nose twitched, then he lost all scent. “I have authority from our herd's President to offer payment.” The two foxes laughed, then shackled his wrists in twig cuffs.
“Well,” Trot said. “On to the chief.” They led him deep into the Tall Trees until they reached a place where two fallen trees joined together. Below was a dug out den which was guarded by four Nightstalkers.
Ferrel kept him close while Trot spoke with one of the guards. Theo winced as a sharp pain struck his hind leg, his muscles convulsing, then it was gone. Ferrel chuckled. “Legs gon’ limp, have they?” Theo growled under his breath, then gasped.
He had growled. Rabbits don’t growl.
Castor, the Nightstalker chief, appeared a moment later and walked right up to Theo, slashing him with his claws. Theo fell backward, his cheek on fire. Blood seeped into his fur, but the pain faded as a hot surge engulfed every inch of his body. Theo’s ears began to tingle. “I have already given my terms,” Castor said, his voice a high-pitched squawk. “Fifty of your thickest bunnies. That is the only offer. Anything less and we will continue to pick your warren apart. One. By. One.”
The others laughed, showing their teeth. Theo tried to speak, but his throat slammed shut, his chest was so tight it felt ready to burst. “I have grown tired with your deliberations,” Castor said, pacing around Theo. “We are Nightstalkers!” His skulk cheered, raising their paws. He stopped in front of Theo, grabbing him by the ear. “The fact is, we won’t ever stop.” He threw Theo to the ground. “Four other warrens have all fallen. Yours will be next. But, it won’t be the last.”
That moment, Theo let out a breath that carried a wisp of blue smoke. Then, he lurched forward and screeched as if struck by a hawk. He could hear their laughter once more. The shackles broke before Theo knew what was happening. He felt like he was flying, raised high above the ground. He felt power entering his legs, a tight wrapping of muscle and sinew. Thick skin and fur replaced his soft plush, his ears tightened, his nose straightened. His tongue poked from his mighty jaws, licking the backside of his long, massive teeth.
Laughter gave way to cries of horror. Castor backed away, terror clear on his face. “I offer our response to your terms,” Theo said, his voice the booming bark of a grey wolf. He lunged, caught Castor in his jaws and thrashed.
He dropped the Nightstalker’s chief’s body, then leapt at Ferrel, tearing a fatal gash into his hide. He dealt with Trot in the same manner, then chased down the guards who had run and tore them to pieces.
Theo sat on his hind legs, panting. He felt the triumph first, then the weight of his actions crashed down on top of him. Nightstalker bodies lay scattered about, the entire skulk eliminated. The warren was safe.
Tears fell as his father’s face appeared in the back of his mind. He smiled, howled a long mournful note that would travel back to the warren and pierce its tunnels, then ran. He ran as hard as his new body would take him. He had to get as far away from the warren as he could, before his memories of the rabbits were gone, and all that remained was the wolf.
Potion, Potion, Potion
By Anonymous
Certain he had not been followed, Icewind ducked into the shadowed alcove which led to the apothecary—the only one in town which might yet hold hope for him. The wizard checked his sword belt; it was still secure. He almost felt regret that it was so. With a silent prayer, he opened the door.
A bell rang softly in the depths of the store as the door swung shut behind him. Shelves stood in front of windows, housing hundreds of bottles of every size and shape and hue. Rainbow shafts of light pulsed unnaturally, warped by the eternal swirling of the bottles' contents. The shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen; the counter was clear, except for a pile of unopened parcels.
A voice spoke from the depths of the shop. "I'll just be a minute."
Icewind inhaled deeply—the place was filled with the aroma of enticing spices, undercut by the distinctive scent of smoke. He drifted along the shelves, perusing the bottles' yellowed labels. Tinctures for the mind. Cures for common ailments. Potions for love, or luck, or joy. Every petty thing on which small-minded commoners would waste their money; nothing even close to what he needed.
But hidden powers lurked within this place. He felt it in his bones.
The shopkeeper hurried over, groaning as he set down a crate of potions. A short, fat alchemist with patchy hair, he didn't look like much. He hesitated. "Would you mind if I shelve these first?"
Icewind waved him on.
"I'm Elric by the way." The shopkeeper shoved the bottles onto the shelves. He didn't seem to pay much attention to what went where, and instead crammed each one into any vacant crevice. Once the crate was empty, he bowed to Icewind. "How may I help?"
"This is a little embarrassing. I'm looking for a potion—"
"Potion, potion, potion..."
The alchemist raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry about that." Icewind cleared his throat. "I'm looking for an elixir. It has to prevent—"
"Prevent, prevent, prevent..."
The shopkeeper frowned and looked Icewind up and down.
The wizard shifted awkwardly. Better to ignore it—now was not the time. "It has to hide me from someone."
"Woman troubles?" The alchemist nodded sagely. "Well... first you'll need something to get rid of that enchant—"
"That's not necessary. I just don't want her to see me."
"But what about those echoes?"
"I can deal with them. What I can't do is get away from her. I'd make the elixir myself, but I'm between places—"
"Places, places, places..."
Icewind's hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword.
"You can hardly finish a sentence. You're sure you don't want—"
"I'm sure. It's best to just ignore it."
"It's likely a simple spell. It would be no problem—"
"Problem, problem, problem..."
The alchemist was speechless for a moment. "That's... not normal. You need to get that seen to."
"I just need the elixir."
"Are you sure I can't persua—"
"Persuade, persuade, persuade..."
"Just leave it alone. Please."
"Please, please, please..."
"Is it just words beginning with a 'p'?"
"Pee, pee, pee..."
"Apparently."
"Fascinating. I'd really like to—"
"I'm sorry, but I just want the elixir. I know what's causing the echoes."
"I'm sure you do, but—"
"It's not important. Do you have the elixir or not?"
"Of course, but its effects might be interfered with by the spell. If I could just—"
"It's not a spell. Perhaps—"
"Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps..."
"What else could it be?"
Icewind gritted his teeth. "If you don't have something prepared—"
"Prepared, prepared, prepared..."
"I've heard of a spell like that before. It drove the man insane. It would take me little time to—"
"It's not a spell."
"This man thought so too, but—"
"Please—"
"Please, please, please..."
"He was cured, and—"
"Just hold on a minute—"
"I love studying this kind—"
"I'm the customer here, so—"
"I'll make your elixir for free if you let me—"
"You won't be able to help! Like I said—"
"Decoding spells is my passion—"
"Passion, passion, passion..."
"—and this one looks extremely interesting—"
"I'm sorry, but it's—"
"—such spells are not—"
"It's not a—"
"I'd consider myself in your debt—"
"IT'S MY SWORD!"
The shopkeeper paused mid-word.
Icewind massaged his temples.
"Uh... Excuse me?"
The wizard sighed. "I have a talking sword. It's annoyed with me. It's been doing this for days."
The alchemist looked incredulous.
The wizard shrugged. "Its sense of humour is... awful."
"Awesome, awesome, awesome..."
The two men stared at the sword.
"That's... How does one upset a sword?"
"It's a long story."
"Okay..." The alchemist shook himself. "I'd like to apologise. Decoding spells is my hobby, and I thought..."
Icewind dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It's fine—Elric, was it? I understand."
"Thank you. So, you're looking for a concealment elixir?"
"Do you have something ready-made?"
"It's not an everyday request." Elric scratched his head. "A few deliveries arrived today, I think what you're looking for might be in one of them. I've been waiting for a variety set to arrive."
"I'd be happy to help look through the par—"
"Parcels, parcels, parcels..."
"Thanks, but you probably wouldn't know what you're looking for."
"I'm familiar with alchemy."
Elric looked skeptical. "Many are, but few have—"
"I'm a mage."
The alchemist straightened. "I see. And the woman?"
"She's a witch."
Elric stared at Icewind for a moment, biting his lip. He took a deep breath. "I guess it can't hurt."
Icewind rolled his eyes and reached for the closest box—which was much lighter than expected. He opened it, and paused in confusion. It had a cake inside. "Elric?"
The alchemist leaned over to take a look. "Aha! That's from across the road. The baker trades me cakes for tonics." He licked his lips.
Brightedge spoke up at last, his tone reproachful. "Cake? You'd better let me cut it this time."
"For the love of—"
Elric blinked. "Your sword wants to cut the cake?"
"It's what we fell out over."
"He wouldn't let me do it. Heartless bastard."
Icewind rolled his eyes. "And look how that turned out."
The sword sighed. "That's beside the point."
Elric frowned. "What is?"
"I threw the cake out the window. It exploded."
"It what?"
"Yeah. She had sent it."
"Ah..."
"She's been just one step behind me ever since. That's why I need this potion."
"Potionpotionpotion. You two are getting sidetracked. There's nothing wrong with this cake. Let's cut it now."
Icewind glared at the sword. "We're busy."
"Actually, it's not a bad idea. There's a lot of boxes."
"I'm not sure—"
Brightedge cut in. "It'll be more than just words beginning with 'p' if you say no."
Wizard and sword glared at each other for a moment.
Elric looked from one to the other, then stood up. "Cake it is. I'll go get some drinks—you can cut it if you like!" He disappeared into the back of the shop.
Brightedge glittered with glee.
"Okay. Swear you'll stop with the echoes after this?"
"That's fair."
Icewind tried to look stern. "Just make sure you savour it." He moved a couple of boxes out of the way, drew the sword, and slowly, carefully, cut the cake.
Brightedge chattered to itself, its voice ringing with delight. Each cut brought forth squeals of joy as the blade sliced through the icing and into the layers beneath. Once the last cut was made, the sword sighed contentedly. "Whoever invented cake deserves to be showered with gold."
The wizard rolled his eyes, wiped the sword clean, and slid it back into its scabbard. "You'd better keep your promise."
"Promise, promise, promise..."
"Don't you dare—"
Brightedge giggled. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."
The shopkeeper returned a minute later with a wine bottle and two glasses. "I hope this one's good." He poured the wine, his hands shaking slightly. The cobalt liquid flashed and shimmered with every movement, filled with sparks of light which moved in neverending whirls.
Icewind picked up the glass, mesmerised, and tilted it from side to side. "What is it?"
"Something I created." Elric smiled nervously. "It's like a sparkling wine, but it packs a greater punch. You'll be the first to try it!" He poured himself a glass as well.
The wizard raised his drink—"Cheers!"—and took a generous mouthful. It was glorious—silky smooth, a taste like the most exotic fruits, and it left a tingling on his tongue. He savoured it for a moment, then swallowed. "That's incredible!"
Elric put his glass down and took a deep breath.
Icewind frowned. "What..." The taste of the wine was fading, but the tingling feeling wasn't. It intensified, began to spread—from his stomach now as well.
The glass fell from his hand, shattered on the flagstones; he struggled to stay upright.
"I'm sorry. She knew you would come here. I almost didn't realise you were the one."
The store began to spin, and then dissolved into shadows.
 
Love Potion
By m3mnoch
[image: images/love-potion-0.png]
The girl stirred from where she was lashed to the bed posts. Lying face down, she shifted on the stained mattress, groaning as she recovered from the trichloromethane. Bojan, arms folded, decided she was probably 12. Maybe 13. Exactly what he needed.
The basement room in the dilapidated two-story was dark and sparse. The copper smell reminiscent of what happens in this room. A bed had been shoved against the opposite wall, with a lone, narrow table just inside the door. The girl's backpack had been flung beneath, and an oil lamp flickered on top.
After the grab team had finished strapping down her limp form, Bojan had considered removing her clothes, but had decided he couldn't stomach stripping the child himself. And the thugs would have asked for more money had he made them come back and do it. That was extra money he needed.
No, the Colonel was going to have to deal with a fully-clothed victim. The sick bastard probably preferred ripping their clothes off himself anyway.
"Wha . . ." The girl opened a blackened eye and mumbled.
Bojan waited by the open door.
"What happened? Where am I?" She pulled at her restraints, trying to get her head around to see the rest of the room. Confusion and fear in her voice. "What's going on?"
"Shut up, whore. Stay quiet or I will cut you." Bojan had mastered softening up the girls before his clients laid into them.
He dropped his arms to his side as she flexed, red-faced, taut, and straining hard on the lashings. After a moment, she gave up and stopped struggling. For a brief second, Bojan had thought the old bed post might have given way. She was strong for a little girl.
She lifted her head and whispered, voice breaking, "Please, just take me back to Kneza Mihaila. My family . . . They'll be looking for me."
"You were alone. We were watching." Bojan took a step toward the bed and kicked the post with a heavy boot. "You belong to us now."
She dropped her face back into the spotted mattress, hair showering across the back of her neck, sliding off her shoulders. Had she a future, she might have eventually grown into a beautiful woman. Such a shame. It was days like this when he felt the uncomfortable prod from regret. But, he'd already made his decision. He was sticking to his plan.
A knock on the doorframe behind him caused Bojan to turn around. It was the desk man, Nikola, with his strange, black-on-black eyes. "Yes?"
"The Colonel is in the waiting room, sir. He's getting agitated."
Bojan glanced back to the girl. She hadn't moved.
"She's not ready yet." Digging in his coat pocket, Bojan produced a glass vial sloshing with an amber liquid. "Here, give him this."
Nikola took the item, examining its plastic stopper.
"Tell him it's a 'Love Potion'. Feed him a line about it being an ancient formula. From the cradle of humanity or something. Whatever." Bojan shrugged. "Just make sure he knows it takes fifteen minutes for potency. Tell him it'll increase his stamina. I'm sure he'll like that."
The man nodded, lips puckered and scratching his chest.
"That should give me enough time to get the girl crying like he asked."
At his words, she lifted her head again and strained to see who he was talking to.
Nikola bobbed his head again, avoided her gaze, and hurried out of the room, love potion secured in his fist.
"I'm . . . So, I'm supposed to cry?"
That was his goal anyway. "The Colonel likes his girls to be slobbery messes. Young, slobbery messes."
She seemed to relax. "Why are you doing this?"
For a child, perched yawning over the precipice of ruin, she was calm. Again, he questioned his motives. He questioned his need for escape. If the ends justified the means. For a quiet life hidden in the hills of northern Italy. This last job would give him enough money to survive until the olives started coming on. Then, he would be free.
His face hard, he ground out the words, "Because I'm evil, girl."
"Speaking of, I need my medicine. I have to take it every day. It's in my pack."
"I promise it won't matter. Because you're not going to live long enough to care."
"And, I promise you will care if I don't get it. It's going to come spraying out of me, all messy-like."
Bojan, hands on his hips, took a deep breath, counted to three, and exhaled. It seemed he wasn't going to make this one cry.
"Fine. I'll get your medicine." He bent and rummaged through her bag. "What's it look like."
"It's that pink bottle. The one that says 'Pepto' on it."
Snatching the container from the bag, he stomped over to her bedside. "This one?"
"Yeah. Help me turn over."
He unscrewed the cap and poured most of it out on the ground next to the bed. Closing the cap, he tossed it back over by the table.
She glared at him.
"Scream and puke all over him. I don't care." He stalked back to the still-open door.
"Just remember. I warned you."
Over his shoulder, "Shut up, bitch." One more day. Just one more day.
Leaning out the door, he shouted down the hallway, "Nikola! Bring the Colonel back. He's going to have to break this one himself. Maybe he'll like the challenge."
Bojan leaned against the doorframe and waited, watching the girl tied to the bed, hoping she would spontaneously errupt into sobs, wondering why she didn't. Wondering why it made him nervous. After a moment, he heard the rhythm of stark bootsteps echoing through the hall.
"I promise. If I don't get it soon, the Colonel isn't going to love me."
Bojan opened his mouth to reply when a thick accent behind him filled the room.
"How could I not love you, dearest?" The Colonel, grinning at Bojan, entered and started unbuttoning his shirt, exposing a sweaty undershirt beneath, and crept up on the girl as if she was a skittish doe, ready to bolt, and not a child tied to filthy bedding.
"You are so beautiful. I can't wait to . . ."
The girl made a sudden, violent retching sound and he stopped moving. She convulsed, pulling fiercely at her bonds, and made the noise again, this time wet and horrible. The Colonel turned his bald pate and gray mustache toward Bojan, about to ask what was happening.
What happened was everything went sideways.
The girl tugged one last time, bending the metal bed posts, her restraints parting like they were egg noodles instead of leather. She sat in the middle of the bed, facing them, grinning wide. Eyes wide. Everything was too wide.
Her mouth opened, jaw impossibly unhinged, revealing an opening into which Bojan could have easily slipped both his meaty, unclenched hands. But, it continued opening, her lips folding back over the girl's head, almost as if she was turning inside out.
As her face unfolded, reverse-swallowing her tiny body, she began bloating from inside, piles of sticky pink and red blossoming out of the hole and growing in size, swelled out past the edge of the bed.
The thick tentacle, once the little girl's tongue, shot out and wrapped the Colonel's arm, constricting. Squeezing. A sharp, whiplike snap shot down the length, and the man's arm tore from its socket, leaving an empty, gore-squirting hole where his shoulder used to be.
The Colonel screamed.
No longer a child, the beast continued to swell, filling the room. More tentacles, thick as 100-year oaks poured out, lashing wildly, pulverizing clay, brick and foundation alike. More than a dozen. More than two dozen. All jerking around, like giant, loosed firehoses.
One swept Bojan's feet out from under him, powdering the bones in his legs. He fell, losing sight of everything except the swelling monster in front of him. Mouth agape, he could do nothing but stare.
Two massive, stump appendages formed beneath the creature, each with thick tentacles completing a flailing, paw-like foot. Big around as the now-flattened bed was wide.
The mass soon filled the room, pressing out the walls and ceiling. Plaster, wood, and brick rained down on Bojan as the thing rose into the air, exploding out of the building.
The last thing Bojan saw was the chimney collapsing on top of him.

[image: images/love-potion-1.png]
Faustina, blonde once more and naked in the morning sun, examined the carnage around her. The building had been torn down, pulverized to almost nothing. The earth scarred. Wildlife fled.
Luckily, because of their business requirements, there were no nearby neighbors. She'd tried to warn them about her medicine. They didn't know it was only in the pink bottle because that made it easier to get through customs.
Granted, if she was honest with herself, she hadn't really felt the need to explain that part.
 
Pirates!
[image: images/pirates-0.jpg]
Aug, 2012. Xiagan dresses as a pirate for some long forgotten joke on this lovely forum with its long gone pirates writing group.
 
Ahoy, me beauties!!! Ye all know o' course that t' 19th o' September be Talk Like A Pirate Day.
So better be prepared and polish up your pirate lin'o! Pirates have a tradition on this here forum and o' course it was no happenstance that Bea posted that pic o' hers today! So get your hooks polished and start spinnin' some yarn! Only bilge rats and land lubbers don't take part!

All content originally appeared on the Fantasy Faction Forums in the Monthly Writing Contest. You can see more information (and even participate in the forums!) on this particular contest by visiting the site.
http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(sep-2016)-pirates%21/(sep-2016)-pirates%21-submission-thread/
The Rule of the Curse
By SugoiMe
Stealth had always been Dawson’s forte until it didn't work anymore. The shipmate who'd found him twisted his ear as he hauled him on deck, and he squinted as a close dwarf star’s light pierced his eyes. The light temporarily stunted his focus. He wished it would stay that way, but his eyes soon cleared and he cringed at what he saw.
All around Dawson was death. Ol’ Patch Eye scrubbing the floors would get his throat slit. The pot-bellied chef talking to Patch Eye wouldn't have much of a gut left. One of the officers was going to be shoved off the side of the ship and drop into deep space until the dwarf star’s gravity sucked him in.
It's not that Dawson saw people’s futures. He just saw how they were going to die. It was his gift—or his curse—and he’d had it ever since he’d cheated death four years ago. He only knew one other person who’d had the same gift and that was only because Dawson hadn't been able to see his death. Dawson had killed him. He'd had to. That was the rule of the curse.
“Keep moving!” ordered the shipmate.
Dawson grunted, but complied. The shipmate pulled him into the captain’s cabin, leaving plenty of visions of death behind.
The captain stood at a desk, his first mate lieutenant by his side. Both looked up at the shipmate and Dawson when the door opened. Neither seemed pleased.
“Explain yourself, shipman,” the lieutenant ordered.
“Stowaway, sir. Found him hiding among the shipment.”
The lieutenant glared at Dawson. Dawson stared right back. Unfortunately, the first mate would live to see another day. Dawson had already plotted his escape, but it didn't involve sticking close to the lieutenant. There were others who wouldn't die on board that he'd planned to stay near. Dawson just hadn't expected to be caught before then.
“You know the law, shipman,” the lieutenant went on. “Chain him below until we can see to a proper execution.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He'll need to stand trial,” said the captain.
The lieutenant stiffened. “We can test him at the hanging.”
“Let's have him executed, then,” the captain resolved. He circled around the table to stand in front of the boy, studying him inquisitively.
“Now, captain?”
“I could use a change in mood. An execution would prove entertaining.”
Dawson thought quickly. “You're gonna die,” he said.
The captain grinned, then burst out laughing. “I think you've got it the wrong way around. You delusional kid?”
Dawson maintained his resolve. People always reacted that way. “You're gonna die. Your lieutenant’s gonna desert you in battle and you'll get a sword in the heart.”
The captain kept grinning. He turned to his lieutenant, who was looking at Dawson dumbfounded.
“Is this true, lieutenant? Would you desert me?”
“Of course not, captain.”
“It's true,” Dawson persisted.
“We could arrange an execution,” the lieutenant said, adjusting his collar. “It’d keep the crew entertained.”
“Then let's get on with it.”
Next thing Dawson knew, he was on deck again, tied to the main mast. The crew gathered round, ruffian creatures from various planets who'd seen more time out in space than on soil. The captain stood on the quarterdeck.
“Boy!” The lieutenant called down. “You have the right of one statement before your death. Have you anything to say?”
Some trial. Dawson opened his mouth to speak—
“Pirates!”
All eyes turned to the crow’s nest. An eight-eyed arachnid poked his head out from the top.
“Pirates, captain, off the starboard —!”
Boom!
The ship rattled from impact. Some lost their footing. Jaws dropped as another ship rose up from below on the starboard side as if out of nowhere. Atop its mast, black and red colours flapped.
“It's Zeher!” the lieutenant yelled.
A jolt of fear paralyzed Dawson’s body. The notorious Captain Zeher, ruthless pirate of the galaxy, left no survivors. Only one person had ever escaped and by the time his body was found dead in Outer Quadrant 623 on one of the Wilderplanets, word of the pirate had spread like an exploding supernova.
“To arms, men!” the captain yelled.
Few were able to grab their weapons before pirates boarded the ship. A snake man slithered past Dawson’s feet and slit ol’ Patch Eye’s throat. A freaky alien Dawson couldn't describe gorged out the chef’s gut. An enormous ox man, four horns on his head, slammed three crew members over the railing, one being the shipmate who'd captured Dawson, another an officer.
The captain leapt to the main deck, fending off the attackers like he was a one man army.
“Lieutenant!” he called.
Dawson saw a skiff zipping away. He could barely make out the lieutenant’s head poking out along with three others.
“Curses!” the captain spat.
He jumped out of the way of the charging ox and barely evaded the quick stab of the snake. He rushed the snake man, thrust his sword into its chest.
“You knew this would happen, boy!” he yelled at Dawson.
“I told you you're going to die,” Dawson replied. He tried to mask his fear, but his insides churned. He knew the pirates wouldn't let anyone live, him included.
“This can't be happening!” the captain sneered.
Another pirate swung from the enemy ship to the main deck. The others backed away as the new foe strode toward the captain with slow, steady steps.
The captain faced the new threat. His face twisted into a grin.
“A woman? You’d let a woman challenge me?”
The woman didn't respond. She drew her sword, her aspect emotionless.
The captain’s grin faded. “Fine, I'll play. Watch me cheat death, boy!”
He thrust. She parried and counter struck. They went back and forth like a vicious dance on the main deck, each dualist a solid match for the other. Dawson watched, his mouth agape. He still saw the captain’s death, but he was most concerned with the woman. He couldn't see her dying. And that meant…
He shuddered. If she saw him and realized he had the curse, he'd be dead in seconds. He had to break free somehow.
Frantically, he searched the deck. Fallen swords and daggers lay next to dead bodies, most too far to reach. He twisted and squirmed, trying to loosen the ties. The tight ropes dug into his skin and he gritted his teeth. No matter how much he tried, the ropes kept him stuck to the main mast.
The sound of clanging metal rang as the captain and woman fought. Dawson kept an eye on them and anyone else who might notice him, but everyone seemed to be engrossed in the dual. Eventually, the captain cried out, clutched his chest and slumped to the ground.
Dawson panicked. They'd come for him next.
He spotted a knife not far from him and for a moment, he felt tinge of hope. If he could just reach that knife, he could cut himself free. He stretched out his leg. His foot tapped the hilt…
A boot kicked the knife out of the way and a hand grabbed a handful of his hair. Dawson winced as his head snapped back.
“Well, well, well. A boy who cheated death.”
He looked into the woman’s eyes. Cold, unsympathetic grey looked back.
“Just hurry up and kill me,” said Dawson.
The woman cocked her head to the side. “Kill you? Why?”
“Because that's the rule. The last kid told me.”
“Is that so?”
She let go and backed away. Now that the fighting was over, Dawson got a better view of the pirates. He gasped. For some, he couldn't see them dying.
“If we all killed each other, I wouldn't have much of a crew,” the woman said. “Of course, traitors are worth killing, but rules bore me.”
“Y-you're Zeher?”
“Who did you think I was?”
“What're you going to do with me?”
“Keep you alive.”
Keep him alive? Why would she keep him alive?
“But understand this, kid. If you double cross me, you won't have so much as a prayer left after I've dealt with you.”
“What if I don't want to be on your crew?”
“Then I kill you now.”
Dawson didn't want that. He nodded.
“Good.”
She cut the ropes. Dawson knew better than to run.
“Go help the others.”
She walked away. Dawson watched her go, then hurried over to help with the stolen goods. He glanced at the pirates who had the curse, shrinking under their glaring eyes. Any one of them could kill him. They seemed like they wanted to anyway.
But he was alive. He didn't know if any of them adhered to the rule of the curse or not. Yet if he stayed with them, he could learn how to fight. He could get stronger. And when he was strong enough, he could kill Captain Zeher before she killed him.
After all, that was the rule of the curse, whether she adhered to it or not.
The Treasure of Saint Curio
By tebakutis
Sailing the seas for plunder and fame was often a glorious adventure, but it did not come without perils. Having a loaded flintlock shoved in one’s face was one peril among many others, and it was one with which Captain Amaro de la Plaza was well familiar. That didn’t mean it annoyed him any less.
“Captain.” Amaro greeted Peter “Dogface” Davis with a tip of his own feathered cap. “Is the pistol necessary?”
“Don’t ‘good evenin’ me, you wily Spaniard.” Davis looked like a dog had chewed up his face and spit it out. “What are you doing in this cave? Answer me, or you’ll answer to God Almighty!”
“This cave” was a tunnel that flooded at high tide. Smoldering torches in wall brackets offered illumination, just enough to make Davis look crazy.
“Accepting Horatio’s invitation,” Amara said in an airy tone. “You?” He hoped Davis’ finger didn’t slip.
“Why’d Horatio invite a pretty little sot like you out here?”
“A promise of treasure and glory?”
“My treasure,” Davis said, “and my glory. I should shoot you right now.”
“True. Yet wouldn’t your chances improve with a man watching your back?”
Davis scowled just a bit less. “You want to partner?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“Seventy-thirty, or I shoot you right now.”
“Forty-sixty, and we work together to please Horatio.”
“One day,” Davis said, “I’ll smash that clever mouth of yours.” He uncocked his flintlock and holstered it with the others hanging on his chest. “Deal.”
Having now successfully not been shot in the face, Amaro cheerily followed Davis into a low sea cave. Captain Jean du Grammont waited inside, magnificent in a king’s silks. Horatio de Algier waited as well, dark-skinned and beautiful, and torchlight glistened on the gold in his nose, ears, and eyebrows.
“My captains, my captains!” Horatio called. “Today we shall crown one master among you!”
Captain Grammont offered a jaunty bow before rising. His perfect face would make an angel weep. “de la Plaza. Dogface. Did you have difficulty following the map?”
“Shut it, you briny peacock.” Davis spit again—the man did keep a remarkable reservoir of spit—and stomped into the cave. “What’s this ‘grand adventure’?”
“The treasure of Saint Curio.” Horatio beamed. “I’ve come into possession of his map.”
“You sun-dried monkey cock!” Davis worked his stubbled jaw. “You dragged me here for a sea shanty?”
“Is it no shanty,” Horatio said, in a melodic voice that had charmed many a man and woman into his bed, “and tonight, you shall compete for its location.”
Horatio had invited pirate captains from France, England, and Spain, but of course he had. That was, Amaro knew, classic Horatio. The best fence in the Indian Ocean lived for his games.
“As much as it pains me,” Grammont said, “I concur with Dogface. Saint Curio’s treasure is a legend.”
 
“You better have more,” Davis said, “or you’ll leave this cave with some new holes.”
“That would be … unwise,” Horatio said.
Amaro spun as a slab blocked the cave opening. Davis had flintlocks out faster than Amaro could blink, pointed at Horatio. “You mean to bury us, you coal-faced weasel?”
“Only if I die,” Horatio said, eyes not so merry now. “If I die, none of you shall ever leave.”
“A reasonable precaution,” Amaro added, “when tempers and pistols are involved. Let’s listen, shall we? Let’s hear what Horatio has to say.”
“I concur,” Grammont said. “Where’s your proof, dear man?”
“I hate the way you wankers talk.” Davis lowered his flintlocks and shot Amaro a not-so-subtle look.
Amaro shot a far more subtle nod back. Their partnership remained intact.
With the speed of a veteran cutpurse, three coins appeared between Horatio’s clenched fingers. He tossed one to Grammont, one to Amaro, and one to Davis, who dropped a flintlock to catch it.
Davis bit down and stared. “Real gold.”
“One of thousands,” Horatio promised, “that prove my map accurate.”
“This is the Vatican’s seal.” Grammont turned his coin in torchlight. “Could it be true?”
The gleam in Davis’ eyes revealed his belief. “So what’s tonight’s game?”
“Riddles.” Horatio beamed again. “Only the most clever captain shall claim Saint Curio’s treasure, and thus, only the most clever man shall leave with his map.”
“I do enjoy riddles,” Grammont said, as a gleam entered his own eyes.
“Bugger riddles,” Davis growled. “Let’s wrestle for it.”
“My cave,” Horatio said. “My rules. The first to answer three riddles shall claim the map, the treasure, and, of course, my contract. A ten percent commission.”
“Fair,” Grammont said. “l agree.”
“As do I,” Amaro added.
Davis just grunted. About as much as one could expect.
“First riddle.” Horatio preened. “What has one head, one tail, and no legs?”
“A coin,” Grammont said, before Davis or Amaro could so much as breathe.
“You snot-nosed pantywaist!” Davis glared. “You’re colluding!”
“I swear upon my dear mother’s soul,” Horatio said, “that I have discussed these riddles with no one. One point, so far, to Grammont.”
“Quite.” Grammont grinned wide.
“Second riddle. The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?”
“Booty!” Davis shouted.
Horatio merely smiled.
“The answer,” Grammont said, “is footsteps.”
“Two for Grammont,” Horatio said, cocking an eyebrow at Amaro. “Captain de la Plaza, has weather softened your tongue?”
Amaro shrugged. “You’re too clever for me, I’m afraid.”
“Next riddle,” Davis growled. “Now.” He shot Amaro another dirty look, one that said, You aren’t helping.
“What has six faces, but wears no makeup?” Horatio asked.
For once, Grammont only frowned.
“A dock whore!” Davis shouted. “A two-faced mutineer!” He grimaced. “A hydra!”
Amaro resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Where had Davis even heard of a hydra? The man obviously couldn’t read.
“No answer?” Horatio said. “A pity. What belongs to you, yet is more often used by others?”
“Ah,” Grammont said.
“Shut it,” Davis warned.
“My own name,” Grammont said, with hands on hips and a smile on his face.
Davis shot Grammont in the head faster than anyone could blink. He dropped the spent flintlock and pulled two more, one pointed at each of them.
“Treachery!” Horatio shrieked. “I will have your head for this!”
“Worry about your own head, you gold-encrusted leech.” Davis motioned with a flintlock. “Map, now.”
“No harbor will take your cursed ship. No pirate shall ever again parley with you!”
“I won’t need any of you,” Davis said, “once I claim Saint Curio’s treasure.”
Horatio glowered. “You violated my rules.”
“Technically,” Amaro added quietly, “he didn’t.”
“What?” Davis and Horatio glared at him.
“You said none would leave if you died,” Amaro pointed out. “As of now, you’re alive. Grammont isn’t,” and with that, he gestured to the warm corpse, “but you never said we couldn’t shoot each other.”
The evil grin that crossed Davis’ face was the best sign yet that Davis wasn’t going to shoot Amaro, too. He turned both flintlocks on Horatio.
“That’s right. You never said we couldn’t shoot each other. Give me that map, and you’ll get your ten percent. I swear.”
“Do as he says,” Amaro suggested. “Really, what choice do we have now?”
Horatio glared, but faced with the Davis’ ferocity (and, no doubt, reckless stupidity) he grudgingly handed over the map.
“The door,” Davis said.
“Open!” Horatio shouted, eyes narrow. “I expect my commission, Davis.”
“Oh, you’ll get that.” Davis backed from the cave, flintlocks raised. “Oh, and de la Plaza?”
“Yes?” Amaro smiled.
“You’re an idiot.” Davis cackled as he vanished.
Horatio sighed. “You’re quite useless in a fight, aren’t you?”
“I prefer not to fight,” Amaro said, “when I can avoid it.”
“Well, now you shall never fight for Saint Curio’s treasure.”
“True,” Amaro said, as he pulled another coin from his pocket. He flipped that coin, a different coin, to Horatio, who caught it instinctively.
Horatio’s eyes widened. “This is the Vatican’s seal.”
“Aye,” Amaro said. “It’s on all the coins Saint Curio stole.”
Horatio gasped. “You found the treasure?”
“How do you think you acquired that map?”
“But … I acquired this map from my best fence! She swore to its authenticity!”
“As I’m sure the thief who sold it to her did,” Amaro said. “The thief who stole it from me, after loose talk in a tavern inspired the biggest score of his meager life.”
Horatio stroked his chin, not smiling. “You deceived me.”
“I deceived Davis,” Amaro said, “and perhaps Grammont. Yesterday, three captains competed on the high seas. Now the pirates of England and France shall kill each other while Spain, ever blameless, shall benefit.”
Horatio ruefully shook his head. “You are a most interesting man.”
“And for your silence,” Amaro added, “you shall have your ten percent.”
Slowly, Horatio beamed again. “I have been considering retirement.”
“Oh, and those six faces?”
Horatio cocked his head.
“A die,” Amaro said. “One with twenty-one eyes.”
“You clever rat,” Horatio said. “You knew them all, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” Amaro said. “But I don’t care to be shot in the face.”
THE END
 
The Precious Cargo
By Elfy
The Dunerunner moved silently across the sand. The large, menacing black bulk of the sandcruiser gave it the air of a deadly predator. In many ways that is exactly what it was; the craft was filled with the most feared pirate crew ever seen on the Desert of the Seven Sands.
Captain Tem brushed one of his large ears - a feature he was very proud of - back from his face, and put the telescope to his eye to peer at the caravan travelling slowly across the endless dunes. The jerboa snapped the telescope shut and waved his missing paw, the one that had been replaced with a knife, at his first mate Mara.
The black backed jackal nodded at her captain, and turned the wheel of the large craft a touch.
On seeing the exchange, another member of the crew; a meerkat who went by the name of Errol, shoved a cutlass into his belt, gave his bandanna a twist to make sure it was secure on his head, and asked Tem with a toothy grin, “We goin’ huntin’ cap’n?”
Tem’s long white tufted tail twitched, and he answered, “Aye, Errol, that we are. Look lively shipmates! We got a caravan to plunder!”
****
Rumours had been circulating through the little towns and settlements that dotted the vast desert that a caravan with a precious cargo had come out of the Snowy Mountains to the west and was making its way across the Seven Sands to the mighty city of Utkubmit. That the caravan was said to be headed by the ruthless snow leopard Khushu, only made it of more interest to Tem and his crew of cutthroats. The crew of the Dunerunner had tangled with the spotted slaver on more than one occasion. She was the reason Tem had a knife in place of his left paw.
There was however another reason Tem wanted that cargo. No one knew exactly what it was, just that it was of inestimable value. As many of the inhabitants of the Seven Sands ran out of numbers once they’d counted all the digits of their fore and back paws meant inestimable value could be anything over the size of eight. This time the rumours were different. Khushu was involved for a start and the snow leopard didn’t do small deals. For years both she and Tem had been trying to locate the bottle of Prince Aliabeghwar. The legendary artifact was not only composed of precious gemstones making it priceless, it also contained a powerful djinn. Khushu wanted it purely for how much she could make out of it; she didn’t believe in djinn. Tem knew that if he could lay his paws on a djinn, he was would be set for life. He got three wishes and he only needed one; wealth beyond even his dreams, and for such a small creature, the long eared jerboa could dream awfully big.
****
Two of the sandskimmer pilots; Bruce, the frill necked lizard and Gunn; a pot bellied prairie dog, were running for their small, fast and manoueverable craft. Tem jumped onto Bruce’s skimmer, he preferred riding with the lizard, who he counted as the most skilled of his team with the single sailed vehicles. Errol was riding with Gunn and the other attacking crewmembers, including Mara, all had their favourite pilots.
The doors on the side of the Dunerunner slammed open, the sandskimmers detached, and the craft were soon speeding down the dunes towards the unsuspecting caravan.
Khushu believed in hiring on mercenaries as her caravan guards. They were mostly composed of coyotes, hyenas and monitor lizards) They were big and strong, but they were also slow, stupid and not particularly loyal.
Tem leaned out from the strut he was mounted on, as Bruce drove the skimmer at a breakneck pace. The jerboa judged his moment, crouched and then with a flex of his powerful back legs shot up into the air. He was aiming himself at a surprised hyena guard.
The mercenary lifted his sword to stop Tem’s cutlass, and the pirate smiled. They always fell for this. He twisted himself in mid air and the hyena didn’t see the blade that was the pirate’s left paw until it was stabbing into his neck. The spotted dog fell from his mount, already dead and Tem rode his body to the sand, bouncing up and looking for his next opponent.
The rest of the Dunerunner’s crew had engaged the caravan guards. At least two of the caravan’s wagons were bouncing across the dunes, the camels that pulled them put to terrified flight. They’d be picked up by the Dunerunner’s remaining crew, as they were running right towards the big sandcruiser.
The wagon that Tem wanted, the one that had to contain the precious cargo, had been at the centre of the caravan, and that was being guarded by Khushu and a handful of her best and baddest.
Tem’s eyes narrowed as he saw his hated adversary. He stroked his whiskers with the tip of the knife that was his constant reminder of the leopard’s cruelty, and with a savage war cry on his lips, leapt back up into the air.
Khushu cut down two of the sand pirates - one fell to her blade and the other her claws - then saw the hopping mouse flying towards her. His outsized ears and long tufted tail streamed behind him and his lips were drawn back from his needle like teeth in a snarl. He landed in front of Khushu and stood his ground, waving his cutlass menacingly.
“So we meet again, my little long eared rat,” Khushu said in honeyed tones.
“I am a hopping mouse, you mangy spotted bitch!” Tem spat back at the leopard.
Khushu didn’t reply to the insult, but launched an attack at the jerboa. Tem slid to one side and narrowly avoided a thrust that was intended to skewer him. He jumped back and easily dodged a wild slash. He flicked his tail and relished Khushu’s cry of rage as the tuft temporarily blinded her.
The leopard had Tem covered on most fronts. She was much larger and stronger than him and even if she was missing one and an eye, the jerboa was fighting well out of his weight division. Where the smaller creature had an advantage was in speed and agility. If he could get inside Khushu’s range he could best her. He wasn’t the scared little refugee that she had enslaved years ago.
Tem dodged a vicious swipe of claws and darted under a furry muscular arm. He crouched low and then jumped, he held his cutlass vertically and stabbed upwards. He felt the shock through his arm as the point of the blade punched into Khushu’s throat. Tem jumped back to avoid both the shower of blood that gouted from the dying leopard and the falling body.
Khushu hit the ground hard, she gurgled once and then the light faded from her one remaining eye. Blood pumped from her ruined throat and soaked into the parched desert sands beneath her.
****
Tem felt both relief and a strange sense of loss as he watched Khushu die. There had been times when his sheer hatred for the leopard had been the only thing that kept him going.
Bodies were scattered around the sand, like broken dolls discarded by a giant child. Tem’s eyes filled with sadness as he noticed that not all the bodies belonged to Khushu’s mercenary guards. Dunerunners lay amongst them.
“Cap’n,” Mara’s voice pulled Tem back into the present. “You need to see this.”
The jackal was standing at the entrance to the wagon, the one that contained Khushu’s precious cargo. She was flanked by Errol, Bruce and Gunn. Tem bounded over to her and eagerly jumped into the wagon. He narrowed his eyes and peered into the gloom inside the wagon.
Instead of the expected riches, with the priceless magic bottle seated atop a mountain of golden coins, Tem saw a pathetic huddle of desert youngsters. They wore chains and looked as if they could all use a big meal.
Tem frowned and turned to his crewmates behind him. “What’s this? Where’s the precious cargo?”
“I reckon that’s it, cap’n,” Bruce said.
“But they’re just kids.”
“If they were my kids I’d call them pretty damned precious,” Gunn said.
Mara nodded sadly. Her own cubs had been killed and she’d adopted the crew of the Dunerunner in their place.
“How many did we lose?” Tem asked.
“Seven,” Errol answered through clenched teeth. “Two more may not make it.”
“So we need some crew,” the sand pirate captain said. He turned to the enslaved children. “I can’t promise an easy life on the sands with me and the crew, but you’ll be free. Anyone for a pirate’s life?”
 
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