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 ENTRIES ARE CLOSED Stories are due Sunday at Midnight EST We STILL NEED A THIRD JUDGE 
Strange Cares fucked around with this message at 15:01 on Feb 18, 2023 |
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Feb 18, 2023 14:50
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The City 695 / 1,500 words (Guidebook)  Welcome to the city of tomorrow! Whether you’re looking to escape the crowds or reconnect with the past, the City is our stand-out pick for relocation this summer. Get your blood pumping in this urban jungle and turn ‘surviving’ to ‘thriving’ with our latest travel guide. World-leading Architecture At over 60 habitable floors tall, the Riverview Tower may well be the tallest building in the world! If you’ve got the legs then it’s got the stairs to take you up into the clouds and give you the view of a lifetime, taking in the entire old tech district in one beautiful panorama! Eagle-eyed visitors may even see the sea on clearer days, which local custom says brings good luck for the harvest season ahead! But why settle for just one wonder? Visitors from the east will get to travel over the last iron bridge, one of the oldest known structures still in operation! Just make sure to plan your visit ahead of time, especially in the winter months - the gates close at nightfall! Editor’s Tip: the bridge toll is only payable in tinned goods and the traders on nearby streets take full advantage of that fact. Travel two or three streets out and you’ll find much better exchange rates. Timeless Culture When we say ‘the City’, you think ‘the nightlife’! Whether it’s the seafront sculpture park or the music of the City’s many saloons, there’s something to spark old memories in just about anyone! Or, if you’re looking for a little thrill, take a tour of the flooded subway lines and experience a world out of time, virtually untouched by the years! Editor’s Tip: avoid offers of private guides and ‘secret tours’ and stick to City Council-run ventures. If in doubt, stay out! Of course, it wouldn’t be a visit to the City without taking in the theatre! Performances are held nightly at the city library (twice nightly in the winter months) and cover over two centuries of written history, with new tales being restored every day! Come for the Clancy; stay for the Austen. Editor’s Tip: the reading list changes yearly, so make sure to check ahead of time what stories are still being performed. Donations and apprentices are always welcome. Spirituality Struggling to nurture your spiritual side? Finding the toils of daily life leave you little time to think about what comes next? For years, the City has been home to the world-famous road hermetics and now their timeless wisdom can be yours. DISCOVER the ever-shifting stylites, hand-woven and attached to the City’s many streetlights and signposts! LISTEN to the hermetics’ teachings on sin, the Doom That Came and the Doom To Come! FIND yourself again! Editor’s Tip: watch out for pickpockets when attending lectures. Abundant Food Fill up your bellies and fill up your bags! The City’s culinary tradition is the envy of the world and rightly so: where else can you get fresh greens year-round? The traveller on a budget will find countless soup kitchens and food stands, while those of a more sophisticated palate will want to pay a visit to the Steakhouse for a chance at some 100% pure beef. There’s no shortage of food in the City. There is no shortage. Editor’s Tip: avoid the seafood and unboiled water. Work For those visitors who can’t help but fall in love with the City, you’re in luck! Between rebuilding projects and the farms, there’s always an opening for a strong set of hands. If you’ve got experience in animal husbandry, our farms will make you an offer you just can’t refuse! With dozens joining the City every year, it’s no wonder that the CCLB voted the City no.1 on its list of places to live five years in a row! Once you arrive, you’ll never want to leave. Many never do! Editor’s Tip: bring your friends and family! Bring your village! The City of Tomorrow: We’ll see you real soon! Paid for by the City Council Labor Board. ### Instructions: read twice in each town, once at noon and once at dusk. If anyone can scribe, let them make a copy. Remember, there is no shortage in the City.
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Feb 19, 2023 23:41
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Strange Cares posted:
Hey I'll judge if we're still short.
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Feb 20, 2023 00:30
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 The Mill of Policy 673 words Counselor Tarbulin stands, his noble features impassioned beneath his flared red hood. “Gentlemen,” he says. “I see no need to sit here and let the Mill complete its circuit. Our energy crisis has but one answer: we must declare war on the sun and take her power for ourselves.” Can you imagine that moment, the first momentous decision made within Berty Amalfangulous’s Mill of Policy? The groans of defeat and cheers of victory from the counselors would have been almost drowned out by the creaking of gears and cackling of chickens. Had Counselor Tarbulin not written down his speech in advance, we might never have known what had been said. The Mill of Policy was designed as a place for elected officials to debate policy. By placing their chairs and table on a moving track, they saved a great deal of time on grandstanding and long speeches. Argue for too long and the entire assembly was dumped into a pool of chilly water. By housing the community’s chickens above the mill, they assured that the only officials who ran for election were ones who truly wanted to be there, and were not in it for the social cache. The chickens, for their part, oversaw and were much entertained by the process. In its very first use, it proved itself successful. The Council Guards, appointed to ensure the counselors did not escape the Mill until policy had been set, were shocked at the speed at which a decision had been made. Similar Mills were soon built all across Seraphinianus, and every Council voted for war. At the time it was thought that the sun was poorly defended. After all, she had never guarded her excess before, allowing the world to passively soak up her light and heat. No one had ever seen patrols along her borders, so it was assumed that no such patrols existed. Imagine those young Seraphinian troops who had been asked to leave mass behind and become a violent waveform aimed at the heart of their enemy. Imagine that alien surface: the intolerable heat and the blinding light. Imagine their leaders, who had assured them of the rightness of their cause and of the emptiness of the sunscape. Imagine their surprise and betrayal when the Sunbirds attacked. Sunbirds do not fly. They hop, wings beating wildly. They scream a staccato cry from short, sharp beaks, and are crowned with flame. On that day, they steamed with the blood of unprepared Seraphinians. Quick thinking on the part of General Archinin saved the day. The wards the Seraphinian army used to protect them from the heat could also be used to sever the Sunbirds from the source of their power. This permitted the army to retreat back to their world, nursing their wounds, to plan for the next invasion. That invasion would never come. General Archinin had arrived early at Counselor Tarbulin’s office for a meeting to discuss the war effort. In that office he saw correspondence between Tarbulin and the Great Rooster. It did not take him long to realize they had all been tricked into doing the dirty work of the animals they had entrusted to help keep their officials in check. Tarbulin had accepted many bribes in the form of free eggs in order to sway the opinion of the council. He had been in the pockets of the Grand Rooster for decades, indeed it was he who suggested to Bertie Amalfangulous to use chickens instead of quail for the Mill of Policy, thus giving them access to the halls of power. Once there, they could prosecute their war on their fiery cousins, the sunbirds, and steal the energy of sunlight for themselves. But war is not so easily diverted. The Solar War continued, despite Tarbulin’s confession and imprisonment, and whole generations were scarred. By the time peace arrived, Mills of Policy had fallen out of fashion. They dot our landscape, abandoned, monuments of a simpler, bygone era
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Feb 20, 2023 03:38
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Eep, forgot to note that I, too, had the guidebook flash.
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Feb 20, 2023 03:39
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Pham Nuwen posted:Hey I'll judge if we're still short. I will take you up on that, thanks!
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Feb 20, 2023 04:08
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The Vomit-Priests of the City-State of Kherst Guidebook, 982/1500 words Artifact awaiting cataloging: a fragment of a burnt manuscript found near a copy of the Codex Seraphinianus. Both book and damaged manuscript are carbon dated to the early 19th century. Since this is well over one hundred and fifty years before the publication date of the book, and there is no London Society of Transdimensional Explorers, we believe it may be a hoax. Director Evers was nonetheless insistent we keep it on file until it can be better examined. -Dr. Bernard Kynes, 27/7/2004 City-State of Kherst, cont Translated by Sir Guy de Bussey, Fellow of the London Society of Transdimensional Explorers, 1819 As mentioned in Chapter 2 “Mytho-politics of the Greater Northern Basin” the Consensus of Kherst centers it’s political-religious life on a strange form of haruspexy called Geralten-meht [Future-Vomit](1) practiced by Geralten-schen [Vomit Priests]. Since the formation of the Consensus at the end of 1282 2ndKL(2) the Geralten-schen augurs have been the backbone of policy making and their continued accuracy is a cornerstone of the Consesus’s legitimacy. The priests are trained from childhood, reared on secret teachings of Kherst’s symbol-gods(3) and raised on a steady diet of emetics, awareness-spectrum narcotics, and scripture. On every Consensus day(4) these augurs are brought to the Speaking Place and gorged on consecrated ink. As the Councillors debate, pose questions, and propose policy the Geralten-schen grow consumed by religious ecstasy and begin to dribble and vomit ink across their sacral vestments. The Bishop of Blackbirds(5) will read out the resultant letters, words, and thought-forms, believed to be messages from the Hidden Pantheon. The debate will then often turn into new argument about interpretation of the regurgitated texts, resulting in very little getting done. The people of Kherst would, of course, never dream of altering the tradition.(6) In times of great crisis this staid and true formula may not be sufficient. It is then that the solemn duty of transcendence falls upon one of the augurs. They are taken to the Orbet-nahn(7) and fed their last meal, a cocktail of hedlek root(8), ergot, hidden truths, and crystalized time sifted from the slow-light caverns(9) beneath the city. This mixture is invariably fatal, but in the minutes and hours it takes the Geralten-schen to die their carefully honed prophetic powers are tremendously amplified. In an act of both pragmatism and grief their companions and handlers will harvest these nuggets of wisdom in the ancient manner: pulling words and visions straight from their failing bodies like Schren(10) anglers of old. This author has had the disturbing honor of watching the ritual performed and I do not know which is more indescribable: the solemnity of the occasion with its silent priests and the doleful scratch of quill on paper, or the smell. In exchange for this grisly sacrifice the prognostications of the dying Geralten-schen are much more complete, accurate, and actionable then the common Geralten-meht ritual. It was a transcendence that led to the appointment of Carolus dan Glotka(11) as Grand Strategist in the Kherst-Stoblast War of 183 3rdKL(12), whose genius all my readers are surely familiar with so I will not belabor the point.(13) While the precise rituals and mytho-poetic synchronies of the Geralten-meht are of course state secrets of Kherst, and rather disgusting aesthetically, none can deny their efficacy. Translator’s Notes: (1): I have chosen to leave the names of the subjects in the original High Kherstic to preserve the feel and tone of the text (2): the Consensual Revolution that swept the Greater Northern Basin in 1282 2ndKL unseated the New Kingdom of Kherst, among other despotates of the northern city-states, and created a radically democratic new governmental order (see Chapter 2), though sometimes one wonders why they bothered. (3): The symbol-gods or Hidden Pantheon are a mysterious aspect of the religious life of the Greater Northern Basin, separate from the Basin-wide solar cult of Jehrd. Little is written about them in the Codex or the supplementary materials I acquired in my travels. (4) A semi-monthly event when city-wide business is discussed and conducted by the Consensus and its Councilors, diplomatic envoys are received, etc. (5) see Chapter 6: Religious Life of the Greater Northern Basin pg 295-297 (6) This is not the only grotesque tradition of tremendous importance the Kherstites practice and will defend to the death. See my translation of dan Grobst’s Crime and Punishment in the Basin City-States (7) A primary temple of the Hidden Pantheon. The Orbet-Nehn of Kherst is a picturesque example of lower-dimensional architecture believed to date up to 400 years pre-1stKL. (8) Recording trans-planar botany is a difficult science but what research I can scrape together indicates hedlek is a rough analogue of the nightshade family from our more familiar flora kingdom (9) I have yet to find any other reference to the phenomenon of slow light or time crystalization in any part of the Codex or any other Seraphinian literature yet recovered by my fellows. If any reader has such information please send a letter or calling card to 27 Hanover Court, above the sign of the Twisted Keys (10) I believe that a Schren may be one of the fish pictured in the yet-untranslated chapter 1, pg 75. What it has to do with fishing words from a dying man’s stomach I’m still not sure about. Answers on a postcard, as above. (11) Carolus dan Glotka (121-205 3rdKL), a successful haberdasher before his military appointment (12) References are thin on the ground, but given that he have found no record of a city-state of Soblast existing post 190 3rdKL I think it can be concluded the war went poorly for them. (13) I bloody hate it when they do this, pardon my French. Don’t just leave important information out of a text because you assume subsequent readers will be familiar with it. It’s infuriating.
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Feb 20, 2023 04:18
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 The Pillars of Transfiguration 973 Words The Pillars of Transfiguration Johnny had been tearing up the South Florida tarmac with enough coke in the boot of his car to lock him away for good. He was supposed to meet Bill’s contact outside of Fort Lauderdale, but the man never showed up to the drop. “Hey, what the gently caress, man. I thought you had a guy out here?” Johnny hissed into the receiver of his cell phone. A bulky block of grey plastic that Bill had loaned him for the run. “Yeah, Jesse or Jose, a loving ‘J’ name, but I got a guy out there,” Bill said, obviously high. “Uh, is it Johnny?” Johnny asked incredulously. Bill snapped his fingers, “Yeah! Johnny, that’s the guy.” “Bill, I’m loving Johnny!” Johnny screamed. “You’re loving Johnny?” Bill asked curiously. “No, you idiot. I’m him. Who the gently caress am I supposed to deliver all this blow to? For Christ’s sake, Billy, this is the poo poo I’m talking about. You’re god damned unreliable.” “Hey man, chill the gently caress out, okay. It’s just—it’s just a misunderstanding is all. Let me just get my head straight.” Johnny stared wide-eyed at the cellular brick in his hand and contemplated throwing it out the window, driving off, and starting a new life funded by whatever Billy’s drugs could afford him. Johnny knew better though. He knew his ticket was already punched, and long ago at that. A fact that was cemented as a long-barreled revolver pressed against his head through the open window of his car. He swallowed hard and dropped the phone onto the floorboard. “H-hey, man. I don’t want no trouble.” Johnny said. “And you won’t get none if you come up out that car, boy.” Johnny didn’t dare look at the man. He just said, “Y-yeah, man. It’s all yours. No trouble here.” The robber kept the gun leveled at Johnny the entire time leaving him no other option than to comply. He swung open the door to the car and stepped out without any fuss. The robber kept the gun leveled at him as he got into the driver’s seat. Johnny, not knowing what else to do, waved. * * * Johnny was in the middle of nowhere with no phone, no money, and no way of getting anywhere without walking for dozens of miles. As such, he decided to take a break, and plan out his next move when he saw a light deep in the woods. Despite his reluctance, he had nowhere else to go so he set off in that direction. When he finally was clear of the small forest he found himself standing infront of a vast queue of people. He tried to speak to someone, but the language was jarring and unintelligible. Not words, but not exactly noise; something unlike anything he’d ever heard before. He staggered away from the man, and bumped into a woman holding a sign. She rattled off more of the alien speech while angrily pointing to a black spire where two massive person-like creatures tossed a living ball of flame between one another. Before Johnny knew it, he was being led by angry or sympathetic faces to the black pillar. A loud explosion echoed from somewhere far in the distance. An unending roar that he had only just then noticed as he reached the ladder. The people shouted, or begged, or forced him, onto the ladder and when he touched it, suddenly the voices became clear. He could understand them, and knew what he had to do. * * * “Johnny was a man that was always on the move. He never let anyone dictate how he should live his life, and while that may have come with unexpected consequences, I’ve never known anyone as free or cheerful as Johnny.” A person whose face Johnny couldn’t quite place, said as he reached for the next rung of the ladder. The crowd nodded in reply. Another person approached the podium. “Johnny was a son of a bitch. He was a cheat, and a thief, and an addict, and a liar, and an abuser, and a—” The litany continued. The voice was flat and bereft of the vitriol that one would think would accompany such a barrage of indictments. The crowd chattered, seemingly outraged, and not with the speaker. He felt their spiteful gaze as his trembling hands reached for the next rung. He tried to drown out the seemingly unending list of faults and betrayals by focusing on his heartbeat, a technique he’d implemented as a child when his parents fought, or when he first robbed someone, or when Carly told him she was pregnant, or when he’d walked away from the life he’d built for no other reason beyond his total indifference to the situations that he was confronted with. A dog approached the podium and howled at the microphone. People in the audience began to bark or boo in response, and Johnny paused for a moment to puzzle out what was going on, ultimately returning to moving one hand over the other. Ever higher up the pillar. As he continued to climb. The sounds of the surrounding landscape and its inhabitants merged together. The sea encroached upon the shore, pushing and pulling the land until it took on alien shapes from Johnny’s perspective. He lifted his head up to see how far he had left to go and saw that the black discs were right overhead grinding some concatenated mess of unreality and missed opportunity into new forms. Johnny looked down at the mass of people-like things all pointing up at him. Pointing at the discs. He carefully inserted himself into the churning mess one limb at a time, until his legs and arms and torso had fused to the various others ground between the discs, all waiting for the chance to be made into something new, something complete.
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Feb 20, 2023 04:50
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The Fish of A-Declercq Bay 1128 words  The journey to A-Declercq Bay is not for the casual traveler. The first leg, a five-hour flight from the capital to the port of Thynas, already tests the constitution with some of the worst turbulence in the world as the zeppelin flies over the Yardee Mountains. Upon landing, it’s a crosstown to the train station– booking a registered taxi in advance is essential. The train (there’s only one, running daily at 11:57) heads inland to service the hamlets of the Great Awa Desert. The stop, Torqua Station, is about four hours from Thynas, where room and board with the farmer should have been arranged in advance. In exchange for some labor– usually nothing too dangerous– his daughter drives visitors three hours to the town of A-Declercq on the Bay. The journey can end here, but for the full experience, a two-hour ferry ride to the outer island of Opu is required. It’s a grueling 28-hour journey, but for a fish fanatic, it’s the trip of a lifetime. Due to the deep marine trenches around the Bay and, perhaps, runoff from the local uranium mines, the sealife has evolved into unique forms. A morning snorkel in the reef outside of Opu township serves as an introduction to the ecosystem. Among the feathered Joan Darbys and harmless Sandbiters, one of the most extraordinary species is the Bathysalmon. The rivers leading into A-Declercq Bay were blocked after the earthquakes of 3999, so the indigenous salmon evolved a new method of spawning, one heavily based on cannibalism. After laying eggs, the male dies and the female consumes it over the course of the incubation period. When the eggs hatch, the fry gather to their mother’s face and she secretes a clear gel that hardens around them. The water inside this natural fish tank is filtered through the female’s gills. Most remarkably, the fry swim into the female’s stomach to feed upon the male’s body. Protected, they grow quickly. The female, head encased, cannot eat and so weakens. When sustenance from the male is depleted, the fry turn on their mother. Her death allows the fry to escape the tank and gives them the energy to become smolts, capable of surviving the hostile waters of the Bay. More than one visitor has rejected this fate and broken her tank, but this only leads to the undersized fry being eaten by opportunistic Sparrowrays and the mother dying regardless. The locals respect her sacrifice and throw back any Bathysalmon they catch in their nets. Any traveler to Opu will get to know the locals well, and assisting them in their work gives a up-close view of the most important fish species of A-Declercq Bay. Scientists aren’t sure why the Hippocampoi cannot live in any other waters, but this fact is advantageous for the farmers of this region, who have a monopoly on harvesting the Hippocampoi’s unique fishhair. This fine but strong fiber is used in string instruments such as harps, fine jewelry, and, increasingly, applications in heavy industry. Each day, farmers swim out to attend to their schools. The Hippocampoi evolved hair to host symbiotic species, such as the remaras to clean its skin, but such creatures degrade the integrity of the fishhair. The farmers use various chemical shampoos to kill these pests and brush the fishhair twice daily for maintenance. Like human hair, it is trimmed regularly to encourage further growth. To denote ownership, the farmers tie ribbons of various colors around the tails. For the best exposure to this cornerstone of the local economy, visiting in mid-autumn during the annual harvest is recommended. The locals work together to herd one farmer’s school into a shallow holding pond. There, workers pluck the fish out of the water with one hand and shave off its fishhair mane and tail with the other. The most skilled can accomplish this and return the fish to the water before it takes one empty gasp of air. Once the shearing is complete, the fish are returned to the sea, the pond is drained, and the valuable fishhair swept up and dried on lines. The process is repeated for each of the hundreds of schools surrounding the island. The locals reward any visitor lending a hand in the harvest– most likely by sweeping– with a fishhair tail, complete with a ribbon. This amount is worth hundreds of dollars on the open market, but most choose to keep it as a memento of their time in the Bay. Venturing beyond the reefs and seagrass meadows of the Hippocampoi on a boat tour awards sights of Pinkfin Tuna and, occasionally, Jeweled Dolphins, but diving here requires extra preparation. The open waters over the trenches are the domain of the Bridal Shark. Several generations ago, young men would swim down and cut off the topmost tassel to present to their beloved as a prerequisite to marriage. In these more civilized days, the tassel is artificial or an heirloom; this is less a concession to animal rights than it is to the extreme danger of the practice. The Bridal Shark's tassels sit at three levels along its ten-meter dorsal fin and filter the water to detect prey. Once a fish, seal, or lovestruck young man is sensed, the tassel whisks away into the depths as the shark propels itself vertically at its victim, jaws open. In the past, oil and mineral rubs served to mask swimmers’ scents; nowadays, rubber diving suits are a safer option. There are still risks, but the thrill of spotting a tassel, looking like an innocent small black fish, and knowing that the beast lurks in the dark water below, is an experience not soon forgotten. Through this primal fear, the visitor is reminded of their natural place within the ecosystem and forms a connection to the human legacy of this wild location. Just don't touch the tassel. At the time of writing, the only accommodation on Opu was in backyard outbuildings or at the singular inn, the Tank and Tail. However, with the establishment of the Thynas to A-Declercq zeppelin route next year, several hotel brands are beginning to show an interest in establishing a presence there. Locals will welcome the cargo, mail, and tourism it will bring, but it is undeniable that some of the character of the place will be lost when the national chains arrive. For many who make the trip to A-Declercq Bay, the remoteness is part of the appeal. It seems likely that more Bathysalmon tanks will be broken by careless visitors, Hippocampoi tails will only be available for purchase, and diving trips to see Bridal Shark tassels will be canceled due to liability. If you want to immerse yourself in the true A-Declercq Bay experience, I suggest you book a trip now.
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Feb 20, 2023 05:21
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 A Candleman's Funeral 884 words "What are we," said the prophet, "But water and wax?" and the soul mongers had no answer to give. --The Book of Javril, 3:18 No Candleman wishes to attend a funeral, even for their worst enemy. When a life is lived properly it stretches from when they are trepanned and receive the wick as a near infant to the final sublimation of the soles of their feet, leaving nothing behind to bury or mourn. "It is a fact, regrettable but undeniable, that there have been nearly a dozen Candleman's funerals in the city over the past twenty years," reports Chief Censor Deneb. "While the Chanlderate attributes this to a growing Qlippothic or diabolic presence adjacent to the city we of the Ministrata can point to more mundane causes for the extinguishings." The report goes on to enumerate five suspected murders, three likely enough for the rope by intimate partners and two by violent criminals unaffiliated with the Crabeaters; two suicides, one highly disputed by family despite ample evidence; and one ruled misadventure that was either a wager or a scientific experiment involving a negative pressure pump. This leaves three which happened spontaneously and inexplicably enough that a supernatural explanation is plausible, although in private conversation some both within and and without the Chandlerate take a more nihilistic attitude. "Sometimes, the spark simply fails." The funerary rite is one of the few entirely public events in their subculture, and can become a spectacle, especially when the extinguishing was public and the whisperer networks of the city know such an event is coming. Still, outsiders observe the funeral only from the bridges above, never from the docks or on the water among the Candlemen. Even as notable a guest as the young Septarch Vinces must maintain his distance. At the most recent such funeral the young ruler asked, in the manner of youths and monarchs, a question of incisive ignorance. "Why," he asked, "Don't they, you know, relight him?" The long and full answer, we are informed, occupied the next month of the Septarch's theological education. The shorter answer, provided on the spot by Syriana of the Ministrate Divine, was as follows: "The flame is all that is, all that matters. It is indistinguishable from our own godsparked spirit or soul. To relight an extinguished Candleman would be to animate a corpse, either as a copy of another flame, as a puppet or slave, or in a manner that invites a spirit from outside. Both are abominations, and this rite has the purpose of preventing any such thing from happening." The remains are submerged, to begin with, the wick a foot below the water. Then the wick is extracted. This is work for the younger Candlemen, needing to be done by arms and hands rather than the burning memory of them. When there is none old enough to understand and young enough not to have burned down past their elbows a well-trained outsider, usually from the Stellar priesthood that shares scripture with the Chandlerate. The wick is extracted, entirely underwater as the process is violent and can give off sparks. The person doing the extraction is careful to insert a beehive plug immediately after the wick is removed to prevent excessive mixing of water within and without. The area around the hole will be sufficiently hot to briefly melt the beeswax and form a tight seal. The wick is sealed into a black bonewood box, to be unraveled and untwined later, in a more private ceremony. The rest of the funeral concerns only the other parts of the remains. The plug is prized loose with a curve-bladed knife and tossed aside, to float out with the tide. The remains are then inverted over an open keg and squeezed carefully. This part of the rite is performed exclusively by older Candlemen, done never with hands but only with their memory. This leaves the wax, now dry and flaky, to be crumbled and launched into the air during the next strong wind. The length of time the mourners spend awaiting that wind is held as profoundly meaningful, an indication of how inevitable or how unexpected the extinguishing was to the Thousand Eyes. The liquid is then decanted into glass and wooden cups and shared out among all participants and witnesses. It tastes, according to those of the Ministrata, of nothing other than weak salt. In many taverns in the city one can order a draught of Candle Ichor and be served strong flavorless spirits with a touch of salt. The drink does not, unless a crime has been committed that risks riot, contain any of the actual liquid from the ritual. Most of these establishments add a yellow dye to their drink. The actual fluid is colorless, or, when the extinguished was very young, light pink. Some witnesses do occasionally refuse the drink, out of folk superstition or organized beliefs that hold the prophet Jarvil in error or even irrelevant. Their portion is poured onto the ground. After the last of the fluid is gone, the keg is dismantled, the wooden parts set to float out to the sea and the metal sunk to the bottom of the canals. Finally, each attending Candleman pushes their gondola against the tide and back into the City's heart.
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Feb 20, 2023 05:21
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Sustainability 472 words Combination and Recombination In the year 1238, the Old Religion granted a patent to Apache Industrialist, J. Dodd Devereaux. Mr. Devereaux developed the first mycologic dissolving apparatus in response to Chicago’s ballooning refuse issue. Before this breakthrough, he had been experimenting with fungal applications to food, medicine, and the arts. It was in that year of 1238 Mr. Devereaux first communicated with the Collective. He purchased a 320 acre tract in Cook County later that year and sowed the spores which would become Chicago’s famous Recombination Yards. When Devereaux lost contact in 1240, the yards had grown a massive 13,000 acre campus – the largest recombination facility in the world to this day! Per the request of the Devereaux estate, he was laid to rest in the Yards. Lucky for us! Imagine the surprise when a chimera of broken cameras, old newspapers, and destroyed lingerie came shambling into the probate court to stop proceedings on his estate. A miracle! Devereaux had discovered Recombination. Until then, crafted items were buried in giant pits called landfills or dumped in the ocean. Imagine your shoes floating inAhe Great Lakes! By 1385, every Chicago resident had noted Recombination on their census, but few had spoken to the Collective. As Recombination perfected, many of the newly Recombined went back to their old occupations, their old spouses, their old lives. They reproduced embryonically. Their mechanical computers, automobiles, and household waste flowed into the yards in greater amounts as more humans mated. As more residents stepped from Recombination a fourth or fifth time they began complaining of depression, disordered sleep, lack of appetite. The aluminum cans that housed most beverages in those days could only be used and thrown away. The items surrounding a person of that time, ceramic toilets, alarm clocks, stereo speakers, color televisions, and dining sets had only one place – the Yards. But a growing number of residents couldn’t part with these items or felt agony and, at the time unexplained, shame. Newspapers dubbed this era as the Years of Malaise. Activity Touch the myconetwork and see if you can spot an Original Chicagoan! When do they think they’ll die? What is money? How many times have they Recombined? Write a short essay on your experience and share with your partner. Dig Deeper (Questions for Reflection) How has the Collective guided your feelings about corporeal life? What are your separation rituals? Which departure has made you smile the most? Which departure has hurt the most? More Than Just Shoes! (Discussion Topics) Today, most citizens Recombine with retournée shoes, but some studied pioneers are able to imbue themselves in hats, jackets, pipes, books, and objects of art. If you could imbue yourself in anything, what would you choose? Do you know someone who seems inseparable from a piece of matter? What is it about our feet anyway?
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Feb 20, 2023 07:36
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^^^^^^^
Dicere fucked around with this message at 07:41 on Feb 20, 2023 |
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Feb 20, 2023 07:39
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Birdbrain 1000 words I first encountered the notebook when I was still working as Rosenblatt’s principal buyer, about 15 years ago, back when the store was on Telegraph Avenue. It was providential, in a way, or at least I thought so: my occupation had placed me in the right place at the right time to learn what I now know, by way of an unmarked, unattributed, sketchbook, of (if not an outright conspiracy) a galactic curiosity. I say only in a way, of course, because my life is not materially changed—or, if it has, only in a negative way. So perhaps providential is not the right word. The notebook appeared in a larger collection of books stored in a chest in an attic, the kind of chest that haunted many an old family attic, ghosts living comfortably until younger generations decide it’s time to exorcise them, mostly by selling them. A man had come in the store with a shoebox. He told me the story, so typical: his grandfather had just passed, and they were deciding what to do with his things. One of those things was a chest of books, inherited from his grandfather before him. The man placed the shoebox on the counter and opened it to reveal two books: one, a weathered but intact copy of Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow; the other, a leatherbound notebook, full of hand-drawn illustrations and unfamiliar writing. I set the second aside and focused on Sleepy Hollow. A cursory examination placed it as authentic, and likely a first edition; I told him its value, and offered to inspect the rest—but perhaps at his grandfather’s home, so he wouldn’t be transporting rare books in shoeboxes. He chuckled and agreed. The chest—about two feet wide, made from polished chestnut, an artifact in its own right—had done a decent job of preserving the books. While the chest was covered in the dust of a century, the books inside were mostly dust-free and mostly intact. A brief survey of the texts revealed that many would be of moderate value, and some were worthless. I made him an offer for the entire lot, chest included, with the caveat that we’d call and adjust the price if we made any significant discoveries in appraisal. Things were more naïve back then. The second book in that shoebox, the notebook, never sold. Truth be told, I didn’t try too hard. I was fascinated by it. The rest of books we sold, either individually or to the university, but I personally held on to that notebook. I had never before taken a book for myself, and never did thereafter, but the notebook seduced me. It was in excellent condition, and appeared not to have aged at all—though my best tools indicated that it was indeed nearly 200 years old. The pages were full of intricate illustrations, and a script I couldn’t recognize, and hinted at things that seemed impossibly anachronistic or fanciful: machines using electricity, sea creatures that defied logic, pictures of that appeared to depict historical events that hadn’t yet occurred. One series of pages in particular stuck in my mind, a section that contained drawings of birds, or at least what took the shape of birds, but whose internal workings were of a machine nature: batteries, gears, springs, cameras for eyes, hard drives for brains. Afterward, whenever I thought of the book, I thought of those pages. Of course, the book had no dates or names I could read, so I was confronted with a conundrum: either the book was an elaborate prank or a true curiosity. I took it to my friend at the University, who had both an interest in old artifacts and access to a laboratory. Some simple tests confirmed that the book was, as best as either of us could tell by technical knowledge or scientific inquiry, authentically from the turn of the 19th century. Since neither of us could make heads or tails of it otherwise, I took it home with me. I pored over its pages in the evenings for a few weeks, looking for something to leverage, but nothing presented itself. Eventually, I flipped fewer and fewer pages until I found myself flipping only those containing the machine-birds. My pregnant wife soon became annoyed, since I could offer no explanation as to the book’s origin, purpose, or meaning. I showed her the pages of birds, to which she said: if you want to study birds, buy a modern book, some binoculars, and go sit in our backyard, since the crows seem to have moved in. I didn’t take her advice, but I did put the book away. In fact, I didn’t touch the book for 15 years, and only thought about the machine-birds sporadically—usually when a bird made itself more conspicuous than usual (which, I now reflect, was perhaps more often after my discovery of the notebook than before. But perhaps that is confirmation bias). The notebook reappeared my life last week, when my 15-year-old son pulled it off the shelf and began flipping through it. My old bookseller’s heart was at once tickled and torn, seeing a 200-year-old text in the rough hands of a sometimes-respectful teenager, but I withheld comment. The book had no value to anyone else, nor to me anymore—or so I thought, until he flipped to a bookmarked page. There sat the machine-birds, their mechanical eyes and robot brains as confounding today as they were to me then. My son, though, exclaimed: Birds Aren’t Real. He turned to me: I didn’t know you were into this stuff, Dad, pretty funny stuff, makes the old-timers mad. I asked him what he meant; he told me about the protesters, kids his age claiming birds were a government spy program. I told him the notebook was 200-years-old, and he stared at me for a moment before shrugging and closing the book. The telephone wire outside our house was suspiciously full of crows that morning.
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Feb 20, 2023 08:48
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Feb 20, 2023 14:23
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This was a tough one! There were a lot of strong contenders, but ultimately what made the grade was how well a story stuck to the guidebook conceit (if that was what the writer chose), how well it delivered on High Strangeness, and the overall quality of it's prose. There were a lot of great stories that I really liked, but that just barely weren't quite strange enough or didn't go in enough on the conceit. So, after a long day's deliberations, here are your results. Winner A Candleman's Funeral - Thranguy Honorable Mentions The Vomit-Priests of the City-State of Kherst - Slightly Lions The Mill of Policy - Chernobyl Princess Dishonorable Mention The Pillars of Transfiguration - Idle Amalgam Loser Birdbrain - BeefSupreme Strange Cares fucked around with this message at 00:32 on Feb 21, 2023 |
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Feb 21, 2023 00:20
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Judge crits for week 550: Note: I am reading the stories first, then looking at the prompt image. I hope this gives me a different perspective on the stories as stories... a proper guidebook doesn't always have images for every section, so your prose should stand on its own. * The City (Staggy): I like where this is going, sort of reminds me of the post-apocalyptic gameshow sketch on Mitchell and Webb. But when I hit the end, I was left wanting more, something more substantial, a deeper secret being hinted at. It sorta reads like a sketch of a location for a role-playing game, and I've definitely read my share of RPG sourcebooks, but the best part of those is the part where it mentions the Old God living in the sewer or whatever. After seeing your prompt: I vaguely remember seeing this when it was assigned, and it's not what I expected after reading your entry. I don't know if that's good or bad! Mid * The Fish of A-Declerq Bay (My Shark Waifuu): The most unbelievable thing about getting to A-Declercq Bay is that it only takes 28 hours--hell, Southwest sometimes takes longer than that to go from Denver to LA. Anyway the opening is flavorful but bordering on too much. The descriptions of the fish are pretty good, but almost too realistic in that they're not "too weird" to be actual real-world fish. I like the voice, especially the final paragraph where the tourism writer laments that all the tourists are going to start showing up in the place he's writing about. After seeing your prompt: this feels like a tough one to write a guidebook for, because it's just 3 pictures of fish. I think you did ok with what you had to work with. Mid * The Pillars of Transfiguration (Idle Amalgam) Ok, I assume this was "inspiration" not "guidebook" (edit with judgemode off: wtf it was supposed to be guidebook, you should have got the loss for that alone). First off, lemme nitpick, in South Florida it's a trunk, not a boot, but maybe Johnny is British... "vast queue" later on indicates the same. "Angry or sympathetic faces"... which is it? I am ok with the premise here, but I think it would have been stronger if the discs had been established before the penultimate paragraph, and I think there were so many words spent on Miami Vice at the start that there weren't enough left for a satisfying story... if Johnny had spent 1 paragraph wandering the woods looking for the coke drop and stumbled on this instead, you could have developed the meat of it further. I also think the words "concatenated" and "mess" don't go together, and in general you should aim for plainer language with fewer adjectives/adverbs. After seeing your prompt: yeah ok. Low, if not loser. * Birdbrain (BeefSupreme) I see Telegraph Ave, I'm expecting at least a *little* Berkeley flavor, so let's get started! Right off the bat I'm getting a Lovecraft vibe just from the way things are written: a buyer of old books, a secret manuscript, etc. Once you started to zero in on the illustrations of birds I realized where we were going... but I hoped we would have something more than "teenager literally says Birds Aren't Real, the end". I was also entirely sick of the narrative voice by the third paragraph--if you had cut out all the cute asides, you could have written more story! After seeing your prompt: Like the fish prompt, I get that this would be a tough one to do, but since you weren't writing a guidebook page you had more leeway. I've done the "shaggy dog story in a funny voice" kind of thing myself and to be honest it rarely lands. Also you didn't give me any Berkeley flavor! Low. * The Mill of Policy (Chernobyl Princess) In the first two paragraphs, I'm hooked, I'm tantalized, keep it up. Declaring war on the Sun is ridiculous and funny, and then when we get to "young Seraphinian troops who had been asked to leave mass behind and become a violent waveform", I'm tickled. However I am a little disappointed by the ending; it feels a bit rushed. Also, "that invasion would never come" yet "the Solar War continued"? Anyway, despite the ending, I still really liked this. It feels like a sidebar in a guidebook, a little history lesson, and quite engaging. After seeing the prompt: you got a good prompt, and you turned it into a good story, a combination of luck and skill. High! * The Vomit-Priests of the City-State of Kherst (Slightly Lions) I didn't make any notes while I read this because I was oddly hooked. It's got the feel of academic writing without quite the level of impermeable jargon of the real thing, and the footnotes really make the story--but I'm a sucker for history books from an alternate universe, like the Terran Trade Authority books. I liked it a lot, although really it's encromancy, not haruspicy. I would like to say that for some reason I'm very suspicious of all the names you've used here and if I ever figure out that they're all some sort of meta joke there will be hell to pay. After seeing the prompt: This wasn't the most difficult prompt of the week, but it also wasn't the easiest, and I think you turned it into something really good. High. * Sustainability (Dicere) Ok, it seems like we're looking at a parallel universe that's kinda like ours (Chicago) but not quite (mushroom-based recycling & reanimation). Maybe I'm just being obtuse, or maybe I've read too many stories today, but I just don't Get It. This didn't really work for me, although I appreciate the middle school textbook structure toward the end. Timelines aren't clear, and it's not sufficiently clear what the Collective is (some sort of mycelium-mediated collective consciousness?), or what exactly Recombination is all about. I don't need exhaustive answers, and I appreciate that this is structured as a textbook for children steeped in that culture, but it's only barely more informative than the imaginary text of the Codex! After seeing the prompt: I get the junk theme now, but it's still not working for me. Low-mid. * A Candleman's Funeral (Thranguy) Your first paragraph explains what a Candleman is pretty drat well in just a few words, and I commend you. Now, the problem with "guidebook" stories is that guidebooks aren't usually particularly compelling reading, and unfortunately by the time we get to the actual process of the ritual, there's not really anything new about the world to be revealed. Some stories (I'm thinking of Vomit-Priests) turned descriptions of rituals into something really fun, and I think it's as much about the style as it is the substance, but in this case the style didn't quite click for me. After seeing the prompt: I guess I'd have liked to know why candlemen are on gondolas. Mid-high.
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Feb 21, 2023 00:39
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Thunderdome Week DLI: Roaring Here we are, nearly midway through the latest roaring twenties, so it's time to look back at the last few twenties. There's the 1920s, characterized by a global influenza pandemic, a stock market bubble, and all the markers of gangster media. Then there are the 1820s, with a global cholera pandemic, a stock market bubble, and the markers of steampunk media. And finally the 1720s, with...a global bubonic plague pandemic, and, uh, the first stock market bubble, and the golden age of piracy. Your assignment this week is to write a story set in any of these decades. You don't have to write a gangster/steampunk/pirate story, but your story should feel at home in the decade you set it in. Fantastic or science fictional elements are okay. Historical fiction is, inevitably, as much about the time it was written than the one it is set in, and I want to see you leaning into that. I've pointed out some areas where history's rhyme scheme is particularly strong, but there are others to use. I'm not going to be doing too much Historical fact-checking, so feel free to research as little or as much as you want. As long as you don't have someone checking their digital watch or suchlike you should be fine. All the usual restrictions apply. Word limit:2020 Sign-ups close 11:59 PM Friday Pacific time Entries close 11:59 PM Sunday Pacific time Judges: Thranguy ? ? Entrants:
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Feb 21, 2023 19:35
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Very unfinished redemption story The Black Crown, Queen Chamorak's Edition with study notes by Tarqa Nwill, Master of Tohbist Sorceries at the University of Talamaran: Book of Eggs Eggs is the final book of the poetic section of The Black Crown, and by far the shortest. Authorship is unknown, though Tohbist tradition states that it was written by the Wizard King Zandar himself. This is unlikely, as the text does not match the style of the verified writings of Zandar1. Its date of authorship is similarly mysterious, though it can be placed before L.T. 28, as it is referenced in Travels of Talamar the Strong by The-Bard-Who-Doesn't-Deserve-A-Name. This makes it arguably the oldest book in the Crown, competing only with Unending Still. The title of Eggs is a pun; "hoogk" is the Dead Wood word for both "egg" and "cavern." The QCE translation you'll see here makes value judgments about which use of "hoogk" means "egg" or "cavern." In my personal opinion, every "hoogk" should be translated as "egg." I believe that the absurdism of the egg imagery is deliberate, even if it is not lost on the original author that "hoogk" also means "cavern." If Eggs has magical properties, they are unknown or lost to the ages2. It is the only book in the Black Crown not to contain any known sorceric incantations or wisdom for mystic meditation. Still, many modern Tohbist sorcerers claim to contemplate the poem as a means to achieve Nearness, even if it is not directly involved in spellcasting. Eggs An egg grows inside a carvern, Fatherless and motherless, save for Tohb3. The egg grows eyes. The cavern grows eyes4. And the egg sees everything and knows everything, and sees the life growing. And the life is offensive to the egg, for nothing light should exist My friend Zrendo Saph, Professor-Lord of Nightmarology at the School in the Dead Wood, argues otherwise. "Zandar's surviving works are works of military strategy, not poetry. Why should we expect a match in style?" she said to me via windopathic correspondence. The point is valid; however, none of the stories of the life of the Wizard-King suggest he possessed a poet's temperament or demeanor. I maintain that Zandar was not the author. The little-remembered Tohbist prophet Zandar-Roh the Few-Toothed (circa A.T. 442-466) is said to have claimed otherwise, declaring that Eggs is the crucial wisdom of Tohbist necromancy. Not for use by Tohbist necromancers, mind you (Tohbist necromancers, easily the most accomplished dead-raisers in the world, would have mentioned they used Eggs if they indeed did so), but by the dead they raise to grant permission for use of their bodies. Zandar-Roh was slain in the Spear Purge of the Kiranin Crusade, and the zombie made from his flesh did little to continue the argument. The Talamari god of death Tohb is universally depicted as male. The Dead Wood language, however, does not distinguish between masculine and feminine. Orthodox Tohbists usually portray Tohb as beyond gender. This fact does not stop them from having some of the most violently patriarchal households in the world. It is obvious that "cavern" in this instance should be translated as "egg" but apparently arguing so should leave a University Sorcery Master with heaps of hate mail. So, by the grace of the Holy and Light Queen Chamorak who definitely didn't invade the Dead Wood first, let's just say it's "cavern."
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Feb 21, 2023 22:44
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The City- mid - Staggy This deliberately click-baity story is, in essence, a board of tourism advertisement for a post-apocalyptic City. It’s underlying purpose seems to be not just encouraging tourism, but entrapping people as workers. There’s a nice mix between the language of advertising and the ominous language of doomed propaganda. I think that you could have started earlier and gone harder on the undercurrent of doomed city collecting laborers that becomes evident at the end. I liked the road hermetics and their stylites - good use of prompt, good use of obscure 9th century saint pillars. The Mill of Policy - high - HM - Chernobyl Princess This story grew on me over the course of the day after I read it. Gonzo surreal worldbuilding about a piece of municipal architecture. Loved it, and how the story used that entry point to spin into details about the greater world. The writing felt like a good mix of scholar who is really into their work and oral-tradition-style homeric storytelling. I liked the repetition and rhythm of the sentences, how they built a pattern and used it to shift focus.The plot was a little inconsistent, saying the invasions of the sun war did not continue but then going on to say that the solar war continued. I think it could have benefitted from a slightly tighter focus, the whole thing was just a tiny bit too scattered. The sunbirds turn felt like it came out of nowhere, which I think you could shore up just by going into more depth about what they are and why they guard the sun. Really get into the weeds, you've earned it. The Pillars of Transfiguration - DM - Idle Amalgam So you let me down in two ways with this story. One, you didn’t make a guidebook, as was our covenant. Two, and more helpfully, the first two thirds are really boring. However, what kept you from losing, even with these, was that the last third loving whips. You’ve got a great conceit, you’re using the surreality of the setting in a way that’s interesting, you have a dog howling into a microphone to criticize a guy until he crushes himself into a writhing mass of possibility. You should start there and tell whatever rest of the story you have through these yelled criticisms. I would love to read that version of this story. Also tighten up your prose a bit, we never need to see an "as such" The Fish of A-Declercq Bay - High - My Shark Waifu This story is wonderful. I want to say that first and foremost. I really enjoyed reading it, I liked how you thought about how the locals interacted with these fish, I liked the thought you put into the biology and making it feel realistic. The reason this didn’t place was because it was just beat out in the category of High Strangeness, which is what I wanted to see most this week. I think you can go bigger and weirder and make it work just as well, if not better, than you have here. A Candleman’s Funeral - Winner - Thranguy I will never get tired of starting a story off with a fake quotation. This piece was everything I could ask from a guidebook - careful, rich detail, hints of history and a wider world, and a dash of humor, all wrapped inside some true Deep Weirdness. The perfect thing to make you stare into space and want to learn more. Sustainability - Mid-high - Dicere You took this prompt in an unexpected direction and for that I applaud you. The simplistic, boiled-down tone of a fifth grade worksheet is a very fun way to think about what would be focused-on, revealed and propagandized by this surreal society. You raise mor questions than you answer with throwaway lines like “The aluminum cans that housed most beverages in those days could only be used and thrown away.” Unfortunately, the same conceit of the piece that gives it such appeal also limits it in scope. I would have loved to see the high-school version of this text, with a deeper dive into the idea that you’re kicking around here. Stray thought:“Destroyed lingerie” is a real cellar door of a phrase. Vomit Priests - high - HM - Slightly Lions This wears its Dune Guy credentials proudly on its ink-stained lapel. From references to awareness-spectrum-narcotics to obscure church heirarchy to a conlang that makes just enough sense to sound semi-real, the roads worn into your brain are clearly trod. You brought a lot of yourself to this piece and took the prompt in a direction that was not wholly shown in the image. Your writing manages to paint a clear and baffling picture of strangeness while also making room for a clear personality to interact with that strangeness in the character of the translator. This is charming but at times lets you comment on your own prose in a way that lets you close a door rather than open and explore it. Your footnotography can let you delve into and play with a sidebar or related idea that doesn’t quite fit in the main text, as shown wonderfully in (2), but a footnote like (13) makes me feel like you the author are letting yourself off the hook for not having the time to develop an idea. Overall, I really dug this piece, you big giant nerd. Bird Brain - Loser - BeefSupreme BeefSupreme, you have a great ability here to form an authorial voice that draws from the Lovecraftian tradition. However, you’ve used that gift to tread the same ground that’s been trampled into dust. I felt like I had read this story before a hundred times. And for what? A meme that is already in it's death throes. I wanted to see high strangeness and fresh ideas this week and you’ve come to me with an admittedly well-crafted Mad Lib. It is clear you are capable of agile, active prose, but in using it this lazily you have folded with a focus and intensity normally seen only in success. Strange Cares fucked around with this message at 02:35 on Feb 22, 2023 |
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Mermaid Word Count: 1066 For the first time, I believed that mermaids existed. They just disguised themselves with two legs to appear humanlike. But she couldn’t fool me. No human could ever swim through the water like she did. When she swam, her tanned legs resembled fins. She looked to be about 25 at the latest. Her bobbed dark hair and large brown eyes would have made her the It Girl back in Hollywood.I couldn’t get close to her. She was a rich girl, hanging with crowds that smoked cigars and drank wines aged from a time when my daddy’s daddy wouldn’t even have been alive. Ol’ Uncle Sam may have banned drinking, but nobody cared in Florida, least of all the rich. Down here sun and sin were just one letter removed from each other. And I was little more than a pawn in a suit at 21, delivering food to peoples' rooms at the Biltmore. I also worked as a towel boy at the Venetian Pool. It allowed me to live close to the action at least. Every time I worked at the pool I would see if I could catch her eye. Her slim figure and small breasts made her black bathing suit cling to her body. One time I could swear she looked right at me but she was probably staring at the people lining up for the high dive. But as luck would have it, I delivered to her room one day. She had ordered something simple for a rich girl. An assortment of cheese and a bottle of wine dating back to 1888. “Room service!” I called out, knocking on the door. She answered it wearing a gray pajama ensemble that came down to her knees. “Thanks so much! May I tip you?” Her smile was surprisingly bubbly like a schoolgirl’s own. “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” My fingers ran through my dark hair nervously. “Jack, ma’am.” “Please, I’m not a ma’am, I’m a maiden.” A chorus of high-pitched giggles burst forth from the room. “See, the girls agree with me!” She slid a few dollar bills onto my tray along with a note. “I’m no piker. Buy yourself something nice.” She closed the door and my heart thudded in my chest. I read the note in my trembling hands. I saw you looking at me in the pool ~ Olive. A few days later, I saw her at the pool again. She lay there sunning herself when she called me over. “What did you buy?” She chirped. “Just some items.” I murmured. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the tip she gave me went straight to my sick little sister back home. “A man ought to look his best. ‘Course that’s what my Daddy tells me. He’s off having his bull session. Probably gambling away his dimes right now.” She turned over on her side, a flash of irritation briefly crossing her face. “All I have to do is sit and look like Clara Bow. He likes ‘em like that. All doe-eyed with wonder. At least I get to wear fancy clothes and see the sights.” “A-Anyway do you need anything?” “I might go swimming later. I’ll find you if you are around.” She beckoned me closer and whispered. “ I need someone to keep an eye on Daddy. He sometimes treats me mean. We’ll be at a show in the hotel.” The evening was a rather warm one by Florida standards. I worked away at the hotel cleaning and nodding at the guests as they walked by. Suddenly, there in a green flapper dress was my mermaid. She gave me a smile and nod while holding on to the arm of a much older gentleman dressed in a suit and monocle that probably cost more than two years rent put together. I took a deep breath and silently followed them, keeping a low profile. The crowd would swallow up any ordinary person but not me. I knew every nook and cranny of this place. Couldn’t do my job without it. The two of them disappeared into the Granada ballroom and I resumed my cleaning. They seemed fine at first glance, but what did this man do to her behind closed doors? My mind swirled with thoughts as I worked. When the show ended I followed them again. I knew their room number thanks to Olive’s room service order. They laughed and talked as I carefully trailed behind them. How could such a beast treat a girl like that so roughly? The days passed on with me following Olive and Daddy around like a shadow. It wasn’t long before I began to dream about her. I could see her smile as she smiled only for me, showing off the dimples on her face. Love truly bloomed in my heart making me as giddy as a schoolboy. Olive. My love. Those words were Cupid firing his arrow into my psyche. “We’re leaving tomorrow.” Olive said to me one day as she toweled off. “Daddy has to go back to New York for business.” She put on a slightly exaggerated pout. “I hate the cold.” Just then, a flirtatious smirk appeared on her face. “I might order some room service tonight. Can you come?” “I-I’ll see what I can do.” I showed up at their room later that night with a bottle of champagne that she ordered. She answered the door right away, this time dressed in a flirty dark red nightgown. “Come in!” Her voice had that cheery tone as she gave me a flirty wink. “Would you like to drink with me?” “I-I’m supposed to be on the job.” I began. Then I saw the bathroom light on. “Besides, isn’t your Daddy with you?” “Why don’t you go into the bathroom and freshen up?” She purred. “I know how much you’ve been looking at me.” She pushed me into the bathroom. Daddy’s body lay there in the bathtub with a knife in his chest. “You’ve been stalking me ever since I talked to you!” Olive pulled the straps of her nightgown off her slim shoulders. “Y-You told me to-” Olive put a finger to my lips. “If you really loved me you would keep quiet and nod your head.” She then burst out of the room screaming. Mermaids like her didn’t just attract men. They killed them.
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Feb 27, 2023 03:32
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A Tale of Two Guineas 1410 words “We pillage and plunder, we rifle and loot, drink up me hearties, yo-ho,” The Captain sings to himself as he walks his deck like a lion walks the savannah, unshakeable and unpretentious in his mastery. Twelve years the crew of the Zephyr have terrorized the South Seas and the Spanish Main, stealing silver, sugar, and slaves from Spaniards and Englishmen grown fat and lazy by abundance. The south wind fills her sails and sets the rigging to singing. The sun hangs overhead, round and golden like the guinea he twirls between his fingers. It’s going to be a beautiful day. The merchant galleon flounders to their port bow, struggling to keep the wind at its quarter, struggling to escape like a rat in a trap. The Zephyr has chased her for a day and a night; her captain is skillful and wise in the way of the sea, but it won’t be enough. She’s low in the water, loaded down with spoils bound for Portsmouth if her company colors can be trusted. The Captain tosses his lucky guinea in the air, catches it, slaps it to the back of his hand: heads. It’s been lovely, but it’s time to end the chase. His coin is never wrong. It’s been a constant companion since his mother gave it to him all those years ago, before she died, before his brother went to the counting house and he went to the sea. He nods to the bosun who bellows the orders that will bring the Zephyr about to rake the merchant-man. It doesn’t take long. After a quick volley from the port guns the merchant-man strikes her colors, reefs her sails, and comes about to be boarded. The Captain sees no reason to be uncivil about the whole operation. His men strip the cargo hold with practiced efficiency. She’s carrying cane sugar, rum, cotton cloth, and coffee, which they take, and a tonne of rice, which they leave. Sailors have to eat, and the Captain is not an unkind man. The Zephyr pulls away from the stricken ship, low in the water herself now, and sets a course for Nassau. She needs a refit and a scraping before the shipworm and barnacles eat clean through her keel. Her cargo will keep them sailing for the foreseeable future, and what more could a captain ask for? It was all going so well, and then the wind changed. The guinea flashes in the sun as the captain tosses it: tails. He curses and calls for lookouts at all quarters. It isn’t long before they find what they’re looking for. Two cutters, heavy sailed and up-gunned, flying Company colors. A bad sign, that. When plundering Company ships the Navy can be surprisingly open to bribery. The Company itself takes a harsher view. The gun cutters are riding high and fast, tacking about to pincer the pirate ship. The Zephyr, loaded with her ill-gotten spoils, can’t outrun them. The Captain will have to fight. He hates doing that. He orders the Zephyr to come about hard a-lee. If he can kill her speed and come back to port he can put the starboard ship to his port, fill her with shot, and be away before her sister ship can come to bear. It almost works. They slide around the heavier ship like water on a greased pan and the port guns sing a terrible tattoo. For a brief and blessed moment the cutter begins to fall away and the Zephyr comes around on a beam. The Captain feels the cracking before he hears it. The hull begins to creak and split under the stress of the hard turn. Maintenance long deferred will always present its bill at the most inconvenient moments. They come out of the turn and put the wind to port, but the cutters have swung into position. As the cannonades come down on his ship, the Captain knows it’s over. He gestures at the bosun. They haul down the black flag. The Zephyr is captured. It’s a miserable morning in London. The Judge’s robes cling to him in the cold damp and the weight of his wig makes his neck ache. The majesty of the Law is a terrible burden, if not quite so heavy as the regard of Lord Berkeley. The infamous Captain of the Zephyr is on his docket for the day and the First Lord of the Admiralty of Great Britain has some very particular views of how the case should be handled. The Zephyr spent a decade embarrassing the Navy and His Majesty’s Government up and down the South Seas, and an embarrassment to His Majesty’s Government is an embarrassment to the national debt and His Lordship is leveraged to the hilt in government debt. An example must be made, a display of monarchic power to remind the people, and more importantly the City, of Britain’s power. The problem is that the Captain of the Zephyr is popular, a hero of London’s broadsheets, a nautical Robin Hood, and Lord Berkeley, the Navy, and His Majesty’s Government, are not. The Judge has seen the crowds gathering around the Bailey, heard the street cryers’ harraunging. He’s been forty years before the Law, man and boy, and he knows the makings of riot when he sees one. This will require tact. A public confession, full of contrition and submission to the power of the state, that might be enough to assuage the crowd. But the Captain is a proud man, he’s made a living of scoffing at the law and calling no man master. But the Judge is wise in his trade. He knows the ways of men, and knows that there are always levers. He pulls the stack of broadsheets across his desk and begins to read. The sun is hanging low at Execution Dock. It’s the last hanging of the day, and the day has been a long one. The Captain stands before the noose and gives his final words. “I betrayed my king and country. I robbed, I cheated, I killed, and abetted the crimes of other men. I repent my deeds and abase myself before the law, not in hopes of absolution, but in genuine contrition. People of England, I implore you not to follow in my path. Cleave to the law and the king so that you won’t end here on the gallows like me.” The words taste like ash in his mouth, but at least he won’t have to live with them long. And the crew will be safe. They’ll be bound for penal servitude in the colonies, but they’ll live. He holds hard to that thought as the trapdoor snaps open. A single golden guinea rolls across the gallows. The Company Factor hums to himself as he walks away from Execution Dock. It was a good hanging, very emotional, well choreographed. The Factor’s learned to appreciate such things. And it’s going to make the Company, and him, a great deal of money. The Company has quietly been buying government debt at discounted prices as the news of naval humiliation rolled in from the Spanish Main. Now that the Zephyr’s been caught and her captain executed its value will balloon, and government debt backs Company stock prices. It took the Factor a lot of work to set up a trap half a world away, to leak news to the broadsheets, to feed intel to the pirates at Nassau. A delicate balancing act, but one that will all be worth it when the money rolls in. He twirls a golden guinea between his fingers as he mentally calculates share prices. He came from nothing to reach his position, apprenticed to a counting house when his mother died and his brother went to sea, he clawed his way up the Company ladder. Intelligent, ruthless, and sentimental as a snake, Sir Blunt had personally selected him for the scheme. He flips the guinea into the air and expertly catches it: heads. He smiles. It’s going to be a beautiful night. A beggar on Fleet Street comes out of his doze to find himself deprived of his bottle of rotgut rum, but richer a shiny half crown. The Factor fingers flash with his spinning gold coin. The rum tastes like fire and victory. He sings to himself, “We’ll maraud and embezzle and even hijack, drink up me hearties yo-ho.” There are many kinds of pirate.
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Feb 27, 2023 04:10
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Chinook Run (archived) Pham Nuwen fucked around with this message at 22:40 on Mar 21, 2023 |
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Feb 27, 2023 04:25
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Seance 1948 words I was all painted up and waiting to hop out of the wardrobe. We’d convinced a coterie of dopes from uptown to come down and ask the spirits about the Summerlands and damned if we were going to leave money on the table. I’d been practicing my voice of the fallen soldier and I’d finally refined the wistful note that spoke of flowers cut down on the fields of battle. I’d defy any dame or gent who lost a son or brother on the field to keep their eyes dry for longer than a New York Minute. We were going to make so much money Joe had been eating gauze soaked in glue all day, so his gulleywork was loaded full of ectoplasm and ready to go. He’d been a circus geek, years ago, back before vaudeville’s wooden stage had come roaring into the scene and he’d gotten edged out by dandies in straw hats singing comic songs about getting lost on a boat or kissing the wrong lady. Sometimes when he was practicing his regurgitations with his peeled potato on a string I'd ask him about what it had been like and he’d get real quiet for a while and say something wistful like, “It wasn’t all vomiting on command and biting the heads off of chickens. You had to tell a story too.” Then he’d shake his head and hold up a hand, like it hurt him to think about. One time I walked in on him when he thought he was alone and I’d caught him looking at an old photo of a lady in a veil, but when he saw me he’d folded it up real quick and swallowed it before I could get a good look. Later he’d deny he’d ever had a photo. I didn’t push it. Everyone has their secrets. I’d gotten into the business myself after finding that it paid much better than failing to break into theatre. After a string of poorly-sold performances of Cyrano de Bergerac, I’d been drowning my long false nose of sorrows at a speakeasy, where I’d met Sally and Joe. As it turns out, they were fans of my work, and while they didn’t think the stage held a future for me, they had some thoughts about where I might apply my talents a bit more fruitfully. Anyway, like I said, I was huddling in the wardrobe like a frenchman in a farce, if frenchmen habitually covered their faces with phosphorescent paint. Which perhaps they did, I’ve never been to France, and you can’t trust a farce to give you an accurate picture of how life is lived. There had to be differences, I reasoned, otherwise no-one would get a lick of work done between cuckoldings. I heard the sitters start to file in, the usual pre-seance chatter filling the air. Who have you lost, do you think the summerlands have pool tables, my goodness the spread was fine. I kept an ear cocked. We’d already gotten a pretty good casing done of this lot, so we had a plan in place for what to bring up, but it never hurt to grab every last detail you could. The easiest ones were on the suckers list. They’d been to one of our seances before, or to one held by some other medium willing to part with their details for a few pennies. They were the easy ones. They kept coming back to hear that poor departed Richard was still doing well, or to hear the latest on Zoe’s post-mortem second marriage. Easy money. Slightly trickier was the new blood, but usually they’d come with someone who knew us, or they’d tell our medium Sally who they were trying to contact. She’d give them her patented Brave Little Smile and say that she’d do her best, but that the ether wasn’t always obliging. You had to play them with a softer touch. Give them too much and they’d know they were being played. Give them too little and they’d figure it was all hooey. You had to tantalize them with a little taste, get them hooked and coming back over and over, trying to “strengthen the bonds between the worlds.” By the time they hit their third or fourth spookshow, they’d have humbugged themselves so thoroughly we could jump around in a big mask with a flashlight and they’d tell themselves it was Aunt Josephina doing the Can-Can. This time we’d set up a real song-and-dance. I’d even made myself swallow some ectoplasm just in case we needed an especially gruesome apparition. There was a good crop here, some old believers, some well on their way into our pockets, and a few newcomers we had a good line on. There were even a couple of folks who we hadn’t invited, seems they heard about the seance and wanted to know more. One of them was a little old man with a stoop and a squint who practically had vanished behind his gorsebrush beard. I kept a close watch on him through the little peephole in the wardrobe. I bet an old geezer like him had pots of money sacked away, and he’d give it all just to hear his wife’s voice one last time. If I could catch the details he’d be easy money. He pottered around the room, peering here and there, I figured he was searching for a place to sit, and sure enough he tipped on down right in the chair in front of me. Jackpot. Joe was pretending to be one of the punters, all dolled up in a coat and hat with his little cane he’d found on the riverbank. He was looking a little bloated - I guess he’d really chowed down on that ectoplasm today to make sure he could bucket it up and good when Sally gave the word. He saw the old geezer, same as I did and he came on by to chat him up, see what he could work outta the guy. What a pro. In a wink he’d got the guy’s life story. I’d been right, he was almost the perfect little old man. He was a widower, no children to speak of, wanting to talk to his wife after a long boring life working down at the bank. His voice even sounded like a music house parody of an oldster, cracked and quavering. I didn’t think people really sounded like that. Just goes to show you, you learn something new every day in this business. We couldn’t get much more than that before Sally swanned in in her robe, her eyes half closed as she muttered about the spirits pressing in close. Joe gave her the wink and she came over to speak with the little old man, telling him she felt a presence around him, someone close, someone who missed him. She circled everyone up, making sure Joe was right next to her and the gorsebrush beard next to him. Pretty soon she’d cut the lights and put on a record to “sooth your minds into an appropriately receptive state,” and made sure everyone was holding hands so they wouldn’t look around too much. At first, everything went like clockwork. Sally summoned up her spirit guide, twisting up her face and talking in a low rasp, like how she thought a high priest of Ra would sound. A few of the easier marks gasped like fish at this one. Then she started rapping and tapping and tipping the table, slipping her feet out of her shoes under cover of darkness to lever it about. Her spirit guide started moaning about presences in the near world, presences across the veil, and that there was one here who wished to speak. I heard the old fogey quaver in that perfect old man register of his that he thought it might be him, and Sally let him have it. A presence, she said, was here. They couldn’t make it through, but they missed him. Could she tell their name, the old man asked? Could she see who it was? And Sally said, yes, it was his wife. She said Bess was happy, and missed him, and was waiting for him. And that’s where it all went wrong. The little old guy jumped up and his voice, which had been so cracked and quavering, blasted the room. “By Jupiter I’d bet she’s waiting, I just saw her at home an hour ago!” Then he grabbed his beard and his glasses and whipped them off and stood up straight. I forgot myself and let out a gasp as I recognized his face from posters. “Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Harry Houdini, and you have all been lead astray! This woman is no more in contact with ghosts than I am!” And then he got up and dashed over to my wardrobe and grabbed the door. I tried to stop him, but wardrobes aren’t meant to be held closed from inside. In a second he’d tipped me out onto the floor, as I tried to cover my glowing face with both hands. By this time someone found the lightswitch and the bulbs snapped on. There was a circle of people standing around me, and as soon as their brains caught up with their guts, I knew I was in for it. I felt a grip close around my shoulders as his Houdini hands pulled me up and shook me around. “You see? The ghosts they have shown you are no more than a fool in facepaint! I hope you’ve enjoyed the show these charlatans have put on!” Joe had been standing there, eyebrows touching his hairline, trying to plot a course of action. He saw how my teeth were rattling and bless him, the old carnie spirit rose up and took hold. He vaulted across the table, murder in his eyes. Houdini must have seen something in my face, because he spun around and met Joe’s solar plexus with his fist. Houdini withdrew his hand and stepped away, smoothing down his collar. I did my best to catch Joe as he fell forward. His face was a shade I’d never seen it turn before, and I saw his gorge loosen. He raised his hands to his mouth, desperately trying to hold it in, but it was no use. Soon he was bucketing up ectoplasm all over me, which, I regret to say, caused me to bucket up ectoplasm, and then the suckers, caught as they were in the moment of the display, started bucketing up for real. It was a somewhat cold comfort to know that Houdini had not planned for this, as Sally, who had always had an eye for timing, used this moment to break for the door. She would have made it too, but it was at this moment that the police arrived. And if she had not slipped upon what had become a very slick floor. The whole business rather put the kibosh on our enterprise. It’s hard to rally sitters for a seance by a medium whose vomit-soaked countenance had been plastered across the front page of the Times. Well, page three. There had been a particularly juicy accident at the horse race that day that stole our headline. I still see Joe sometimes. He works sweeping up at a slaughterhouse. They need someone there with a good gag reflex. As for myself, well. It turns out that a director had seen that I was an out-of-work actor, and wanted to get a bit of cheap publicity. Come by next month, you can see me performing in Hamlet. I play the ghost.
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Feb 27, 2023 04:50
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Baudry's Bandits 1980 words Etienne fussed with his overlong sleeves, struggling to pull them so they looked better fit. He placed his hand on the watch in his pocket, squeezing his fingers around the back and counting the ticks. Two minutes passed, then three. Traffic on Rue Gambetta swelled and ebbed as the city of Nantes pulsed into its busiest hour. Etienne spread his copy of Le Precurseur on the table in front of him and even read a few articles. Across the street, his sister leaned against a fencepost, deep in conversation with a woman in a gold dress covered in rose prints. Anne had begged him to be able to leave her spot at the table, insisting the plan would go better if she were by the garden. Etienne was too nervous to risk an argument this close to the mark. Another minute. Laurent and Charles exited the apartment across the street in their workmen’s outfits. Laurent carried a rake and shovel under each arm and a canvas bag over his shoulder, while Charles began setting up the wooden blockade. Etienne watched his sister, deep in conversation with a woman in a gold dress covered in rose prints. For a moment, he felt as if the entire plan was a dream only he remembered, and that everyone, Anne, Laurent, Charles, Nicolas on his balcony and Guillame in the alley, had all forgotten. Then Anne opened her parasol, twirling it twice clockwise overhead, where Nicolas could see. Moments passed and the White Ladies sailed into view. It was hard to believe it was a single vehicle: three compartments, each gleaming white and gold, and as many horses, trotting stupidly through the street. Gold engravings of noblewomen and soldiers shone. All but one of the five windows on this side had their curtains drawn, and the only unobscured one simply showed him the back of some man’s coat. He would be one of the sixteen passengers aboard, eight to a side. The driver was arguing loudly with Laurent, as Charles wordlessly struck and smoothed out the road. Etienne could hear snatches of the conversation, especially as the conductor stood and cried: “I must get to Richebourg before 2:00 o’clock! And I won’t be stopped!” There was movement inside the coach. Stanislas Baudry had once been a soldier of the Empire, but that was some time ago. The Hundred Days were nearly 11 years gone now and Baudry had become a miserable entrepreneur, running first a mill, then a bathhouse, and now his own line of transport. He’d christened his coaches “Les Dames Blanches,” but everyone called them “omnibuses,” a vehicle for the people, stopping upon request. To hear some passengers tell it, this was a true populist marvel, like a coffee house on wheels. There were wild claims of wagons the size of houses, complete with beds and kitchens, or armed with heavy cannons. Perhaps even churches could be made to move. Etienne felt the second hand in his pocket complete another circuit. The driver had finished yelling at Laurent and was marshaling the horses to his right. As they’d anticipated, the coach thundered past the cafe Etienene was sitting in toward the end of Rue Gambetta –and the trenches Laurent had dug just an hour before. These were specially placed so as not to disturb the regular coaches passing through. Two for the feet of the middle horse, one for the right, and one for the left, each hole just about the size of a fist. Etienne watched as they tripped, one after another, stumbling in their harnesses, the driver screaming for control. The next time he saw the omnibus, it was in the alley. Guillame was on top of the coach with a pistol under the driver’s chin and his free hand holding the reins. Etienne and Nicolas worked quickly, binding and gagging the men inside, then stripping the driver of his coat.and hat and shoving him inside as well. The entire affair was over in minutes, and they commenced the ride northwest out of Nantes in silence, he and Nicolas seated along the wall opposite the carriage door, with one passenger and the driver forced in the cramped aisle between them. About two hours from the city, Guillame drove the omnibus off into the forest as planned. With precision, Nicolas pulled two of the men out of the door, bringing them off the carriage and taking their coats and wallets. He returned and the coach drove on, stopping every few miles to discharge two more, until at last just the driver was left. They gave him 20 francs and told him to head east to Le Cellier. Then, just the three of them continued further into the forest, following the scars Etienne had left on the trees when he was there the day before, until they reached the cabin, where they tied the horses and rested for the night. The next day, the real work began. — Etienne took to chiseling off the gaudy figures and crests of the carriage first, which they then smoothed over with the first coat of paint. The entire coach was to be red, something they had debated for weeks prior. On the roof, they planted banners of all colors: red, yes, but green, and yellow as well, along with the blue and white of the tricolor. “They’re going to think we’re a wagon full of jugglers,” said Guillame, chuckling. “They can think what they like,” Nicolas said. “We’ll turn no one away. It will be a true omnibus.” Until now, that name had felt like a sickening false promise. What people could afford the fare per trip? Who was really meant to? Not the poor, not the injured, not the recently evicted. It was a false equality, a carriage for blandly liberal middle class men who could claim their closeness to their peers without much discomfort And, as Anne had pointed out, this supposed egalitarian miracle only allowed men onboard, though several women had ridden in disguise, she being one of them. In her white trousers, blue coat, and top hat, she’d done the trip from Bouffay to the bathhouse, departing quickly to avoid awkward questions. In truth, the job had been Anne’s idea, though Etienne had suggested it to Nicolas, and she had let him claim the credit without argument. The two siblings had spent five hungry, pragmatic years together before winning Nicolas’ favor by cutting purses and the occasional throat. And all of them were united in the vision. As Guillame kept guard and Nicolas added cushions to the interior, Etienne wrote slogans from Robespierre and Marat in dark red around the edges of the windows and drew flowers and open hands extending from clouds. They brought out four flat trunks and bolted them into the spaces underneath the seats. Inside one of them they placed a small box containing laudanum, lavender oil, powdered tobacco, and other cures and necessities. Another was for food and wine, a third for guns and powder in case of trouble. The fourth trunk contained oil for the lamps (carefully kept separate from the flammable material in the opposing trunk) as well as a spyglass, parchment, pens, and string. There was also a shallow compartment containing a few different maps of France, as well as some popular broadsides and reference pamphlets for Italian, German, Spanish, Swiss, and English. They added a small rope-pull to each corner of the coach’s interior and connected them to a corresponding bell inside a glass case on the roof, so anyone could signal the driver to stop at any time. At Etienne’s insistence, they added a touch seen only in more modern carriages royals: windows that could be opened from the inside for fresh air. Nicolas had been concerned this would lead to mischief and accidents, objects thrown out or dropped. Anne had countered that it would be better for people to have a clear exit point in case of travel sickness. The final refurbishments were more technical. They added leather straps to the steps below the driver’s seat, so Guillame could keep his balance while in motion. The axle was adjusted for freer movement, and the wheels girded to overcome rougher terrain. Guillame also refused a whip for the horses, so they gave him a brass horn to blow instead if he ever needed to startle them into movement. By dusk, this Dame Blanche was no more. The only interruption came about an hour after that, in the blue of twilight, when four soldiers had approached the clearing, rifles drawn. Etienne was standing behind the newly armored rear wheels, and Guillame had been the only one fast enough to reach for his pistols, which he placed back in his belt when he saw Nicolas raise his hands. Etienne followed. He watched the Sergeant growl orders to his men, scratching cheek. He was still watching when the bullet fired from the trees and smashed into the Sergeant’s head. The other men hesitated as the Sergeant slumped to the ground. It was enough time for Guillame to fire back, downing first one man, then a second. The final soldier fled to the woods and collapsed right on the edge of Etienne’s field of vision. Anne approached the cabin, cleaning her knife with a white cloth. She was in her man’s disguise again, though without her hat, letting her hair stir in the wind. Behind her were Laurent and Charles, having changed their workmans outfits for simple suits better fit for traveling “We’ve tied my horse across the road,” she said. “You’re lucky we made it here in time.” “She does not lie,” Guillame said. He brought a lantern from the safe house and went with Laurent and Charles to recover the horses. “How were the magnolias?” Etienne asked her. — Nicollette collapsed in the grass besides the road, exhausted from running. She lay on her side for a while, hoping that the tall yellow blades would hide her. There was something calming about the smell. She’d made it quite far on foot, farther than she’d thought she could. But she’d only had time to pack a little bread and cheese and a flask of water, barely enough to last her a day. They would be angry at her for running. She was supposed to belong to the mill now. The other girls there all had the same gray faces but did their chores and accepted their meager wages. It was just Nicollette who was the problem. You would think her escape would fix things. From her spot in the dirt, she heard clopping hooves slow to silence. How had she missed them? They must have followed her from the start, maybe hanging back just out of sight so she wouldn’t see them. But she had run nearly without stopping, to the point where any pursuer would be a blur. She considered closing her eyes and clasping her hands in a sort of dying prayer. Then she saw another hand, the gloved hand of a woman leaning out of a large red coach. It wasn’t anything she’d seen at the mill. “Come,” the woman had said, gently, and Nicollette had boarded without argument. Inside the coach were about ten others, including a few roughly dressed men and women and one boy a little younger than her. They handed her a basket full of grapes, cured ham, and mushrooms. While she was eating, the woman who’d pulled her into the coach turned to look at her. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “No,” said Nicollette. “But where are we going?” The woman nodded at a man sitting across from them. He had long sideburns and the beginnings of a rough beard, and the jacket he wore looked a little too big for him. He smiled at them. “You tell us,” the woman said, “and then we’ll stop.”
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Feb 27, 2023 04:54
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Knowing Your Place 2020 words removed rohan fucked around with this message at 12:10 on Jan 6, 2024 |
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Feb 27, 2023 10:22
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Jewels in the Dark (1584 words) Nico had always been self-conscious of his accent. He never talked much, if he could help it. He was good at what he did though, and that was enough. The boys could overlook his more reticent nature. “You good, Nico?” Gabriella nodded, quietly grateful. She couldn’t have copied his voice if she tried. Casper smiled. He struck a match. He always kept a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Like her he wore a flat cap, though he sported a small mustache. He twirled the cigarette between his fingers. Murdock’s nostrils flared. “If you wouldn’t,” he commanded. Casper regarded the somber giant, sunken eyed with a bristling beard. “It’s your world boss.” He offered a salute. He snuffed out the match between his thumb and forefinger. Gabriella had seen her brother try it many times. He’d always said it hurt. So this was where he’d learned it. “Here,” said Casper. He tossed her the cigarette. “When all’s said and done, yeah?” He touched the brim of his cap. Gabriella caught the cigarette, cupped between her hands. She was wearing her brother’s gloves. She pocketed it for later. She carried with her the tools of their trade: a well-kept set of lockpicks, and their father’s service pistol. He’d given it to Nico before he’d passed away. Now it was hers, though Casper couldn’t know it. Murdock loomed above them both, his hands behind his back. “Let us be off,” he said at last, the shadows harsh against his face. “Alright fellas.” Casper chuckled. “Let’s mosey.” Gabriella followed, brow furrowed, the collar of her brother’s coat turned up against the wind. She felt her fingers close around the pistol in her pocket. Their backs were to her. She could do it right now. She remembered her twin brother, bleeding on the couch. She’d held his hand then. She relaxed her grip on the gun. She couldn’t let them die in ignorance. She wanted them to see her when she took it all away. They emerged from the alleyway into the light, the electric illusion of a still-living city. The rain had ceased but the puddles remained, their shadow depths reflecting the length of the night. Tall men in long coats roamed the vacant streets. Their hands were in their pockets. Their business was their own. Gabriella did her best to match Nico’s gait. Not that these strangers concerned her, but she’d rather be prepared. What if they turned around? The darkness had proven a capable ally, but a single street lamp might expose her to closer scrutiny. She’d borrowed his hat and coat once for the purpose of a stroll. She’d felt oddly powerful then. She’d wondered, briefly, if she wouldn’t again. She and Casper both were forced to take large steps. Murdock pressed onward, and the world with him. The city museum sat across the street from the train station. Compact yet ostentatious, a modern gothic palace. The lone heir of some long-dead philanthropist, whose art collection sprawled along its maze-like, carpeted innards. The three of them slunk around the back, nearly rounding the corner. Murdock held his hand up. The other two stood still. A lone guard stood vigil, his raincoat slick and shimmering. He stifled a sudden yawn. Murdock stepped towards him. Gabriella would not have thought a man of Murdock’s size and profile could walk so quietly, so quickly. At once he was upon him. The guard reached for his flashlight. He should’ve reached for a weapon. It would be incorrect to say that Murdock was unarmed. With powerful hands he grappled the guard. The man himself was a threat. There was a struggle, a crack, and the guard fell limp. Murdock hoisted him over his shoulder. Casper clapped Gabriella on the back. “You’re up, kid.” She steeled herself and approached. They’d been locksmiths in the old country, and locksmiths they’d remained. She crouched down at the door, fumbling for her tools. Back here the darkness was once again her friend, but the murder she’d just witnessed was churning in her mind. She’d had to bite her lip not to cry out in surprise. Her hands knew their work, but her heart was racing faster. There was a shudder, a click, and the door swung open. “That’s our boy.” Casper strolled into the room. Gabriella stood up, and followed after Casper. Murdock was the last to enter. Closing the door behind him, he laid the guard in the corner. Casper pulled out a map. “Light.” He snapped his fingers. Murdock took the flashlight from the guard and turned it on. He held it out to Gabriella, who took it without looking. He didn’t let go. She turned involuntarily, caught in his sunken gaze. Illuminated before him, his brow began to furrow. At last he released her. His eyes glimmered in the dark. Flashlight in hand, Casper unfolded the map on the floor of the backroom. “Right,” he said, a toothy grin drawn wide across his face. “The jewels should be here.” He pointed to a room on the third floor of the complex. “One guard making the rounds.” He glanced in Murdock’s direction. Murdock wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Gabriella. “How many locks?” he asked without blinking. “One more door,” said Casper, “And the jewel case, I suppose.” Murdock said nothing. He continued to watch Gabriella. She touched the brim of her cap. Casper crumpled up the map. “Onward and upward.” He smiled. He sprung to his feet and made for the door. Gabriella was close behind. The three of them crept along the carpet, careful to avoid the cold marble floors, surrounded on all sides by the labyrinth of art. Naked chiseled bodies writhed in the dark, the knowing sneer of paintings greeting the beam of the flashlight. Two flights of stairs soon brought them to the next door. Gabriella crouched down. She held her breath as she worked. “One more down,” said Casper as the second door clicked open. “One more to go,” said Murdock right behind her. The jewel display glittered as the flashlight shone upon it. Gabriella bit her lip. Even a small handful might set one up for life. Beckoned forth by Casper, she worked to steady her breathing. Murdock hung back. He was watching for the guard. “You got this kid?” Gabriella hesitated. She shut her eyes, and nodded. “Heh. Just checking. You just seemed nervous, is all.” The third and final click signaled her part was over. She straightened up her posture, thrusting her hands back into her pockets. Casper clapped her on the shoulder, a quiet cackle of glee. His fingers gripped her tightly, his eyes wide with greed. “That’s my boy, that’s my boy.” He ruffled her hair through her cap. Gabriella slipped back from his playful embrace. Casper was busy cleaning out the case. Her hand once again fell upon her father’s pistol. She glanced toward the door. She opened her mouth. “Nico,” whispered Murdock. “A moment, if you would.” Gabriella froze up. The words she’d rehearsed vanished from her brain. She turned to face Murdock. He beckoned her outside. She approached him cautiously, her finger on the trigger. He followed her movements with cold, dark eyes. He gently shut the door behind her as she left. “You have pretty eyes,” he said. His voice was quiet, stern. She understood instinctively it wasn’t a compliment. She licked her lips and trembled. She craned her neck to face him. Murdock pinched the brim of her cap and lifted it off her head. She’d cut her hair short, like her brother. She’d done the best she could. “Who are you?” He asked. She pulled the trigger. The shot pierced the silence of those yawning, somber halls. Gabriella felt the kickback of the pistol against her thigh. Eyes wide, gasping, she tumbled to the ground. Murdock toppled backwards, a hole through his jaw burrowing out the back of his head. Gabriella heard footsteps. She scrambled to her feet as best she could, her leg beset by invasive pain. She turned around just in time to see the guard arrive. The second gunshot echoed in the gloom. A piercing sensation was worming through her stomach. The third shot was accompanied by the shattering of glass. Casper fired through the door. She and the guard toppled. “Nico!” Casper cried out, wrought with sudden confusion. “What the…what the gently caress? Murdock? What happened? What the poo poo is this?” “Nico,” Gabriella said. It burned her just to speak. Casper’s expression began to dim as he listened to her voice. “The gently caress are you supposed to be?” He trained his gun on her. Gabriella grit her teeth. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She needed him to know. “Nico’s dead,” she said. She was forcing every syllable. “You pulled him down…into this life. He was running…” She spat, her words paid for in blood. At last comprehension seemed to dawn in Casper’s eyes. He lowered his gun. “You’re not- To Hell with it. She fired. The fourth and final gunshot ripped through Casper’s chest. Blown off his feet, he toppled to the ground. The bag of jewels he carried split on impact with the ground, scattering the gemstones all across the floor. Gabriella shut her eyes. It hurt to think. It hurt to breath. Panting, wincing, she tossed the gun aside. Returning her hand to her pocket, she felt the cigarette. She had no means to light it. She put it to her lips.
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Feb 27, 2023 11:22
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Submissions closed
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Feb 27, 2023 12:33
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| # ? May 31, 2024 00:14 |
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Week 551 Judgement The panel was split fairly widely this week; nearly every story had its fans and detractors. But we managed to wrangle a consensus in the end. The week's loss goes to FlippinPageman's Baudry's Bandits, which had some serious technical issues and a story that doesn't really get going until the epilogue. No DMs, but HMs go to Strange Cares' Seance and Bad Seafood's Jewels in the Dark And the win goes to Rohan for Knowing Your Place! Welcome back to the blood throne!
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Feb 28, 2023 18:45
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