Malinda Andrews is our First Place winner! Yay!
Opening scene from an In-Progress Urban Fantasy Detective Novel tentatively titled “Blood and Pearls” by Malinda Andrews, also writing as M.R. Peterson. The weather was against Melanie Dunn. She sat in the black un-cushioned fold out chair with her hands folded in her lap. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a neat low ponytail, the ends of which rested on the black fabric of her dress between her shoulder blades. Her sunglasses, fashionably large, did a good job hiding her red and puffy eyes. Unconsciously her right hand fingers twisted the diamond scroll work that made up the wedding band on her left ring finger around and around. No one was seated next to her. James hadn’t any family left to attend. And few people stood around. Melanie had spent the better part of the last two weeks in a tear-filled stupor; ever since the man in a dark suit had come to her door to give her the news. She still remembered the last time she had seen James. His dark hair was ruffled as he flew off of the couch to answer his cell phone, one flannel pajama leg still scrunched up around his knee. He always took the calls she wasn’t allowed to overhear in the study. He came back, his face flushed with excitement. “The witness is willing to come in and testify!” He kissed her on the cheek with a remark to not wait up for him. James worked odd hours, but that comes with working for the FBI. She had gone to a cold bed, and woken by the doorbell and the man in the dark suit. A drum roll started and she was yanked back to reality. A tear threatened to fall, but she’d be darned if she let anyone see her cry. James’s partner stood opposite the casket from her. His hands were folded in front of his waist and his dirty blonde head was bowed. Two Marines proceeded to fold the flag. Birds chirped in the background. The day was unusually warm for a spring day. Why couldn’t it have been raining, or at least overcast? It would have matched her mood much better. Melanie accepted the flag, and watched in stony silence as her husband—the only man she had ever loved—was lowered into his grave This is the conclusion of the Story Beginnings Contest. Keep your eye out for the next one!
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You will love this story by our Second Place Winner, Fiona Martin! She has definitely impressed me with her descriptions here. Tell Fiona what you think in the comments!
Expired - Fiona Martin He examines the faded blue ink on the newborn baby’s wrist, shaking his head slightly, puzzled. He looks at his watch. At the clock on the wall. At the calendar nailed to the door. “It’s another one,” he breathes. “Pardon?” inquires the nurse watching him expectantly, pen and paper in hand. He blinks the spots in his eyes away before turning to her. “Sorry, umm--” his voice trails off. “Doctor, are you alright? Let me have a look.” She leans over his shoulder, trying to make out the 8 small numbers tattooed on the baby’s skin. He quickly covers the it’s with his hand, and the nurse jumps. “Doctor, what’s the problem? I need the Expiration,” the now aggravated nurse demands. “I--It’s nothing. The Expiration is, uh, May 3rd, 4062,” he stutters. The nurse scribbles on her paper, then rushes out of the room huffing. The doctor exits the room and quietly pulls out his cell phone, calling 1 on speed dial. The phone rings quietly in his ear, before a frustrated voice shrieks through the line. “What is it, Thornhill? You know I’m a busy man!” “It’s another one. Another ByGone.” Silence. “Sir?” “Yes. I’m here. Where are you?” “193 SE Parkhill… The Grimshaw Hospital.” “I’ll be there shortly. Make sure you get a DNA sample and meet me out back.” “And the baby, sir?” “Don’t worry about it. Just leave it with the family.” “Alright. I’ll meet you out back at eleven.” Beep beep. The line goes dead. The doctor tucks his phone into his pocket, and rings the intercom for a replacement doctor, then sneaks quietly out the door. Congratulations to Emma Bazley, third place winner of our Story Beginnings Contest! She did an amazing job, and I'm sure you will enjoy her story.
The McCloud kids By Emma Lynn Bazley Some things in life are unmistakably, undeniably clear. Things like, 'the sky is blue', 'the Sun is yellow,' and, 'if you are breathing, you are alive, and if you aren't, then you're not' (no matter what the zombies might say.) things that, if you declare aren't true, you will be immediately labled as a nutcase and shipped off to the nearest insane asylum. The phrase 'the McClouds are the strangest family in north Carolina and possibly the world' is right up there with the breathing one. Nobody really knew the McClouds. Everyone knew they were weird, but for different reasons. Old Mrs. Goodenough from across the street, for example. If you asked her what she thought of the McClouds, she would promptly gasp and say " What I think of them? WHAT I THINK OF THEM?!? They're WILD that's what I think of them! WILD!! All them children runnin' round by themselves," ( that wasn't entirely true, they rode their bicycles too ) -" Well, well, it's just SCANDALOUS!! SCANDALOUS!!" this was normal for her, seeing as she thought most of everything was scandalas, unless it was Victorian tea or early bedtimes. Almost nothing was goodenough for Mrs. Goodenough. And Mr. Chu, the garbageman.if you asked him, he would say, "Every Tuesday, I go to McCloud house. I open can, I see shoes. Shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes! Girl shoes! Big shoes! Small shoes! Pink shoes! In China, people don't wear pink shoes! Americans wear pink shoes! If Americans stop wearing pink shoes, who wears them?! Who, huh?! THE FRENCH?!? Mr. Chu had a very low opinion of The French. And if you asked the Plumber, he would go on and on about the HUGE hairballs he fished out of the McClouds drainage pipes every other Saturday, and if you asked the grocer he would tell you about the strange things they ordered, things like 'Quinoa' and 'kimchi' ( whatever that was.) But you're probably wondering who are the McClouds exactly? Are they who everyone says they are? Are they better? Worse? All of this in a moment. A northern breeze sent shivers down Mariette’s spine as she made her way down the Dover sidewalks. Under her arm she carried a heavy bundle, which was wrapped with brown paper, and tied with string.
She stopped before a the door of an old antique shop, where she stepped inside. “Can I help you?” Asked a man, who was rocking in a rocking chair by the fireplace. Mariette nodded, “Are you Monsieur Leray?” “Yes.” He said, standing up, “I am.” “I was hoping you could give me some information.” Mariette explained, laying her parcel on the counter. The man nodded, and watched as she untied the string. Inside of the package was a stack of books. They were old books, yellowed with age, and worn from many readings. “What can you tell me about these books?” Mariette asked. Monsieur Leray stared in wonder. “W- Where did you find these?” “That is irrelevant.” She answered, impetuously. “Where did you get these?” The shopkeeper demanded, his voice shaking. Mariette smirked, “We’ll say that they were in my attic. Now, tell me what you know.” “Who are you?” Monsieur Leray stuttered. “If you give me some info on those books, I’ll just be another customer,” The young lady replied, menancingly, “But, if you refuse, I will become something far worse.” The shopkeeper ignored her, and began slowly thumbing through the pages of one of the books. “Are you going to tell me? Or not?” Mariette asked, a pout on her pretty face. “I’ll tell you this,” Said Monsiour Leray, “That no power is within these books, any more than what was in them when I was young. No power at all, anymore. It was all used long ago, long before my generation, or even my grandfather’s generation, had come into being.” Then, without hesitation, the old shopkeeper took up the stack of books, and thrust them into the fire. His face was jubilant, as he watched the books light up in flames. Tears welled up in Mariette’s eyes. “How could you?” She demanded, but Monsiour Leray did not answer. He only stared into the fire, despite her desperate cries. The deed was done, and he was finally free. The winter air hit my face whipping my hair in front of my face as frosty tendrils spread out until they hit every part of me sending shivers down my spine. The air was white as thick, fat snowflakes fluttered to the ground all around me. I could hear the explosion as it filled the air, leaving a high pitched, whining ringing in my ears that took away all other noise. There was blast of hot air and bright orange as flames shot out from the distance. There I was staggering around the snow in a half delirious state pain suddenly bursting through my rib cage. I can’t say that falling face first in the snow was the best experience of my life but at least I hadn’t noticed how bad it had actually been. I hadn’t realized the blood that had started to stain the pure white snow; my blood. I hadn’t realized how hard it was getting to breath as my head pounded, but I did notice him. He turned me over looking at my face with concerning filling his deep brown eyes.
“No, no, no, no!!” He shook his head. “This isn’t happening. I won’t allow it.” My heavy eyelids were just beginning to lose the battle of staying open as his hands slipped under me hoisting me into his arms. “Don’t you dare close those eyes of yours. You are going to be safe and sound.” He ordered gently. “You made me a promise.” “Doctor! You will never escape! You could flee to the end of the galaxy but we will find you again!” A shout rang out from behind us. “oi, that’s only if I don’t find you first and mark my words if she dies, if you’ve killed her than you should be very afraid because I will pursue you until every last one of you has been wiped from existence.There won’t be a safe place in the entire universe you could hide.” The Doctor pushed on as if he knew that he had no choice but to get back to the Tardis. That he knew whatever it was behind him would have to be deal with later. Another explosion rocked the ground as stars began to fade into the sky. Sharp pain shot through my body from the Doctor being thrown off balance from the violent shaking of the snow blanketed ground. My body tumbled to the ground as he fell scrambling to get back up and pick me back up. “Not much farther now.” He murmured not daring to take his eyes off what was ahead. My head felt as if it were explode as shallow breaths somehow continued to wheeze in and out of me. Eyelids fluttering as my vision became ^ I barley took notice of the blue police box in front of us as it’s doors swung open. The Doctor lumbered through the doors carrying the full weight of a girl who was quickly losing consciousness. He laid me down on the floor as he ran around the console flipping switches and pushing buttons. At the moment we had no choice but to go anywhere else in space and time. Once the sounds of the Tardis filled the air he made his way back towards me. “No… you’re not leaving… not yet. Don’t you dare give up! Keep fighting!” He shouted. I finally lost the battle to heavy lids as the darkness surrounded me as the Doctor leaned close listening for a heartbeat and probably having trouble hearing the faint sound over the thrumming of his own hearts. “You made promised me, and I am not going to allow you to break that.” There didn’t seem to be much hope that he could reverse what had been done. Though of course he didn’t know exactly what had been done. He didn’t understand why my heart was about to stop beating and why I wasn’t fighting harder. Maybe if I was trying harder he would have an easier time saving me. “No…no..no…You’d defied the impossible before! Just do it one more time for me!” Getting up the Doctor began frantically running around the Tardis looking for something, anything. He was desperate and running out of time. Though if I woke up he’d understand even less why I couldn’t remember what had happened or why I had forgotten everything about him. Chapter 1: The day the Doctor wouldn’t leave. I know what you expect me to say, the day I had met the Doctor had been a fantastic day that had changed my life forever; but in all honesty the day I had met the Doctor didn’t matter at all. Nothing mattered much when you couldn’t remember it, when you couldn’t trust the memories in your own mind. I guess you could say he changed my life though the only vivid memories that play though my brain are what happened after the day the Doctor refused to leave. Beeping filled my dreams long before I had ever decided to open my eyes. When they finally did flutter open the beeping didn’t end, no matter how hard I tried to snuggle deeper into the covers and pretend that it wasn’t there. I was in a bed, within a room that was filled with darkness, except for a few rays of sunshine that snuck out from behind the curtains. My head ached the second I moved it to get a good look around the room, the pain making me want to curl up under the covers for the rest of the day. I couldn’t remember what I had to do today and if it wasn’t for the never ending beeping I may have stay there a while longer. Slowly I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pulled myself up, a stab of pain running down my spine as my feet hit the ground. A wave of dizziness washed over me but somehow I still made it to the door. With vision swimming, I stumbled into the hallway where sunlight flooded through open windows. My legs wobbled with the effort of going down the stairs, halfway down the smell of smoke beginning to fill my lungs. A loud bang sounded from the kitchen, smoke curling out from the cracks in the doorframe. The smoke alarm beeping as if trying to alert the entire neighborhood. “Halley! You’re awake!!!” “Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?” “I was trying to make you breakfast.. and you know exactly who I am.” He grinned as flames billowed from the frying pan in his hands. “No I don’t… and you’re going to burn down my house!” “About that…got a little distracted but come on… I’m the Doctor.” “The Doctor?” I frowned. “I need a doctor? What did I do hit my head?” “Something like that…” He frowned. Slowly the Doctor sat the frying pan down on the counter, taking a few steps closer to me. Eyes intently studying mine as he straightened his bowtie. “Now I know you almost died… but your head shouldn’t have been affected..” “Almost what?!?” I frowned as the flames reached for the curtains above the kitchen window. “Oh I wouldn’t be concerned… You’re fine now…well mostly..” He frowned as he pulled something from his pocket. “If you don’t remember me than what do you remember?” “I’m Halley Aster and I have a family that worries too much about me… and my house is on fire because of some strange man!” I yelled as the small curtains burst into warm colors of orange and yellow. “Not true… I mean your house is on fire… but you told me.. ahh what did they do to you?” He frowned before grabbing a towel and swatting at the slowly growing flames. I stood there, golden blonde hair still slightly messy from just waking up in pj pants and a t-shirt as I watched the towel catch fire also. “Ahh… please tell me you have a fire extinguisher?” “Under the sink,” I rolled my sea blue eyes. The Doctor rummaged beneath the sink, throwing everything onto the floor until he had reached the fire extinguisher. Pulling the pin he squeezed the lever as foam began to spread throughout the kitchen extinguishing the brightly lit flames as it hit them. “Disaster diverted. You are welcome.” “Okay thanks a lot… now leave my house before you decide to ruin it some more.” “Come on Halley… you can’t truly forget me.. how could they make you forget me… I mean I could if I had to… but you said you had something to tell me that was really important.. you’re trying to play a prank on me aren’t you?” “Nope.. afraid not.. I have never seen you in my life. Now I should really be calling my family.” “You don’t have family Halley!! No one to worry about you as you traveled through time and space you said.” The Doctor sighed. “Someone has messed with your mind but don’t you worry Halley Aster even the stars fall down sometimes, and I am going to fix you. Momma told me she was leaving. She opened the screen door leading from the mudroom of our three-bedroom farmhouse, called my name, then warned if I didn’t high-tail it along, she’d leave for town without me. I believed Momma. She always meant just what she said.
A 1933 Lauderdale County Mississippi Saturday morning offered little excitement – at least nothing so intriguing as to evaporate the interest of a five-year-old from a junket to the big city. Trips, in those days, were far and few between. Finding gas to fill our Model A always seemed a challenge, and when it could be had, usually cost more than what Daddy had in his pockets. My sisters and I had no concept of the depression or what it meant, but we were in it. Daddy said so. Despite its toll on the world beyond our fifteen little acres, one day seemed pretty much like the next to us. We didn’t feel depressed in the least. It’s hard to long for improved comforts when you have all you need. Like clockwork, my sisters and I woke each day to the crow of our old Plymouth Rock rooster, Pecker. We ate breakfast, labored through morning chores, attended school, completed afternoon chores, ate dinner, went to bed. Our existence was a small, tidy box centered on love, mostly laughter, and a simplicity that provided comfort and assurances that the sun would rise each new morning. We did not refer to that as the depression. We called it life. What we knew of the outside world proved minute, comparatively speaking, learning only of harsher realities from classmates or an occasional substitute teacher in the one-room schoolhouse my sisters and I attended four days a week. We had a radio in the front parlor, but little reception. Daddy once stumbled upon a live broadcast of the Grand Ole Opry direct from Nashville, Tennessee. The signal quickly faded to that ever-present static cackle, but it was still the most thrilling seven minutes we’d experienced that week. One night, when a chorale of crickets erupted into song, jostling me from a pleasing slumber, my senses honed to a conversation in the kitchen. Momma and Daddy were speaking of the times. I often wondered why Daddy had to work so hard; why we girls kept seeing less and less of him. If only we knew the true weight of the burden that had settled so squarely on his shoulders. “I don’t see as we got much choice, Olivia,” Daddy said, figuring his conversation a private one. “John, how many more jobs can you take on? You’re working three now. There’s only so many hours in a day and some you need for eating and sleeping.” “I’ll eat when it’s time to eat and rest when the times say we can rest. All we got in the world is this farm. I’ll see myself to the grave before I let a bank swoop in and steal it from me. Besides, that man says he’ll pay ten dollars if I can get that hay cut, baled and stored before month’s end.” “I could try and find a job in town mending clothes,” Momma suggested. “You have a tough enough job right here. I ain’t ‘bout to have you killing yourself while these girls are left to fend for themselves. They’re good girls and they need their momma. I wouldn’t promise a man to do a job if I didn’t think I could do it. Now, my mind’s made up.” “But John, if we …-“ “Olivia, we’ll get through this.” I closed my eyes that night to the sound of a kiss. Knowing Daddy as I did, I’m certain he took Momma in his arms, held her as one would a newborn kitten, then kissed her fears away. When it came to providing food for the table, coats in winter and shoes on our feet – when it was we desired to wear shoes – Daddy was as determined a man as I ever knew. When it came to working the farm or working for others, he was as tough as a crowbar. Daddy came home late one night. I awoke to the slap of the screen door then crawled from bed upon hearing the melodic creek of the wood runners of his rocking chair. Having seen so little of him in recent days, I stumbled into the kitchen rubbing away the bright light splashing against my eyes, then nestled into a spot on his lap reserved just for me. His clothes were damp and his scent that of a man having spent the day stoking a furnace. His arms were dirty – plastered with the kind of dirt that never completely washes away when a man’s working steady – his hands sticky his hair slicked back from sweat. I didn’t mind, because that was Daddy. “I’m worried, Daddy,” I said through a yawn. “I never get to see you anymore.” Daddy patted my behind. “Don’t you worry about that, Peanut,” he said, “real soon now, we’ll have all the time together you want. Just have to finish a couple jobs.” “I miss you, Daddy.” I closed my eyes to the sound of his heart thumping in my ear. “I miss you, too, Peanut. Keepin’ a farm is hard work. One day, when you’re all growed up and have a family of your own, you’ll know what it’s like to make sure your children have food and clothes, and a roof over their heads. You’ll understand why it is your Momma and I work so hard. But you let me worry about that for now. You worry about your schoolin’, your chores and being the sweetest little girl in town.” Daddy kissed my cheek then settled his chin atop my head. It was not long before sleep caught up to the both of us. Momma’s voice was always within earshot in those days. I was in one of two places when not doing chores – on the banks of a small pond adjacent Daddy’s garden, where I spent hours counting tadpoles and writing personal thoughts on a paper tablet, or in an overgrown pasture with my horse, and best friend, Ginger. This particular Saturday morning, Ginger and I set out early, as she seemed unusually anxious to graze. After gobbling a homemade biscuit and a small bowl of grits, I swept the kitchen floor then collected the morning eggs from the chicken coop. With chores complete, I was ready to absorb the delicate morning sun and a whispering southwest breeze that brushed up with the dawn, ferrying with it the always pleasing and comforting scent of alfalfa and pine. Sprawled atop Ginger’s back with senses comfortably numbed, my imagination transported me far from our Mississippi homestead to the many worlds I created when time was my own. Mamma’s call interrupted a flight atop a mammoth monarch butterfly named King Sam, who’d rescued me from the clutches of an evil queen intent on stealing the memories of all the little girls in the kingdom. I slid from King Sam’s wings – surprisingly similar to Ginger’s soft, silky coat – into the field of high grasses still moist from the morning dew. I would return to my adventure with King Sam later in the day, assisted by a pencil and writing tablet. I kissed Ginger’s forehead and promised to return as quick as the Model A could carry me home. Momma stood at the back screen door awaiting my arrival. She smiled when I emerged from a clump of woods guarding the rear of our property. I skipped across the grass to meet her at the top of the steps. She grabbed my face in the palm of her hands. “My dear child, you are a bird in this world,” she said. “If you had wings, I’m certain you would fly away and we’d only see you in springtime. Momma’s smile was infectious and her words effervescing. I suspect that is why I had such an affinity for putting pencil to paper, so desiring to construct words and phrases as Momma could. “Come on now,” she said, brushing a strand of hair over the back of my ear, “we have to get along. Your Daddy is coming home early tonight and I want to make him a special supper.” “Okay, Momma,” I said. She patted the top of my head as I passed. “Get your shoes. I’ll meet you at the car.” Momma had four dresses in those days. One for go to meeting, one for winter, one for summer outings, and one for everyday use. Daddy always said she looked like a bride when she wore her Sunday dress and joked she should never wear it out of his presence. She was in her summer dress that morning; a Robin’s egg blue beauty, fit more for a woman accustomed to the bright lights of downtown. Momma may have dreamed of having an endless wardrobe, but never complained or pressed Daddy – even when we had a bit of money to spare. It was more important her children were well clothed. What outfits she did not make from scratch, she mended used or accumulated by trading eggs, vegetables, or fresh milk. Momma and Daddy were the most resourceful people I ever knew. They taught us well to rely on our own devices and use the resources God provided. We were fortunate to have a good stock of farm creatures and Daddy’s knack for growing crops in less than fertile soil. We had near forty chickens, three milk goats, a milk cow Daddy won at the county fair, a mule named Igor to haul Daddy’s plow, and Ginger, of course. Our animals provided a reliable sustenance in those hard times, and Daddy made sure we treated them with respect. We also had two cats for rodent patrol – although they chose us, not we them – and our dog, Getty, to keep watch over the chickens and property in general. Daddy said they all served an invaluable purpose in our survival. They were more than family to us. I hurried through the kitchen and down a modest hallway, stripping as I ran, toward a small room shared with my sisters. I tossed atop my bed the light blue overalls Momma made from an old denim seat cover. Rummaging through the bottom drawer of a shared dresser, I grabbed a summer dress similar in color to Momma’s, then stepped into a pair of shoes used for my walk to school. I replaced the yellow ribbon securing my ponytail with a blue one, then scrambled from the room, skipping to a tune I learned in church. I burst through the back screen door, sending it slapping against its jamb, to a rock sidewalk leading to the driveway. Momma planted a modest flower garden each year, boarding one side of the sidewalk. As I passed, I plucked a Black Eyed Susan from off its stem. I immediately brought the flower to my nostrils and breathed deep. I love the smell of a freshly plucked anything, especially flowers. Blacked Eyes Susan’s were Momma’s favorite. She said they were the happiest of all flowers and reminded her of me. They were my favorite, too. Momma was waiting on me by the driver’s side door. “My, don’t you look pretty as a picture,” she said, adjusting the bow in my ponytail then patting the side of my face. “You’re quite the young woman.” “You look pretty too, Momma,” I said. Her scent was that of violets. It reminded me of the changing of winter’s dull, brown canvas, to the vibrancy and multi-color of spring. “I guess we look smart enough to hop that old train to Jackson,” she said, leading me into the car. “Come on, now. Life is too short to be wasting it away.” The Model A cranked on cue. It was as reliable to turnover as Igor was to pull Daddy’s plow on command. Momma was an expert driver. She spent the majority of her childhood working the family farm and cotton fields. She was driving farm implements – mechanized or beast-propelled – before she was ten. She guided the car down the long, narrow gravel drive to the county road. I rolled down the window to catch the breeze upon my face. What an exciting moment to have Momma all to myself. I felt as important as I did blessed. The bright sunshine and blue skies, holding in suspension just the right sprinkling of puffy clouds to entertain with their many manifestations, only added to the thrill. Maybe we would catch that train to Jackson after all. My imagination tossed that nugget about, eventually conjuring a convincing scenario in which a rich and powerful princess would see Momma and I step from the train and invite us to a fancy hotel for a tea party. I giggled to myself at the thought. Life was wonderful. Not quite yet tall enough to observe the world over the dashboard, I settled onto my knees with forearms glued to the side window frame, staring at the world passing by at twenty-five miles per hour. Momma seldom tested the limits of the Model A’s engine. I don’t think she was driving down a county road, I think she was back on her family’s farm, pulling a hay wagon, or such, through an endless pasture. I was just happy to be by her side. Our rural community was just that – a farmhouse here and there situated off the road between wide pastures and croplands. We knew most families along the way, at least before hard times forced some to new locations. I extended my arm out the window, flattened my palm, and allowed the breeze to lift and dip my hand as I mulled the goings on in each home we passed. Every so often I asked Momma, “who lived there,” or “how far to town,” – nothing of great import – more just to hear the sound of her voice. When my mind wanted an answer, I asked a question, no matter the situation or circumstance. My inquisitiveness must have driven Momma and Daddy up the wall, but their patience was as steady as a spring rain. The outskirts of downtown Meridian appeared within an hour of our departure. Pastureland and farmhouses exchanged for whitewashed buildings and single-family structures. I don’t recall a visit to town when traffic was as thick. Cars lined every street and townsfolk shuffled along sidewalks in bunchfulls. Momma drove up and down Fifth Street in search of a parking spot close to the general store. I spied a mass of people in an empty lot at the corner of 23rd Street, but paid little attention beyond that. Another circuit up then down the street produced a parking space three shops down from our destination. Momma inched the car between two like Model A’s, then reached for my hand. I scooted across the bench seat in response to her tug, being careful so as not to destroy the delicate flower petal in my other hand. The sidewalk was busy as a beehive. People pushed and shoved their way along the storefronts, some with destinations in sight, other’s having no particular place to go whatsoever. I thought it quite odd the number of shoppers, considering Daddy’s description of the times and how jobs and money was so scarce. We traveled but a short distance before I realized the majority were not shoppers. Every few feet a strange man asked Momma for spare change, a cigarette, food, an opportunity for work. Momma squeezed my hand to a light blue hue, pulling me along as I did my rag doll in romps through the pasture. A police officer approached from the rear, sending men scrambling to the other side of the street or dipping into doorways. He offered Momma assistance to her destination, but she declined. Momma and I entered Hyerby’s General Store along with a throng of others. An odor, a combination of cinnamon spice, scratch grain and tobacco, tickled my nose. Daddy brought us girls to Hyerby’s last Christmas to gander at the many new toys we could never afford. He did buy us each a candy cane, which was an unexpected but most appreciated treat. Men – well, mostly men – all looking ragged and at their rock bottom, formed a long line on the opposite wall, waiting for something or someone. I saw a man exit the store with a loaf of bread packed tight under his arm, but did not make the connection at that moment. Anxious to get her items then back on the road home, Momma instructed me to stay put, not to touch anything, and speak to no one. I turned and watched Momma work her way toward the back of the store. As she passed a center counter displaying the latest in women’s pocketbook fashions, she paused, opened her purse, looked to the long line of men standing against the wall, then again to her purse as one would who’d suddenly realized they’d left their money at home. Following several moments of internal debate, Momma approached a frail-looking young woman dressed in tattered clothes and offered her two coins. The woman’s hand shook then she began to cry. Momma wrapped an arm around her and led her from the line. I lost sight of them as they drifted to the rear of the store, but will never forget the look on that woman’s face when she exited the store with two bottles of milk in her arms. I moved away from the doorway to in front of a large picture window framing nearly the entire width of the store. Climbing atop an old wood create, I waited for Momma by watching through a large letter “O” painted on the glass, the world passing by in a frenzied rush. My gaze drew to that crowd of people across the street in the empty lot on the corner, specifically to a long, enclosed wood trailer painted bright blue. Large yellow letters stretched the length of the trailer at its top, advertising, “Willy the Whale,” with a picture of the great beast jumping from the water just below. Willy the Whale! Wow! – a real live whale in downtown Meridian. A man in a straw hat and stripped shirt, standing atop a small stage at the trailer’s entrance, barked with great animation through a megaphone. Whatever he was selling was drawing people from the corner of every street. Excitement shot through me like a streak of lightening on a summer’s night. I’d learned of whales in school, even saw pictures of them. Unable to reign in my delight, I turned from the window to locate Momma. I spotted her at the back of the store, deep in conversation with a woman working behind a glass counter. I jumped from the crate and sailed across the store, bobbing in and around pedestrian traffic and display cases. I reached Momma’s side and tugged at her dress. “Momma, Momma,” I screamed, “it’s Willy the Whale! Willy the Whale!” Momma pried my fingers loose of her dress, but did not recognize in any other manner my efforts to gain her attention. For heaven’s sake, I thought. How blind could the world be? How could Daddy’s pipe tobacco be more important than Willy the Whale? I grasped Momma’s dress with my free hand, crushing the pedals of the Black Eyed Susan against her rump. I tugged again. “Momma, Momma, it’s Willy the Whale,” I yelled. Momma excused herself then crouched below the counter to meet me at eye level. “You stop that now, child,” she said, grabbing my other hand. “There’s no call for screaming. Can’t you see I’m talking to someone?” “But, Momma, it’s Willy the Whale,” I said, pointing toward the front of the store, “and he’s right across the street!” “We don’t have time for foolishness. I need to finish my shopping and we need to get on home.” “But Momma ….” “Go on now. You let me finish. Get on back to the door like I told you, and don’t move again.” I raced to the front of the store to reclaim my position atop the crate. The man in the straw hat had disappeared, only to reappear seconds later at the far end of the trailer where he was escorting an older couple down a set of stairs. My imagination mushroomed as I gazed upon the enormous picture of the whale. What adventures we could have and what stories we could tell, if only tobacco wasn’t’ so important. I had to meet Willy the Whale. I just had to. I felt Momma’s tap on my shoulder, but not her command to step from off the crate. She grabbed my arm and tugged gently to gain my attention, but my eyes remained glued to that big, blue trailer. She tugged again, and this time, drew my stare from the window. Whatever it was she saw in my eyes sent her to another place and time. Her gaze turned distant and I could see a memory or moment calling her conscience. Maybe she was lamenting a time when, as a child, she desired to attend the circus or own a doll she’d seen perched in a display case at a general store very much like this one. Wherever she was, I was not about to let the opportunity pass. “Momma, please, can we go see Willy the Whale? Please?” Momma smiled and took my hand. I jumped from the crate as if I had springs attached to my feet. Mine was the best Momma in the world. I waited at the edge of the sidewalk for Momma to stow her purchased items in the car. I jumped up and down trying to see over passing cars and moving bodies, but had no clear view of the trailer. I giggled when Momma grabbed my hand. We walked to the corner then crossed the street. Upon reaching the other side, the trailer appeared in full view and glory. It was enormous. Maybe bigger than our house or school, even. Excitement snaked through my veins. I was hopping like a toad. Momma led me to in front of the crowd, just below the stage, where the man in the straw hat bellowed solicitation. “Ladies and Gentlemen, don’t miss this once in a lifetime opportunity to see in person one of nature’s most magnificent creatures,” he yelled, waving his straw hat about as if swatting hornets. “For just a dime you can see up close and in person the largest mammal in the world, straight from the depths of the magnificent Pacific Ocean.” My mouth fell open. How could I be so lucky as to have such a wonderful opportunity so early in life? “Young lady,” the man said pointing to me, “how would you like to be the first girl your age to see Willy the Whale? Step right up here and feast your eyes on the largest sea species known to man.” I looked to Momma, clasped my hands together and began jumping up and down. Momma looked to me then to the man in the straw hat. “For you and the young lady, ma’am, I’ll only charge a nickel.” His voice boomed like a shotgun blast. Momma reached for her purse, the man reached for my hand. “People, people, give these lovely ladies a fine round of applause,” he encouraged. The gathering crowd hailed our interest with thunderous claps. I scrambled up the stairs as quick as my nervous legs could carry me, leaving Momma behind. The man led me to a purple curtain plastered with images of starfish and seahorses. His hand was wet with sweat and hard as a cement block. I looked to him as we waited for Momma to reach the top of the platform. The man smiled. His teeth were light green and his face unshaven. He smelled of wet burlap and something foreign to my senses. Had alcohol been permitted in my home, my curiosity would have been quenched. Momma drew behind me and placed her hand atop my shoulder. The man in the straw hat prepared us to be amazed then whisked the curtain open … *** Momma watched me out of the corner of her eye the entire ride home, but did not further burden my psyche with parental advice. I settled against the passenger side door, staring at the floorboard, wishing she hadn’t needed flour, sausage, a new scrub brush and bucket, and Daddy more tobacco. I wished to be alone, with Ginger, in my world were everything was as it was that morning, and every day before. I methodically rubbed the palms of my hands atop my thighs, sifting through the expectations my mind had conjured while waiting for the man in the straw hit to the draw the curtain. I figured an aquarium, most likely, made of six-inch thick glass and filled with bright, blue, sparkling water, protecting the happy, playful beast. I pictured a box or crate robust enough for a child my size and weight to stand upon to pet Willy, get close enough to breathe in his aroma or share a compassionate gaze. I imagined grandeur, majesty, a miracle. When the curtain drew open, my legs propelled forward unconsciously and my eyes burst wide with excitement. As reality course-corrected my imagination, my body shook with an unexpected jolt that forced my stomach into my esophagus. The aquarium? A rickety, glass encased box filled with stinking, green formaldehyde. Willy the Whale? Sectioned in five pieces – head, middle front, middle, middle back, tail. Chopped up like kindling for a winter’s fire. I do not recall the Black Eyed Susan slipping from my fingers, but noticed it missing when I wished to gaze upon its bright, yellow petals once remorse set in – remorse for having plucked it from its life-giving stem. The world had invaded my private space that morning, a sanctuary that had preserved innocence and innocent views of all things and all peoples. I looked deep into the sunken, lifeless eyes of that magnificent beast and saw a man begging for change, another pleading for a cigarette, another scavenging for food – all trying to survive. I saw Momma transform from a stranger to a young mother’s only ray of hope. My eyes opened to the struggles of my Daddy to keep us fed, clothed and housed, and his compassion for neighbors who were not as fortunate. I understood my Momma’s insistence we not waste a thing and what leftovers we accumulated, we passed on to others. I awoke to manipulation, betrayal, greed and want. I awoke to my parents’ never-ending sacrifice …I awoke to death. Momma pulled the car into the driveway, turned off the engine and sat quietly as I mulled why the man in the straw hat appeared so gay, how he could accept money for the product he was selling, and how folks in my town to spend what little they had on such disappointment. For nearly thirty minutes, I stared at the floorboard, trying to understand a world I’d never known before. Momma never moved from behind the wheel. Upon wiping my eyes and releasing a heavy sigh, she reached over, cupped my chin and drew my head to her stare. “The harsh realities of life do not discriminate, child,” she said. “You have to be prepared to pick yourself up and keep going when someone or something knocks you down.” I nodded. Momma wiped my face. “You have a special gift,” she said, smiling that smile that made troubles disappear. “You have a soul filled with unending spirit and a heart bursting with compassion. I will never have to worry about what you’ll be passing on to your children.” Momma led me from the car to the house, holding my hand the entire way. Upon reaching the bedroom, I settled on the edge of my bed, slowly untying the bow securing my ponytail. Though my conscious grieved for poor Willy’s fate, I found myself thinking more of the young mother, and the expression on her face as she fled the store with the two bottles of milk. I appreciated Momma’s kindness in that moment. I appreciated how much she cared. When I slipped my shoes from my feet, another face appeared to me – my friend Sally who sat next to me at school. It dawned on me I’d never seen her wearing shoes – even in winter, when all she had to protect her from the elements were homemade, burlap slipovers. I had three pair of shoes. I wanted most that moment to run to the pasture, climb atop Ginger’s back, and ride with her to the ends of the earth, but knew no distance from this place would erase what burned permanent in my mind’s eye. I changed my clothes, grabbed a pair of shoes, and instead, decided to pay my friend Sally a visit. I will never know if Momma knew what was behind that purple curtain splattered with seashells and seahorses. She never said such and I never asked. She died two years later from a bout with tuberculosis, but with a smile that insured us all that we would someday meet again. Though Momma’s death was tragic and unexpected, it was truly a celebration of life. Her final moment proved to be a microcosm of the way she lived; with a smile on her face and soft, kind words to assure all that everything would be fine. She left behind several universal qualities that my sisters and I continue to share equally – compassion, dignity, character. She also left something unique to each of us. Her gift to me was the effortless way she expressed encouragement and support. Her voice is constant in my head and ever-present when I’m in doubt or in need of direction. It was some years before I understood completely the life lesson presented that Saturday morning, or the reason why it had to be. What Momma tried to explain, and what I would go on to explain to my own children, is that everyone will someday experience their Willy the Whale. During the summer, we do Fanfiction Fridays, this is one of our stories!
It’s over Sherlock. The fairy tale has ended. The storyteller has finished telling his tale. The clock has stopped ticking. But, has it really? Is the dragon really dead? Are you sure that the villain won’t be back for his revenge? Can you ever be sure, Sherlock? Will you ever be sure of anything again? You poor, ordinary man. I know something that you thought only you knew. Something John must never find out about. But, then again, we both know that all he is to you is someone to impress. Without an audience, the genius is wasted. Sherlock, I know what is wrong with you. You say you are bored, but we both know the truth. You’re not bored are you Sherlock? No, you’re scared. The famous sleuth has a puzzle too big for him. One he is too ordinary to solve. That is your problem, you don’t know the answer to a riddle. You need distraction from the biggest problem you have ever faced in all of your years as a consulting detective. It is driving you mad, isn’t it Sherlock? You have to reconcile the facts, don’t you. That is why you muse. How many hours have passed over this question? How long has it been since you were REALLY bored? The clock is ticking away, and you have so little time to figure me out. Tic, Toc, Tic, Toc. The bells will soon chime twelve. Ringing out the question that pounds ever on your brain, Tic, Toc, Tic, Toc. Who is Moriarty? That’s it, isn’t it? There seems to be no reason for me to hate you the way I do. There seems to be no reason why I would blow up all of London, just to get even with you. Figure it out! Deduct what you can, Sir Boastalot. Solve the riddle! Find the solution! Your time is ticking away, and even you can’t stop the clock. Wait though, can you solve it? Will you ever deduce the answer to my puzzle? You can’t. You can’t find the key to this mystery. You will burn, thinking every day, and every night, about who I am. You will never know who I am without my help, but, there is an answer key at the end of every book of riddles. That is what this is, Sherlock, the answer key. I expected that I would love watching you burn, but I can’t see the flame. I thought that when you suffered, I would taste the sweet flavour of revenge, but it is bitter, so bitter. Why? Why can’t I enjoy what I have so long anticipated? I too have mused, and finally came to this conclusion: If I can’t watch you suffer, than I will enjoy your appreciation. You can see my genius, and be amazed. You can admire my accomplishments. You have to have my story first though, so, here it is. Here is the fairy tale. Don’t be shy, Sherlock. Come listen to the Story Teller. Hope Ann is the 1st place winner of our Fantasy Contest! Congratulations Hope!!!
Captive Bride By Hope Ann The Volandums had absurd ideas about how to treat a captive princess. I mean, golden chains? Really? Were they showing me off to the people, or were they showing off their own wealth to me? I honestly wasn’t sure anymore. My mount’s hooves clopped against the flower-strewn pavement of Dezmond’s central street and I briefly let my gaze wander, taking in the towering stone buildings, mapping out routes, exits, dead ends. They were crowded now, with cheering citizens greeting their returning king. Oh yes, and the Elentisaren princess who’d been the price of peace and would become their queen. I gazed steadily at the faces passing by. Returning each insolent stare with defiance. Each slur with a smirk. Each fragment of pity with determination. But many of the gazes were ones of wonder. Or perhaps they were just staring at my ridiculous white fluttery dress. Loose bits of gauze flew about my waist and a heavy necklace hung about my bare neck while taches of gold fastened my sleeves. All in all, it wasn’t a dress I’d be able to slip away in without being recognized. But mostly, my gaze rested on the guards surrounding my mount. An especially grim soldier led my horse, but others closed in on all sides. Two before. Three on each side of me. Four more behind. Not as if they thought I could escape, but I couldn’t help relishing in their worry over the almost mystical legends surrounding the Elentisaren Phoenix, otherwise known as the most deadly woman assassin in history. They seemed to think she’d not stand for her princess being taken by Volandums. And that she’d be coming after me. Ahead of me, the Volandum king shifted in his saddle. His gaze swept over me for the dozeneth time. And, for the dozeneth time I met his stare with a glare of my own and the slightest curl of my lips. His own smile creased his beard as he turned away. The Volandums respected strength. Already the king was well pleased with the spirit of his bride-to-be. Except all the Volandums lacked one small detail. And, as the castle of Dezmond loomed over us, I permitted my smirk to deepen. The Volandums thought they were welcoming a bride. Instead they were providing the Phoenix of Elentisa safe passage into their most guarded fortress. They’d been right about one thing. I wasn’t about to let my cousin the princess surrender her freedom for peace. I was the Phoenix. And I was here to bring Voland to her knees. This is the Second Place Winner of our Fantasy Contest! Congrats Piper!!!
My parents knew I was gifted from the moment I was born, when I came out with a head full of rosy pink hair. Sure, my gift didn’t actually develop until I was five, but the unnatural hair color was a dead giveaway, and being born “Gifted” was actually a curse. My mom cried. My dad punched a few walls. And then life went on. I was raised under their tender and loving care until I was six, the age when people start to ask questions. I wasn’t in school, after all, and my parents rarely took me out in public. No one could know I was gifted. The staff at the hospital had been paid into silence when I was born. And at six years old, I shoved a piano through a wall. Don’t be fooled, it wasn’t like I had super strength or anything, no, it was nothing like that. It was the gift of music. Or rather, to control musical instruments. Not much help in a fight, but to be able to play the piano, violin, cello and flute all at the same time, and with only my mind to top it all off? You better believe I could make some pretty amazing music. And it wasn’t just instruments, it was—well—anything. Anything capable of forming sound that can be transformed into music, I could control. But it wasn’t telekinesis either, that was different too. It was simply the raw, unadulterated gift of sound. Of musical sounds, played in unison to make something beautiful. And so, at six years old I was sent to Miss Lavinia Gooding’s Academy for the Gifted. At first I resented my parents for sending me away, I figured they must have hated me, and I was too young to fully understand the situation. But as I grew older I realized that it wasn’t their fault. It was to protect me. It was where every child like me was sent when their gift started to become uncontrollable. Then I started to resent myself. Why did I have to be one of the “Gifted” ones? Why couldn’t I have been born normal so I could live a normal life like ninety percent of the world did? Over time, I grew to accept that as well, and then the only thing I resented was the fact that I would never play my music outside the academy walls. So why was I born with pink hair when it had absolutely nothing to do with my gift? I have no idea. But my hair is pink and I play music and I’m okay with that. In fact, the music part I love. The hair part I’ve grown used to. It’s a part of who I am. It defines me. Which is why I’ll never change it. Just like I’ll never play my music outside these academy walls. I don’t think much of anything in my life will change. Or at least I didn’t, until one day one of the students disappeared and the gate was found wide open. The gate we were told never to pass through. I sat in the music room, my fingers lying listlessly over the black and white keys. Even though I could play the instrument by mere thought, there was something about playing it the normal way. Feeling the contact of the keys against my skin. But on that day, the instrument remained silent. I wanted to play—there was scarcely a moment when I didn’t—but on that particular day I felt especially preoccupied, my mind filled with all manner of thoughts. It could have been the extra assignments Miss Gooding had given us, or maybe it was the strange way Jenny had been acting. Or it could have simply been a lack of caffeine. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it. When the music didn’t flow, something was definitely off. Sighing, I slid my fingers from the keys and crossed to the other end of the room, where a huge floor-to-ceiling window looked out into the forest. Forest. It was all I saw, all day every day. The Academy was nestled in some remote area of the world where trees were abundant and humans nonexistent. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure where exactly we were. No one knew aside from Miss Gooding. A creaking sound met my ears, the sound of rusty hinges in dire need of oiling, and I pulled my gaze from the window to find Avery slipping into the room. She closed the door behind her, then tiptoed toward the window, stopping beside me. She stared outside for a few moments before resting green eyes on me. “What are you looking at?” I laughed. “Something that isn’t there.” She glanced out again, biting her lower lip, her brow puckered in thought. Avery wasn’t much for humour. “Lunch is ready. Miss Gooding sent me to get you.” I nodded, chewing my thumb nail. “Thanks. I’ll be there soon.” My gaze drifted back toward the window, to that blasted green forest. Why couldn’t a skyscraper sprout from the ground? At least it would be something different. Avery turned to leave, then paused, looking back at me. “Is everything okay, Malorie? I didn’t hear any music today.” She’d noticed. I suppose everyone probably had. They had all grown accustomed to my music. To my playing in the afternoons. I sighed again, dropping my hand to my side. “I’m fine. I’m just… there seems to be a lot on my mind today.” She studied me for a few silent moments, then turned and exited the room with another round of hinge creaking. Leaving behind the creaky hinges and noiseless instruments, I slipped from the room and started down the long, polished hall toward the dining room. The academy was large but not overabundant. There were currently thirteen students under its roof and a dozen bedrooms, half of which sat unused. Miss Gooding believed companionship was the key to understanding oneself and so insisted on two students per room. Aside from the bedrooms, the academy boasted one huge library, a music room, a dining room and breakfast nook, a kitchen, one classroom and a large living area. It was all very 1800’s, right down to the hand carved banisters on the stairs. And everything, all of the wood in the place, was kept polished to perfection. I wasn’t even sure who kept it up. We didn’t have a maid, and I never saw miss Gooding lift a finger. The double doors leading to the dining room stood open, as they always did during the day, and I hurried into the room, taking my seat at the table. I gave a quick glance around those already seated. “Where’s Jenny?” Jenny was my best friend and roommate, and lately she’d been more absent during meals than not. I was really starting to worry about her. Miss Gooding, who sat in her place at the head of the table, gave me a cursory glance. “She’s your roommate, Malorie. I was hoping you could tell us that.” I shrugged, dropping my gaze to the empty plate in front of me. Miss Gooding cleared her throat. “Let us say grace.” Hands were held, heads were bowed, and grace was said. During the meal I ate in silence, listening to the fragmented bits of conversation that met my ears and throwing the occasional glance toward the gaping doorway. About halfway through the meal, Jenny decided to make an appearance, dressed in her usual baggy black sweater and converse. Miss Gooding gave her a disapproving look. “Jenny, you know the rules about dressing out of uniform during the day.” Jenny lowered into her seat. “I don’t see why we even need uniforms. It’s not like we ever see anyone.” Miss Gooding only glared at the remark. She and Jenny went over this same thing about once every other day. I cleared my throat—loudly—exchanged a look with Jen, then glanced around the rest of the table. Cole winked at me, and I quickly dropped my gaze to my plate, a blush warming my cheeks. Cole was a year older than me and the oldest student at the academy. He was also extremely good looking. Not that that mattered. “After lunch I’d like you all to spend some time outside.” That was Miss Gooding’s way of telling us she wanted peace and quiet the rest of the afternoon. The meal was quickly concluded and I grabbed Jenny’s hand, dragging her outside and to our favorite hangout. It was an old shack, about half a mile from the academy, that was built up on stilts and had a swing extending from the side of it that swung out over a cliff. Why it was there and who built it remained a mystery. We reached the shack and I flung Jenny onto the swing. “You were late again.” She curled her fingers around the weathered ropes, extended her legs and pushed out over the cliffside, sending a rush of unease through my midsection. I could never handle watching anyone swing on that thing. “Jen?” She laid her head back as she continued to swing. “Don’t you ever tire of all the rules Lavinia crams down our throats?” I bit my lip. “Miss Good—“ “I mean, she practically has us in a box.” “She does not have us in a box.” “Doesn’t she?” She swung faster. “Wear this. Study that. Be to a meal at exactly this time or suffer her oh-so-terrifying look of disapproval.” I chewed my thumbnail. There was never any getting anywhere with Jenny. “She has a lot of rules and schedules but I think it helps keep order to things. Someone has to—“ Jenny laughed, stirring up dirt as she brought herself to a stop. “Why do you always justify everything she does?” “Why do you always have to go against everything?” “I don’t go against everything. But it’s been the same thing ever since we got here. Don’t you ever want change?” A coy smile slid onto her face. “Don’t you want to see what’s on the other side of that gate?” My brows went up. “The gate? Why would you even say that?” Jenny shrugged, still smiling, then swung out again. “I don’t know. It’s hard not to wonder what’s beyond it.” I lowered myself down onto the lowest step leading up to the shack. “It’s the one place she told us absolutely never to go. Don’t even think about it, Jen.” “Who said I was thinking about it?” A twig snapped, and moments later Cole stepped out from the forest. “I thought I’d find you two here.” He brushed a dry leaf from his hair, then lowered down on the step beside me. “Whatcha talking about?” “The gate.” Jenny offered all too readily. Cole was the last person I would want to get that idea planted into his head. He and Jenny were way too alike and it scared me a little. “What about the gate?” “Nothing.” I quickly stood, my hand resting on the railing. “Have you ever been inside this place?” “Way to change the subject, Mal.” Jenny hopped from the swing, looking up at the shack. “It gives me the creeps.” Cole stood to his feet. “I vote we check it out.” “I vote we don’t.” I threw Jenny a look of surprise. “You? Miss Daredevil? You were just talking about how you wondered what was beyond the gate but you vote against going inside the shack?” “The gate is outside. Clearly whatever is beyond it is an open space. The shack is all confined and small and up on stilts with nowhere to run. What if there’s a dead body inside?” Cole laughed, and I had to hold a little laughter back myself. “I highly doubt that.” “Why? Because it’s so peaceful here? Doesn’t mean it’s always been. Someone had to have built it, and I don’t think that someone was Lavinia.” “Someone had to have built the academy too, and I know that wasn’t Lav—Miss Gooding, but you still went inside.” “More like I was forced to go inside.” Cole shook his head, starting up the creaky steps. “I’m checking it out whether you girls want to or not.” I stared after him, threw Jenny another look, then started up the stairs myself. Each step creaked and groaned and for a moment I wondered if climbing up these weather-battered stairs was the brightest of ideas. The railing was warped and peeling, making it impossible to grab onto it without getting a sliver or twelve. When Cole reached the top he paused a moment. Maybe he was also rethinking this whole thing. Then he looked down at me, a half smile tugging at his lips. “So, you want to go first or should I?” I ascended the final step, stopping just behind him. “You go ahead.” My voice trembled a little, but it wasn’t from fear of what might be inside. No, it was the fact that I was terrified of heights. Sweat moistened my palms and I reached out to curl a hand around Cole’s arm. “Here goes nothin’.” He reached for the doorhandle, bronzy and rusted with age, then swung the door open. The hinges groaned, and the door stopped about halfway, probably warped from years of abandonment. It was dark inside the shack, only a thin sliver of light seeping through a thinly draped window. Cole gave the door another shove and this time it banged into the connecting wall. We both stared inside. “So what’s inside?” Jenny called from her place at the bottom of the stairs. “It’s…” Cole began. “Empty.” I finished, staring into the dusty shell of a room. “What? You’re kidding!” The stairs groaned as Jen hurried up them, taking two at a time. “Wow, you really weren’t kidding.” She slipped passed us and into the shack. Cole and I followed. The floor and walls were paneled with the same wood and painted in peeling gray paint. Aside from a single light hanging from the ceiling and the tattered curtains over the shack’s lone window, the place was completely empty. “So, what, the previous owner either took all of their belongings or the place was never used to begin with.” Jen scraped the toe of her shoe against the peeling paint. “If that were the case, why bother putting a curtain in the window?” I glanced toward it, gauzy red and green plaid. “Let’s try the light.” Cole suggested. He reached up to pull the cord, but instead of the room filling with light, it dimmed with a purplish glow. My eyes widened in surprise. “What the—” Jen began, but her sentence broke off when she spotted what Cole and I had already noticed. Splayed across the floor in a bold, eerie script were these words: The gifted will fall. And then the floorboards gave out. This is our third place winner from our Fantasy Contest!
Enjoy! Three days. That’s all he needed to complete his plan. He smiled with amusement at himself. His plan would be in full blow and nothing could stop him. His power would be known. He stood up and smoothed out his black hoodie, then he grabbed his sword and placed the blade portion into the sword holder at his side. “I’m telling you, you can’t do this.” “Watch me,” he smiled to himself. “I’m not kidding. The Master will kill you, Nicholas. Think about this again,” he pleaded. “If I was afraid of The Master, I wouldn’t do this in the first place,” Nicholas ran his fingers over the edge of a sword blade. “Nick, I’m begging you. Betraying him is like suicide!” “It’s Nicholas,” he replied, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t care, man! Just tell me you won’t go through with it!” “I’m doing what I want. I don’t want to be blood bound to that freak for the rest of my life. I’m taking back my life, whether he, or you like it or not,” Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “You’re absolutely insane! Crazy, not just insane! You can’t do this! Nicholas, stop. Rethink what you’re about to do,” he protested. “I appreciate your concern, Mike, but this time I’m not stopping for anything,” Nicholas turned to face his friend. “Nicholas, I’m not kidding, leave this whole betrayal thing. Stay with The Master. He won’t do anything to you as long as you stay in line,” Mike sighed. “The Master can shove a chicken down his throat, I don’t care what he cares about. Got it?” Nicholas brushed past him, but he paused at the doorway to see what Mike had to say in response. “I’ve said all I can, but for now, good luck, Nicky boy,” Mike smirked. “Thanks. I don’t need luck though, I need skills,” Nicholas started walking out of the door. “By the way, swords are ineffective. Use throwing knives too,” Mike suggested. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Nicholas held a thumbs up. “You better,” Mike sighed. Nicholas sneaked down the hall. The Master had eyes everywhere, and Nicholas wasn’t in the mood to make that freak notice him. I will succeed. I will. I will. The Master won’t win this time, not now, not ever. It’s my day. Nicholas turned his head towards the windows. The night was streaking over Paradise Bay, California. The lights from the clubs and skyscrapers reached the heavens, but that’s what it only seemed. Nicholas scoffed and walked past the window. He didn’t care for the stupid lights, or the stupid town. The Master was all he cared about. He was going to win. The Master placed his long and thin fingers on the piece of paper sitting at his desk. He was trying to figure out what he was going to do that day, and the only way to keep track of his long list and growing thoughts was through paper and pencil. The Master knew it was a cliche thing to do, but that was the last of his concerns. He stood up and walked towards the large double doors of his office. His long green silk jacket flowed behind him, as if it was on air. “Something’s wrong,” he raised his hand up to the air. Nothing. He wasn’t getting a signal. Good, I thought something was up. Must be my mind going crazy with thoughts again. He then felt a sour taste in his mouth. He gagged and made a face. He knew that only happened when he was in danger, but danger by whom? He placed his hand on the door handles, but the sour taste only grew stronger. He was on the verge of throwing up. The Master ran back to his desk and grabbed the trash can. He threw up and gagged on the sour flavor. “Disgusting,” he spat. Nicholas climbed out the window. It was only a short drop from his position to the tree below. He sighed and let himself fall, the wind carrying him as his only safety precaution. He figured The Master already knew something was up. He just had a feeling. Then, the tree branches met his arms, scraping him and tearing part of his hoodie. He cursed out loud as he smashed through the branches and fell onto the grass covered ground. The grass was wet, and instantly his pants got soaked. He closed his eyes and screamed in his head. He didn’t want to wake anybody up and have them act all goody goody and tell The Master. He patted the side of his pants to make sure his throwing knives were in there, then he checked for his swords. Everything was accounted for. Nicholas stood up and limped towards the edge of the lake that separated Paradise Bay from The Master’s base. The lake acted like a magic barrier. Nobody could see anything beyond it, nor be able to touch the hideout. Nobody. Well, only the followers of The Master. The Keepers, he called them. “What are we even keeping?” Nicholas asked himself. He stepped into the lake and felt a shivering feeling in his spine. He stiffly walked through the freezing cold water. He, unfortunately, had a severe allergy to the cold. He knew he’d instantly get hives and his fingers would turn twenty times the size they already were, but that didn’t deter him from completing his plan. Paradise Bay actually had one of the largest magic sources in the entire world. The Master chose well. All Nicholas had to do was complete his magic training there in under three days, and then he would be ready to face The Master. He looked back at the base, then ran as fast as he could through the water. It was getting deeper as he passed the magic barrier. He was shaking violently at that point. When he finally made it out of the lake he let out a huge sigh. He rocked on his bottom back and forth. The pain was pulsing through his bloodstream at that point. Well, not literally, but that’s what he felt. He stood up, but then collapsed instantly. Severe. Mike laid down on his bed. The Master was the man of his nightmares. Everytime he pictured the bony old man with the long white beard and deep set eyes, the long green silk robe and the white tunic, he felt electrocuted in his spine. “Just turn back, Nick. Just turn back,” Mike whispered to himself. His roommate was probably close to death. How would he pass the freezing cold lake? He would probably die because of his allergies. Mike jumped out of his bed and ran to the window. He couldn’t see Nicholas at all. Please be alive! Oh God, don’t take his life now. He’s got a good heart, he doesn’t deserve this. Mike sat back down on his bed and waited. He didn’t know what for, but he was waiting. Nicholas was covered in hives on his legs. He scratched at them constantly. The pain seared through his bones. His teeth chattered and he could barely feel his fingers. “Crap, I’m gonna get frostbite,” Nicholas stood up and started to hobble towards the green tipped mountains in the distance. He didn’t have anything close to a car, but he calculated if he attempted his teleportation spell, he might make it within two hours. That would give him time to finish his training. He placed his right hand on his heart and weakly spoke the chant to teleport him to the mountains. He felt himself being pulled into a burst of light as he was transported from his position to the mountains. It felt like two seconds to him, but in real life, it took hours. He didn’t prefer to use it, but it was much better than walking. He finally emerged on the top of the mountain, where the Bright Stone was placed. He sighed, but it was still cold up there. He shivered and rubbed his arms like there was no tomorrow. The Bright Stone was where the ritual binding The Master and The Keepers together happened. He despised the Bright Stone for that very reason, but it was the only way to complete his training. He pressed his hands to the Bright Stone and he felt light pour out of his eyes. The pain the Bright Stone gave was worse than any allergy. He clenched his teeth and then the light show ended. He blinked and backed away from the Bright Stone. Blood trickled down his chin and he quickly wiped it away. “Just let me complete my training!” Nicholas shouted at the magical rock. He let out a burst of light from his fingers and it blasted the top of the cave. Shards of crystals poured down from the top. His eyes went wide. He had never noticed that. He created a ball of light and shone it up to the roof. The crystals dangled from the ceiling like grapes on vines. He marveled at it, but then directed his attention to the Bright Stone. Two days was all he needed. The next day, Nicholas awoke on the floor of the cave. His back hurt terribly and his hives were finally gone. “Note to self, never sleep on rocks… Again,” he laughed faintly to himself. The Bright Stone glinted in the sunlight that was pouring through the mouth of the cave. He placed his hands on it again, and the light came back, this time it poured out of his mouth. He closed his eyes. His training was almost done. One day. One more day was all he needed. The Master had felt the sour taste in his mouth all day since it began. The pain in his mouth was spreading to his lungs and heart. He felt something, but he couldn’t tell what it was. The sky wasn’t giving him any hints as to what the danger was, but he knew that there was a threat of danger on his life. Someone was missing from the base, and he knew it. That was it. Nicholas was done. The Bright Stone had given him all the magic it could. It was enough to challenge The Master to a duel of swords. It was enough for a magic duel as well. He began the teleportation spell and appeared at the lake where the magical barrier concealed the base. He sighed and stepped into the water and crossed the barrier. He emerged at the entrance to the base. The Master was outside, almost as if he was expecting someone. “You left? Didn’t you?” The Master flashed a smile. His yellow teeth made Nicholas cringe out of disgust. “Yes, I did.” “Why’d you come back?” “Because I’m here to challenge you,” Nicholas unsheathed his swords. “Challenge me? You must be drunk,” The Master roared out of laughter. “I thought you loved to fight,” Nicholas smirked. “I do, that’s why I accept your challenge. Let’s fight, Nicholas,” The Master unsheathed his swords with a satisfying hiss. Nicholas gulped and gripped the hilts tightly. He held his breath, then let out a battle cry and blasted a beam of light at The Master. He ducked under the beam and shot one back at Nicholas. The Keeper charged at him with his swords. He didn’t forget the throwing knives, they would come in handy later. The blades clashed against each other like savage beasts. Nicholas flipped over The Master and ran up the wall. He flipped in mid air and blasted a bolt of lightning as he did so. The Master held his hand out and the lighting stopped its attack. “The source of my misery, that’s where,” Nicholas landed on his feet. “The Bright Stone? You sneaky animal,” The Master narrowed his eyes. “Listen, Master. I will no longer be bound to you. From this day forth, I want freedom from this cursed place. I’m done with being a Keeper. I’m going to end you right here and right now,” Nicholas spat. “You’re a fool. Nobody has left my bind, and nobody ever will. You are no exception,” The Master hissed. “Then let’s find out,” Nicholas raised his chin up. “What an ego,” The Master whispered under his breath. Nicholas whipped out a gun and fired two shots. One shot hit into The Master’s arm. He wailed in pain and collapsed on his knees, clutching his arm. He shook angrily and shot a huge ball of fire at Nicholas. The Keeper ducked under the ball and charged at The Master. “It’s over!” Nicholas shouted. “Never,” The Master stood up and thrusted his sword into Nicholas’ chest. Nicholas’ eyes went wide and his arm fell down to his side. He gasped for breath. The Master slowly pulled out the sword, the pain exploded through Nicholas. He let out a small groan as he fell to his knees. “I don’t like traitors, and you are the stupidest person ever,” The Master laughed tauntingly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you were clear enough, could you repeat that?” Nicholas spat. “What?” The Master snapped. Suddenly, the old man felt a huge shot of pain in his heart. He looked down and saw a magic propelled knife stuck straight through his heart. “I’m not dying without you dying too,” Nicholas pressed his hand on his wound. “You little-” The Master began choking for air. He felt the life slowly slip out of him. The wind was knocked right out of him. “Goodbye, Master,” Nicholas crawled away from the dead body of what used to be The Master. Nicholas laid down on his back, his eyes looked at the sun. He let out a small laugh and a smile spread on his lips. He was dying, but he still won. He knew it. Mike ran to his friend’s side. “Nick! Speak to me!” He felt tears stinging at the back of his eyes. “I did it. You doubted me,” Nicholas laughed weakly. “Nick, dude, don’t die on me,” Mike frantically looked around. “I’m gonna die, face it,” Nicholas looked up at his friend with a triumphant look in his eyes. “You did good, Nick,” Mike wiped the tears that were now flowing. “I did, didn’t I?” “Yes. You beat him. You beat The Master,” Mike choked on his sobs. “Goodbye, buddy,” Nicholas sucked in a final breath of air. “Nick? Nick?” Mike checked his pulse. Nothing. |
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