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I've seen the banner ads and the avatars, and this is the year I get in. Hit me with a bonus fact while you're at it.
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Jan 9, 2019 02:46
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| # ¿ May 19, 2024 17:46 |
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Prompt: The Antlion. The ant-lion is the enemy of the horse and poisonous unto it. The Lion's Den 996 words “It's the royal forest! Her ladyship'll hang you for a poacher, and I'll catch Hell from Ma.” The words of Peter's sister still rang in his ears as he dug through the dirt, seeking some trace of the buck's passing. Two hours had gone by since he had missed his shot on the open moor and chased his quarry past the boundary stones, yet all his search had turned up were pine needles and mulch leading in every direction. Leaning on his rifle, the boy cursed the cold that would only worsen as dusk wore on. His glum reverie was interrupted by a snort, and Peter glanced over to the family's old mare, Bess, who seemed no more impressed with his hunting skills. “Like you could do better,” he grumbled through his wool scarf, weighing the cost of returning home empty-handed. In the ensuing silence, the sound of running water caught Peter's ear. The pair passed through another glade, right to the edge of a clearing set around a pair of foothills. A narrow brook wound its way down one and around the other, while a small doe on the far bank lapped at the water where it fell from the highest stones. Peter tried to remain calm. He knelt, shouldered his weapon, and sighted down toward the doe. At that moment, the buck burst from the underbrush. He took up a position between the doe and Peter, who immediately re-sighted toward him. The animal held his gaze down the barrel of the gun, his whole body tensed. The brook burbled. The doe poked her head up from behind the intervening buck, peering toward the boy. Bess snorted. Peter lowered his rifle, sighing as he did so. “Forget it,” he muttered, turning back to his horse. “Come on, girl.” He took one step into the clearing and felt the ground give way under his boot. The whole patch of turf from the treeline to the hill collapsed, and man and beast rolled helplessly forward as a great cloud of dust plumed. They landed in a heap at the bottom of a dark tunnel. The horse was the first to regain her footing, lurching into the unknown. “Bess!” yelled Peter, fumbling around for his rifle. He gripped the weapon and stumbled after, following the sounds of terrified whinnying through rough-cut channels under the earth. The weak evening light was well behind him, but an eerie blue luminescence clung to the tunnel walls. There was an ear-splitting shriek, followed by the sound of something heavy falling. Peter surged ahead and around the next blind corner. He emerged in a wide, low chamber. The space was littered with bones and antlers, grisly trophies of a dozen feasts. At the far end, Bess lay on her side, breathing weakly, two neat puncture wounds in her torso. Peter scrambled over to her and laid a hand on the mare's flank. Her flesh was hot to the touch. “What...” The boy's confusion was answered by a low, alien hiss. Framed by the entrance to the chamber was a monstrous insect, almost as large as the stricken horse. It had six legs and polished chitin, but its head was twisted into a bestial shape that reminded Peter of a great cat. Wicked fangs dripped black oil onto the dirt, where it sizzled. Peter brought up his rifle and fired. Click. The bottom fell out of his stomach as he pulled the trigger again. Click click. Something rattled loose inside the barrel. The antlion lunged forward, all snapping mandibles. Peter backpedalled, bringing the rifle around in his hands to swing as a club. The wood of the stock caught in the jaws of the creature, blocking its maw for hardly a second before it bit clean through. “Ngh!” The jolt of his weapon breaking sent Peter reeling backward, tripping over a bone. The monstrous ant loomed over him, thrusting its hideous jaws forward. Peter managed just barely to fend off the attack with his boot, but the antlion bore down on him with its full weight. Peter groped blindly around for a weapon, but couldn't reach the belt knife pinned at his back. His fingers instead closed around a broken length of antler and, with speed born of desperation, he plunged the bone under the plate protecting the antlion's neck. It screeched, recoiling in pain with the horn tip trapped in its throat. The antlion thrashed in the enclosed space, toppling backward into a heap as its legs kicked and black ichor pumped across the floor of the tunnel. The death throes shook the chamber, splitting cracks in the roof that let starlight spill in. Peter scrambled away from the dying monster, watching as it gave one last cry and fell still. A pitiful whinny brought Peter back to his senses. He ran to his fallen horse and dropped to his knees. “I'm sorry, Bess,” he choked. “This's all my fault...” Bent double and sobbing, it took Peter a few moments to notice the soft white glow. The light pooled and spread across the ground. In the middle of the chamber, bathed in starlight, stood a serene white stag. Its horns were immense, defying the dimensions of the low tunnel. It gazed upon the awed boy, turning its attention to the wounded animal behind him. The great stag tilted its head down and rested one antler point against the bite. The gentle glow became a brilliant corona. *** Peter emerged from the mouth of the antlion's tunnel, leading Bess carefully by the reins. The horse's gait was wobbly, but sure enough to pick her way. He turned toward the brook, and there saw the buck lying passively at the water's edge. Behind him, Peter saw the outline of other deer shifting in the trees. He turned back to Bess. “C'mon. Ma's probably worried.” The pair set off toward the open moor, where the distant light of gas lamps flickered up into the night sky.
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Jan 12, 2019 06:04
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Thanks, Yoruichi! Your critique is right on, they're things I'll be paying attention to going into the next round for sure. Keen to see what the next prompt is!
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Jan 15, 2019 21:14
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Antivehicular posted:Okay, so, first things first: Sure, I'd love a crit as well!
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Jan 15, 2019 23:18
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to complete all my outstanding judge crits before submission deadline for week 337.
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I'm in, and I'm going to take the unfairly-maligned opening line, "Under Bob’s fez was another."
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Jan 16, 2019 03:50
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Prompt: Under Bob's fez was another. The Benefits of Wearing Many Hats 1000 words Under Bob's fez was another. A darker shade of red, narrower, yet somehow taller. “So!” boomed constable Gibbon, poking his truncheon accusingly in Bob's chest. “Fez smuggling, is it? That's a grave offence, Robert!” The patrolman had turned a darker shade of red himself, and was certainly both narrower and taller than the squat, middle-aged man he'd accused. His looming presence seemed to fill the whole alley with officious indignation. Bob raised his hands in protest, the first fez nervously squashed in one fist. “Honest sir, I've never seen that hat before in me life.” His eyes narrowing, Gibbon traced the tip of his club up and flicked the second fez from Bob's head, revealing a third. This one was green, and crooked oddly to one side. “Ah,” mumbled Bob. “Well, it's a fair cop, guv.” “Right!” Gibbon crowed. He grabbed Bob by the wrist and pirouetted him around, pinning one arm behind his back. “You've been warned before about shifting wares without paying her ladyship's taxes! It's down to the station-house with you this time.” “So who's paying for these chips, then?” chirped a small voice. Both men looked down at a wizened, bent figure in a smock, standing behind a small food cart. Two green arms thrust a parcel of old newspaper aloft that dripped grease. “I've got Bob's order right here. Fresh from the fat they are, too!” “Oh, right.” Craning his neck back toward Gibbon, Bob whispered, “I don't suppose you could spare a penny for old Skint here, could you?” “What?” “Do us a favour? I can't reach my billfold.” Bob gave a sheepish grin and flexed his pinned arm. Gibbon's brow furrowed as he processed the request. “Ah, of course.” He released Bob's arm and started patting his pockets. “I'm sure I had a few coins for – hey!” A flurry of fezzes followed Bob's flight down the alleyway. Gibbon bellowed, though Bob was far too focused keeping his footing on the slick cobbles to listen. He burst onto the city waterfront, which bustled at all hours with wagons, dockworkers, vendors, and a few of Bob's professional acquaintances plying their trade. These men melted into the crowd once Gibbon's distant roars cut through the night, leaving Bob to duck and weave his way down the docks. All seemed well, until a wrong turn ended in Bob colliding with a young hunter leading his horse, sending both man and boy crashing to the ground. Skittish, the horse reared up and brought a hoof down on Bob's head. Clang! His latest fez peeled away to reveal a crumpled metal safety-fez underneath. Porters swerved to avoid the sudden commotion, and soon traffic along the whole street became snarled as workers began debating the proper ordering of carts and horses. Bob staggered back to his feet, Gibbon's howling ringing in his ears. With the way ahead blocked, Bob turned toward a nearby tenement tower and made for a retracted fire escape. He lifted the metal fez (revealing a pretty periwinkle number underneath) and hurled it up at the release latch, which popped and dropped the ladder. He scrambled up toward the roof, wheezing all the while. Finding himself on top of the tenement, Bob reflected it wasn't that big of an improvement on the street, so far as escape options went. He hustled over to the far side, skidding to a halt so sudden he almost toppled over the edge. Three stories below lay nothing but the cobbled road and a hackney cab parked near the building's entrance. There was no way down, no ladder, no drain pipe, nothing but a frail wood awning extending a few feet into open air. Bob tested the awning with one foot and winced as they creaked. “Stop, in the name of the law!” barked Gibbon, pointing his truncheon with one hand and cradling a parcel of chips with the other. The big copper was panting almost as hard as Bob. “As you like, Gibsey.” Bob planted both feet firmly on the awning. The boards under his feet squealed once in protest before giving way, and Bob dropped like a stone, with only the fallen periwinkle fez marking his passing. Shocked, Gibbon ran to the edge of the roof and looked down, expecting to see a Bob-shaped splatter on the cobbles. Instead, he saw an impossibly large fez ballooning upward, as Bob escaped via makeshift parachute. Letting go, Bob dropped down on top of the hackney cab, crashing straight through the carriage's roof. The driver pulled on the reins and set his horses trotting down the street, leaving Gibbon to goggle in disbelief. “Punctual as always, Sir Robert,” said the other passenger of Bob's carriage, calmly brushing off dust and splinters. She was a young woman dressed in fine (if severe) attire, who waited patiently for her guest to finish righting himself on the opposite bench. Over her heart was the crest of a white hart on a red field. “Ah, yer ladyship!” Bob exclaimed, managing a seated bow and doffing the final fez – a velvet, bejewelled affair – from his head, revealing the bald crown below. “Yer humble servant, as requested.” She smiled, gesturing for him to be at ease. “And the delivery?” With a flourish, Bob reached his hand into the final fez – all the way down to the shoulder, seemingly rooting around. After a moment's effort, he smiled, and withdrew a small lockbox. “Also as requested.” He handed the lockbox to her ladyship, who retrieved a key from her sleeve and opened the container. Satisfied with the contents, she slipped both the lockbox and the key back up her sleeve. “Splendid work. Your payment will be left at the usual place.” The carriage rumbled to a halt, and Bob swung the door open to the pre-dawn gloom. “Do us a favour?” he asked, stepping out into another discrete alleyway. He popped his fez back onto his head. “Send a penny of it over to the station-house. It's owed to constable Gibbon.”
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Jan 19, 2019 17:33
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I wasn't going to comment since people don't usually reply to crits, but yeah, thanks for clarifying the critique about that line. I could recognize it was a bit weak on review but it didn't seem like passive voice to me. What would be a better rewrite of the sentence to fix the shifting subject? flerp's suggestion is "Peter heard his sister’s voice in his head as he dug through the dirt", though I liked the use of ringing and ears over heard and head to emphasize the I-Told-You-So tone. Would maybe "Peter's sister's voice still rang in his ears as he dug through the dirt" introduce Peter as the subject correctly? Edit: Oh, sorry, didn't know we shouldn't continue the discussion. I'll ask in Fiction Advice.
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Jan 22, 2019 19:07
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I'm in!
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Jan 23, 2019 05:35
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| # ¿ May 19, 2024 17:46 |
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Prompt: Ley lines Undeath Of The Author 999 words It was strange for anyone to risk Greyhill Road at night, and so the man who ambled his way along was equally strange. He followed the tip of a yew dowsing rod gripped firmly in both hands, his pince-nez was propped on a similarly pinched face, black hair going to grey and retreating on all fronts across a shining dome. From every point hung satchels, bags, and oddities, the largest being a mighty grimoire strapped across his back. The leather strap that held the text in place carried an insignia, engraved with the words 'Imperial Scrivener, First Class'. Despite the weight of his gear and the roughness of the trail, the scrivener wore a smile, peering with interest through his spectacles at his surroundings, every gnarled grey tree and looming stone monolith. “Tuuuuuurn back...” He paused, turning toward a tree by a crook in the road. Links of chain hung from a high branch, below which gathered a puff of blue-white mist. The mist formed into the spectral outline of a hanged man, moaning tortuously. “Tuuuuurn back!” “Ah!” exclaimed the scrivener, holstering the rod and opening his book. “Splendid, splendid – an apparition! Class L-3, if I'm not mistaken.” “In life, I committed great sins. And so I was sentenced to...” the ghost's story trailed off as he glanced down to the man furiously writing. “Are you listening?” “Hm?” The scrivener glanced up. “Oh yes! Please, continue.” “Right... great sins, for which I was condemned.” Scritch scritch scritch. “Condemned to stand watch on the precipice of madness.” Scribble scratch scritch. “Watching for...” The ghost sighed, and the ethereal chain leashing him to the tree faded as he floated down to the scrivener. “Look, it's nothing grand, I'm just supposed to tell people to sod off before they go stirring up the spirit nest at yonder temple.” “So there is a temple!” said the scrivener, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, splendid! Could you take me there?” “You want to see it?” the ghost whispered, incredulous. “The Sightless Eye? Be cursed for a thousand years of service?” When the scrivener's smile didn't fade, the ghost just sighed again. “Okay pal, it's your funeral.” The pair turned off the road and up the hill, where the last few trees gave way to rocky passes and cliffs. With his spectral guide's help, the scrivener ascended the hilltop, discovering a ruin carved into the living rock. A sculpture of a great sightless eye topped the temple. “There,” muttered the ghost, thumbing in the temple's direction. “You've seen it. Now scarper before you – wait!” Heedless, the scrivener had taken one step onto the plateau, which immediately came alive with blue-white mist. Cackling forms of all kinds emerged, men, beasts, and things older than men and beasts, all with eyes gouged. “The watchman has failed!” howled an elderly spirit in priestly vestments. “The sightless eye feeds tonight!” “Hm,” mumbled the scrivener as he scratched down another note. “Seems like mixed metaphors to me.” The spirits hoisted their prey and flew him through the main arch. The temple was built around a massive sinkhole, within which blue-white mist boiled. “The eye demands sacrifice!” the spirit-priest screamed. The ghost, trailing close behind the scrivener, cleared his throat. “Look, I don't know if you've noticed, but you're about to die.” The scrivener looked down to see that he was indeed being lowered to his doom, blinked once, and frowned. “Just thought you ought to know.” “Much obliged.” He was up to his waist now before extracting a flare gun from a satchel. He pointed the muzzle vaguely upward and fired. The bright white bolt whistled clean through the assembled spirits with barely a ripple, high in the sky. “Your mortal weapons hold no dominion here,” the lead spirit growled, but the scriviner ignored it. The explosion lit up most of the night with a brilliant light, all except a stubborn dark cloud. The light went out, and then one by one, so did the stars, as the revealed cloud deepened and spread. A cold wind began to blow. The sound of thunder, quiet at first, grew in intensity. The spirits at once set to shrieking, casting the scrivener aside in their rush to flee, though they seemed bound to the temple grounds. Confused, the ghost looked over to the now-abandoned scrivener. “I'm sorry, it hardly seems fair,” he admitted. “I'm the one who should've been warning you.” A bolt of lightning arced into the top of the temple, sending the sightless eye crashing to the ground. *** The old woman sat cross-legged at the bottom of the still-smoking crater. High above her, a great ball of black cloud simmered, but no longer gouged the earth with lightning or lashed it with gales. She was wrapped in rags, furs, and feathers – all black, except for the stark white bird skull worn as a mask. She was doing... something, but the scrivener had learned not to look too closely at his partner's work, or the disappearing trails of blue-white mist that surrounded her. The sound was harder to ignore, something that brought to mind cracking bones and gnawing marrow. The scrivener turned his attention to the horizon. A flock of Imperial airships loitered a respectful distance away, their pilots having learned from experience to give the Thunderhead a wide berth while it fed. The scrivener began idly counting the pumps and refinery stacks lashed to each ship's hull, waiting to be offloaded and installed on the newly-bared ley line. “Scrivener,” the old woman rumbled. The mist was gone. She turned the twin hollows of her mask toward him. The centre of the skull was branded with the same imperial insignia he carried. “Where next?” The scrivener smiled and hauled out his book, cracking the spine and running a finger down the list of candidates. Only myths, of course, but the scrivener loved myths – if they proved true, his writing would be the last place they'd live on. Life after death. Sort of.
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Jan 28, 2019 08:58
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