(http://www.fullredneck.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/The-10-Best-Country-Songs-About-Betrayal.jpg)
We live in treacherous times. That brother, that best friend, or that lover...do they have our well-being and overall best interest at heart? Or are they plotting and scheming, waiting for that penultimate moment of betrayal where they plunge the knife deep into our back?!
Rules:
-> Anything goes storywise as long as at least one character backstabs another character
-> Short story, not a sketch story, so at least 500 words
-> Deadline is Friday, May 26th
The voting categories will be:
Best Stab:
Best Stabber:
Best Setting/World:
Best Writing/Style:
Trophies:
(http://i66.tinypic.com/1431f9t.png) (http://i65.tinypic.com/b3lwmw.png) (http://i65.tinypic.com/b6bsxf.png)
Does it need to be a literal stabbing or can we have a metaphorical one?
Metaphorical. But the metaphorical backstabbing could include a literal stabbing.
MY MEMOIR OF ME
Meh... Now that I "sit" on death-row in my supermax prison cell in ADX, Fremont County, Colorado, I guess I should probably "write" down the whole story that landed me in here.
It all started before I was even born. I was a breech birth. The surgeon cut into my mother's belly just a tad too deep and I came out a quadriplegic. Not only was I the wrong way up, but also back to front, and that quack nicked my spinal cord just below the neck while opening my doorway into this world.
If you are going to continue reading my story then I suppose I should warn you right now that everything you will read in the telling is from the neck up, as I experienced it.
There's not going to be any chase scenes, car or otherwise, nor will there be any shoot-em-ups, nor any steamy moments with the ladies.
Nope, just me and my head.
So, we can probably fast-forward through the formative years of my life with this brief montage:
I was hand-fed by my mom. Dad skipped town. Mom home-schooled me the best she could until the state took me away from her. I missed her hugs even though I only felt them on my forehead. But I could imagine what they felt like to her.
I was institutionalized and soon learned how to play the system. I was a pity case, which meant most of my care workers considered me a lump on a bed to clean up between the buttocks and be done with.
But Nurse Evell was different. I'm guessing she had no life outside of her job, or maybe that's just me being an asshole, but she read to me the collected works of Theodor Geisel, starting with "Hop On Pop" and ending with "The Lorax".
The open-ended children's book ending of "The Lorax" haunted me for weeks until I realised that life holds no answers except those we make for ourselves.
So I started making up my own stories...
People always talked right in front of me as if it were my ears that don't work. Ironic really considering that they are one of the few things that do.
I overheard Nurse Evell telling Nurse Young that she "had a bit of a thing" for Doctor Archer. Thanks to being spammed with daytime soap operas from the TV, I could figure out what that meant.
So, I asked Nurse Evell what Doctor Archer meant when he said she "had a nice caboose". Yeah, I also watched a lot of black-and-white movies.
After a few weeks I saw a change in the mood between the doctor and the nurse, and even once managed to catch them sneaking a quick kiss when they thought I was sleeping.
This is when I asked Nurse Evell why Doctor Archer had to touch me in my "special place" so often. This I got from an "after-school" special episode of that crime dog with the Scottish-sounding name.
A police lady visited me, Detective Juilliard was her name, and asked me to show her where the "special place" was on a Ken doll. I pointed to it with a straw she put in my mouth.
I never saw Nurse Evell or Doctor Archer again in real life, but I did see a spot on "60 Minutes" where I learned that Nurse Evell had killed herself, and Doctor Archer was in jail.
I was hooked!
Another fun pass-time I invented as a young boy, and one I recall fondly, was a game I called "Swap The Pills":
Nurse Young, never the most focused of individuals, and even less so after her gossip partner, the late Nurse Evell, left the scene, had a habit of placing the tray of pill cups for the other patients on my bedside table right next to my head.
After I had washed down my own pills, and while she was attending to my sponge bath, it was a simple matter to lean my head over, straw still in mouth, and use just a little suction to pick up pills from various cups and redistribute them in others.
I have no clear record of how much mischief I managed to cause playing "Swap The Pills" and could only judge it by the increase in "Code Blue" calls over the hospice speakers and the climbing frequency of ambulance sirens heard outside, but I imagine it was at least a body-count of more than a dozen but less than twenty before Nurse Young stopped coming by anymore and was replaced by Nurse Kelvin, who never left the tray within reach unfortunately.
The fun was over for then, but... ahhhh... Good times...
My tenth birthday went by.
And I don't think I've mentioned up until this point that I had an older sister? My sweet, sweet Jeanie...
So nice and so willing to shed tears whenever I faked a seizure...
This next story of how her sweet, sweet life came to an abrup...
*CLANK*
Oh shit, I hear them opening up the containment gate at the end of my cell-block. They are coming to take me out of my death-row cell here for the last time. I guess I must fast-forward my story if I want to dictate it in time for this machine to save it for the ages:
After I put away childish games, and started to concentrate on my real life goals, I actually found it amazingly easy. Some nice strangers, dead now most likely because of me, had put together a fund, for when I came of age, on this amazing thing called the internet.
So, upon my twentieth birthday, I became a tad wealthy to the sum of around $170,000 or so... And I exited the institution for the outside world for the first time in my memory.
It wasn't hard to exploit this internet community that had grown around me somehow without me knowing anything about it. People tend to assume that the disabled are all poor unfortunate saints, and so this was the role I played on the talk-shows that followed. I knew just how to play the shows' hosts... I had been watching them for years after all...
I became the most miraculous case of a head-on-a-stick warm-fuzzy news sensation that made everyone just feel great about life in general for about three years. I met presidents and even the Pope!
And that's when I played the "Swap The Pills" game on myself, after much research of course, and fell into an intentional coma for six weeks. My brain activity fell to the baseline that modern science could measure and I was declared "brain-dead", but, yeah you guessed it, I "miraculously" recovered.
Upon awakening I proclaimed that I had been to and seen beyond the veil of death. Nobody had ever come back from a flat-line on brain activity before. The world news was split about even between declaring me a faker, and a true miracle.
I preyed upon the latter reports, and my cult grew exponentially. I found the best follower-base in areas that had been forced to abandon their religions such as Russian states during the rule of Communism, and the country of Japan which had a huge, gaping religious wound in its society ever since their God-Emperor had been relegated back to mere mortal status after World War Two.
The Japanese cultists supplied the scientific know-how (the best being the ones who once followed Shoko Asahara), and the Russian cultists gathered the materials we needed to complete our amazingly simple project:
One very basic, and rather low-yield, atomic bomb. One which would easily fit inside the trunk of a car. But one which would end the world.
Just as I had been backstabbed by the world upon my birth, so would I backstab it in return.
*GRRRRRAAAAATE*
That was the door opening. They are coming for me! Okay, so here's what happened next condensed into 30 seconds:
I was arrested for ordering the deaths of cult followers who tried to leave the order or rat on it. I was convicted guilty, and incarcerated here on death-row at ADX, Fremont County, Colorado. But it didn't matter. In fact, it drove my followers to complete the final objective.
*step-step-step*
Here they come! So, my followers drove a car up to the one place on Earth where a single nuclear detonation could destroy the world as we knew it: Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as the shallowest super-volcano on the planet.
*step-stEP-STEP*
They-opened-the-boot-of-the-car-and-pushed-the-button-and-their-self-sacrifice-brought-about-the-chain-reaction-that-led-to-the-annihilation-of-civilization-ashes-and-fire-and-poison-rain-spread-around-the-globe-and-poured-down-from-the-darkened-skies-and-humanity-finally-had-to-ask-itself-the-same-question-I-have-asked-myself-every-single-fucking-day-since-I-even-could:
"WHY?"
*STEP-STEP-STEP*
They are here for me... Here endeth my memoir...
"Master, all was as you foretold. We are here to free you from this prison and ask you that which you asked us to ask of you: ... Why?"
"My faithful flock! The answer you seek is a simple quote from a favorite movie of mine:"
"Some men just want to watch the world burn."
I have to admire Mandle's incremental dedication to this competition. For me, the theme feels quite appropriate for the Friday night deadline. (roll)
Quote from: Baron on Fri 12/05/2017 02:59:50
I have to admire Mandle's incremental dedication to this competition.
Well, it worked for Dickens...
(And if you thought the protagonist in my last story was despicable... Just get a load of this guy!)
Quote from: kconan on Mon 08/05/2017 15:27:11
Rules:
-> Anything goes storywise as long as at least one character backstabs another character
-> Short story, not a sketch story, so at least 500 words
I'm almost half-way through my story, and I'm at 768 words.
Is that too much? Should I try and shorten it, or keep going as I am? :confused:
Love those trophies, btw. :grin:
Quote from: Frodo on Sat 13/05/2017 20:27:56
I'm almost half-way through my story, and I'm at 768 words.
Is that too much? Should I try and shorten it, or keep going as I am? :confused:
Its up to you. If you feel that the story deserves more, then give it more! I say go for quality and quantity.
Be careful, Frodo! Remember the value of free advice. He might just be leading you down the garden path and then -BACKSTABBING!!!1!
Trust your own instincts. It sometimes works for me! :=
Hehe, good point Baron. He might be trying to BACKSTAB me. :=
I'm having a great time writing my story a little at a time, and it's so much fun to think about my main character in my spare time and dream up worse and worse pranks to "wrap his head around" as he grows older...
I already know how the story ends. It came to me yesterday. But for the meanwhile I have another few fun-filled incidents he can get away with before then.
I guess writing the most despicable character I can imagine is such fun because I can shock myself by what I can come up with and hopefully shock the readers without going too far into the trap of just leaving a bad taste in their mouths.
Well... we'll see...
Would BACKSTABBING good taste really be so bad this time around? ;)
Quote from: Baron on Mon 15/05/2017 02:14:39
Would BACKSTABBING good taste really be so bad this time around? ;)
Hahaha.... we'll see I guess...
I re-jigged my story, took out some less-important details, and tried to make it shorter cos it was getting too long.
So here's my entry. Hope you like it. :smiley:
BTW, what happened to the options for Bold, Italic etc, when making a post? :confused:
**********************************
THE ONYX DRAGONAnthony Lowell is your typical rich playboy. His life revolves around parties, women, and fast cars. Oh, and luxury holidays! First-class flights and Five-Star accommodation, of course! And after his father died, leaving Anthony (his only child) the entire multi-million estate, his spending became increasingly more indulgent.
Now he's hosting a lavish party to celebrate his return home after a 6-week holiday in Hawaii. He‘s also planning to make an important announcement, which he just KNOWS will shock his friends.
Several hours later, the party is still going strong. Anthony climbs up on a chair, clinks his champagne glass, and clears his throat.
ANTHONY: *
Ahem* Scuse me. Scuse me everybody, can I have your attention please.
Everyone turns to look at him.
ANTHONY: As you all know by now… I was in Hawaii recently… for 6 weeks. Well, I brought back a very special souvenir with me, which I'd like to present to you all now.
Anthony looks towards the doorway.
ANTHONY: Kalena, will you come in now?
A beautiful Hawaiian woman enters the room, and makes her way over to Anthony. She smiles shyly at the crowd.
KALENA: Hello. Nice to meet you all.
Despite being born and raised in Hawaii, her English is very good.
ANTHONY: Everybody… this is Kalena Mahelona… now Kalena Lowell… my wife.
Loud gasps are heard all round the room. Anthony being married is the LAST thing anyone expected. He's the type to have a different woman every night… not settle down with just one person.
ANTHONY: Yes, the ultimate souvenir… all the way from Hawaii. Can any of you beat that?
The party lasts well into the night. Next morning finally arrives. Anthony wakes with a loud snort, face down in the bed. He groans - he has the hangover from hell.
Someone kisses his cheek. He opens one eye, and looks at whoever is lying next to him. Of course - it's Kalena! He's married now! ANTHONY: I've got this killer headache. But after breakfast, I'm gonna show you something really special.
KALENA: *
smiles* Poor baby. Let me get you some painkillers for your headache. And how would you like some orange juice?
Tony grunts his approval, so Kalena heads down to the kitchen.
A few hours later, Anthony's hangover is starting to lift. He smiles at Kalena, takes her hand, and leads her through his mansion, to a large room at the back. In the room, amongst other ‘treasures', lies a large glass display case, with a black dragon statue sitting proudly inside. The dragon statue must mean a lot to Anthony - several security systems, including lasers and alarms, are set up to protect it.
ANTHONY: I brought you here, cos I wanted to show you this. *
points to the dragon statue* Remember I told you about this in Hawaii?
Kalena looks at the statue, and nods. She watches, as Anthony disables the various security systems. Finally, he‘s able to lift the statue from it‘s place inside the glass case.
ANTHONY: You're the only living soul that knows about this. *
proud* THIS… is The Onyx Dragon!
KALENA:
*stares blankly* The Onyx Dragon?
ANTHONY: Yep. Carved from a block of purest onyx. This statue is worth a small fortune, baby. Only one in existence… estimated at £3.4 million… and it's MINE!
KALENA: *
looks at it* But it's black. It's boring! Why isn't it a pretty colour, like… pink? Pink is MUCH prettier than black.
ANTHONY: Onyx isn't pink, baby.
KALENA: Well it SHOULD be! *
thinks* Can I colour it pink? Please Tony?
ANTHONY: No baby, you can‘t colour it pink.
KALENA: Meany!
Anthony sighs. He had tried to impress her by showing her this, but it's gone right over her head. He resets all the security systems then takes her back to the front room.
The next day arrives, and Kalena bounds into the room. KALENA: Tony, Tony... I made these paper hats. Well, paper crowns, really. Which colour do you like best? Pink, Red, Blue, Green, or Purple?
*holds up all her paper hats*ANTHONY:
*puzzled* Why on earth have you made paper hats.
*takes one, to study it* Very small paper hats, at that. They won't fit on our heads.
KALENA: They're not for US, silly. They're for your dragon toy in the other room. Black is such a dreary colour... I thought these hats would brighten it up a little.
Tony can't help but chuckle at Kalena wanting to put coloured paper hats on his priceless Onyx Dragon statue... AND calling it a toy. ANTHONY: *smiles* There will be no hats, paper or otherwise, for the Onyx Dragon, baby. It's fine as it is.
KALENA: Double-Meany!
Kalena pouts, and then leaves the room. Two weeks pass, and The Onyx Dragon isn't mentioned again.
The next day, Kalena creeps into the room, and hugs Anthony from behind.
KALENA: Tony… do you know what today is?
ANTHONY: No. What day is it?
KALENA: It's our anniversary. We've been married a whole month! And to celebrate, I‘ve cooked you a special meal.
Anthony turns to look at her. She may have started out as just a ‘souvenir', but the past few weeks, he's really enjoyed her company.
As he eats the anniversary meal, he begins to feel dizzy. VERY dizzy. He tries to stand up… but collapses to the floor.
Several hours later, he jerks awake. As he struggles to his feet, he sees a note on the table. It reads: Quote‘Thanks for the souvenir.'
ANTHONY: No! NO! NO!!! I DON‘T BELIEVE IT! She CAN'T have! That BITCH drugged me! After ALL I've done for her... she steals my Onyx Dragon right from under my nose. That 2-faced. backstabbing little BITCH!
He runs through to his ‘Treasure Room'. But his precious Onyx Dragon is gone!
On a plane, somewhere between here and Hawaii… sits a passenger. A beautiful Hawaiian woman. She opens her hand luggage, and carefully takes out a well wrapped ornament. It‘s the Onyx Dragon.
KALENA: *
laughs to herself* Hahaha. Oh, Tony, Tony, Tony! You took me for an innocent young Hawaiian woman, too gullible to know the ways of the world. You even tried to impress me by showing off your wealth. But I knew, as soon as you described it to me in Hawaii, you had the infamous Onyx Dragon. I just played dumb, and your stupid ego did all the rest. You really should learn not to spill secrets when you‘re drunk. *
looks at the statue in her hands* £3.4 million you say? I could easily get £5 million for this on the black market. And then I'll be RICH! Stupid Fool!
Quote from: Frodo on Wed 17/05/2017 04:09:46
BTW, what happened to the options for Bold, Italic etc, when making a post? :confused:
They're right there where they always were for me.
One week left... :wink:
I do have an idea, but I'm still working on it...
Can't wait to see your idea Blondbraid :smiley:
Updated my story tonight...
Not great writing really, but given the rushed circumstances of the protagonist I hope it's forgivable...
Last chapter coming soon!
Couldn't resist tweaking my story a bit. :tongue:
It's hard to get across Tony's indulgent lifestyle, in a short story. :=
Okay... my story is done for better or worse...
It's updated fully in the original post...
Enjoy, I hope...
A cold blade
Betrayal... Of all evil that a man can do, betrayal is the one we consider the worst. Do you know why that is?
Ahmed did not say anything, just quietly looked at Kazimir with questioning eyes.
It is so since any other crime can be committed by a man you hate, a cold and unfeeling stranger. But betrayal, betrayal is the very same thing done by a man you love.
Kazimirs eyes shifted and faltered, and then went back to Ahmeds.
And my betrayal is threefold, the worst and deepest form of betrayal, since through the murder I am about to commit I am to betray my land by killing my king and ruler, then I am to betray my promise to him to serve my king and protect him from harm, and last, I am to betray my family by murdering my own brother. And by doing so I have condemned myself to the worst of punishments if it was to ever be known that I, Kazimir, had my brother murdered so that I myself could be king in his place. And by telling you this, I have placed my life in your hands, because I trust you. Because we are family.
Ahmeds chest felt like a cage filled with birds fluttering in fear and joy alike. No less than a year ago he had no family or living relative in the world to care for him, he had been only one of the many young boys living on the streets and stealing food to survive. Few cared enough about a loaf of bread or vegetable to give chase, and if caught, they usually received a beating at worst. But one day, he had decided to risk stealing from a high lord riding by on a great silvercoated horse. He had used a small knife to cut the purse hanging from his belt and ran, but one of the city's guards had spotted him, and managed to grab a firm hold of Ahmeds tunic. He was trembling with fear as they dragged him in front of the lord he had wronged.
In that moment, Ahmed was certain that the theft would cost him his hand as he stared at the sabres hanging from the guards belts. He would have been forever marked as an outcast, forced to sit by the wayside begging for alms. But to Ahmeds, and the guards, great surprise the lord on the horse just looked Ahmed in the eyes and asked: Did you steal my purse just to buy yourself food?
Ahmed nodded. Slowly the noble lord smiled and said: Come with me my child, and I shall see to it that you never go hungry again. The Guards stood aside as he lifted Ahmed up on his saddle and began riding towards his home. The name of the lord was Kazimir.
During the time that followed, Kazimir had treated Ahmed as his own son, or at least how Ahmed imagined a royal prince would live. He had received plenty of food, in a single day he would eat more than in an entire month out on the streets, and felt himself growing both in strength and size. Kazimir was more than happy to accommodate him, let him run and play in his garden and even trained swordfighting with him.
When Ahmed finally worked up the courage to ask why he had taken him in, Kazimir told him that whereas others might only have seen a thief, he had seen something admirable in how quickly and easily Ahmed had managed to steal his purse without him noticing. More so, in him he had seen a purity and innocence, a young man untainted by the depravity and intrigues of the court, and therefore Kazimir had sought to keep him out of the court and its politics as much as he could.
The king, Kazimir explained, was not a good king. He was responsible for many ills and wrongs in the land, and so it had to come to the grim plan he had told Ahmed. The king had to die, but the plots and schemes of the treacherous nobility had rendered him a very suspicious man, so suspicious that the only person he still trusted enough to walk alone with was his own brother. But Kazimir could not kill the king himself. He turned to face the window behind him as he spoke:
As much as what is to come is necessary, he is still my brother. When the moment comes, I might not find the strength to bring myself to kill him. Ahmed, I will only as this once, and I will not force you to if you do not want it. Ahmed my child, will you help me kill him?
For a moment, Ahmed hesitated. He had only seen a dead man once before, an old beggar lying on the street with his eyes open in a stare which Ahmed could still see whenever he closed his eyes for long enough. But Ahmed had also been in his fair share of fights with other boys, and now, with Kazimirs nurture and training behind him, he felt more than confident that he could take on a grown man. Besides, he was not to engage him head on or fight the king, all he had to do was to rush up to him from behind, and after a quick stab in the back run back into the shadows just as quickly without even having to look his victim in the eyes. And if he succeeded, Kazimir would be the new king, and Ahmed, once a mere thief from the streets, would be the adopted son of a king, perhaps one day even king himself. It was a dizzying thought. And not only that, but Ahmed would be hailed as a hero as well, for he would have ridden the land of a Tyrant, an evil king. Kazimir had taught him that word, but he had given him so much more as well. Ahmed eagerly said yes.
It was a simple plan. While Kazimir rode through the front gates of the royal palace, Ahmed would slip in a servants entrance, disguised as one kitchen boy among many. From there, he had received clear directions on which paths to take towards the royal garden, where he was to hide in a bush of white roses, just like the games he had played in Kazimirs garden before. Meanwhile, Kazimir would meet with his brother and ask him if they could not both take a walk in the garden, alone together just like they used to do when they were young children. Once the deed was done, and it had to be done quietly, they would meet up and leave the palace together. Kazimir made it very clear that it was important to be quiet and make it look like the king had been murdered by a foreign assassin, for if anyone were to think Kazimir was the one who had killed the king, everything would have been for nothing and both of them would be sentenced to a certain death. Ahmed asked if the plan would work.
Do not worry my child, Kazimir said, he will trust me. He will not deny such a request from his own brother, because we are family.
As he sat crouching in the bush, Ahmed began to worry that they would not show up and that Kazimir had failed him, but to his relief he heard the sound of footsteps slowly coming closer. Kazimir was walking alongside a man in luxurious robes whom could be no other than the king. As he passed by, any worry or hesitation was gone. He flew up and quickly stabbed the king in the back, and then in the throat before the king could even scream. As the king sank to his knees he reached out his arms to his brother in a futile plea for help. Ahmed was going to stab him once more when Kazimir stopped him and took the blade from his hand.
But then Ahmed became greatly confused as Kazimir then hastily slid the blade across his own face and a few times across his arms. Ahmed could only stare in disbelief as Kazimir then screamed Help! Assassin! He's killed the king! and the sound of running soldiers came closer. Not until Kazimir plunged the cold blade deep into his heart did Ahmed realize that he too had been betrayed.
Trust Is an Illusion
April 16th 2016The offer is good. Very good indeed. There‘s no question there, no hitch, no catch. I dreamt about this day for so long. Free again, free at last. I tried so many other ways, but this place, this life, it makes me so weak.
Considering I came here of my own volition, some 65 years ago, it seems kind of unfair that I even had to resort to manipulation and lies â€" had to, have to. Whatever. I wanted to rebuilt, to spread a better future, because this is also my country, my home. And after what had happened in 1945, after what I'd seen, I had to do something good, be good. At least for a while.
But the thought to bite into a neck again, after all these years â€" so tempting, so
delicious.It were just words, right? An idle conversation? What could I do, what couldn't I? - What would I do? We were drinking today. Alcohol, of course, not blood. Oh, how I miss it, delicious liquid of a long forgotten time. How I wish, how I wish it were forgotten. But the thought, always on the surface, the taste, never gone entirely.
I still remember the first time: confused, angry, hurting â€" fire in my veins and the teeth: growing, piercing my gums, grazing my tongue. And the light hurt in my eyes. How I wish the stories were true and I could retract them, show a normal face whenever I wanted. I can't.
But the blood. The taste. The feeling of warm liquid running down my throat. It makes all better, made me forget the pain, though not the craving, never the craving.
I'm losing track of my thoughts again. I really wish writing would help me to focus as I thought it would when I began this diary, but it doesn't. Not while writing, at least. It helps when I'm reading all this again.
But it's really no wonder I lost track, not when the temptation is so close, the offer so real. Was it real? Blood from a blood bank, making me strong again, making me
myself again. I'm so sick of cow blood â€" though I must admit that I quite like blood sausages. Oliver brought me some. I'd nearly forgotten. It was in his first week here, before someone told him that I don't like solid food. They were wrong. I was wrong. I learned something new that day, after such a long time.
Oliver tried to be my friend. Naive. Stupid. Dangerous. - He's a good friend. So why shouldn't his offer be real?
If When he brings me human blood... I'd betray the people here, but would that be so bad? After all, I'm just a prisoner, aren't I? A glorified pet in a cage â€" however gilded it might be. And trust, trust is an illusion anyway.
April 20th 2016I've seen blood bags a couple of times on TV but never held one before. They weren't invented yet when I was imprisoned here. And the animal blood comes in bottles. I'm fairly certain that's not how Peter buys it. Strange, I never thought about it before.
Oliver has left. He never liked watching me drinking blood. The one time he did...
Laughing makes writing into one's journal quite difficult, I must say. But it was too funny, and the memory is still rather vivid. After all, it's only three years. Such a short time, all things considered.
I couldn't help myself. I just had to get my old journal from that day and read it again.
For a moment, I even forgot the clear plastic bag with all the information on the blood I never needed to know. But now I wonder if different blood types taste different. I remember sweet blood and metallic blood, thick blood and sour blood. Maybe I should remember the classification on the bag, learn what kind I like and what not.
Who am I kidding? Whom am I trying to delude? It doesn't matter. It never has. And once I am free again, it will never matter again.
And it is so easy. I drink the blood and then the wall means nothing and the free will of the people around me won't be so free anymore. And all I have to do, all Oliver asks me to do is go with him for a while, persuade someone to open a door and then I can go, live however I want to live.
It's disgusting. I have a reason. This is not natural for me. I carve blood, I need it, need it to survive, need it to live. Necessity of life. It's as easy as this. Oliver? He wants money. Nothing else. Does it always come down to money? It did when I lost my human life, though I admit there were other reasons: liberty, equality, fraternity. Weak people, powerful ones and a fight that wasn't mine in 1848.
I made a promise when I came here. I promised to help eradicate those of my kind that pray on innocents. Oliver swore to serve and protect everyone, I think. It's strange how I never cared to learn what the policeman I work with actually promise the world. What I do know is that Oliver is about to break his oath, whatever exactly it is. Has already broken it, I think.
I'm dangerous. It's in my nature. But Oliver trusts me. He says my word means something. Maybe it does.
Idle thoughts. It doesn't matter. What matters is the bag still on the table next to me. There are small bubbles on the dark liquid, foam that build when I threw it from hand to hand just a few moments ago.
The blood is a promise. It promises me my strength, my powers, my freedom. It is also a promise from Oliver. He promises me more, more blood, more power, more freedom. All I have to do is agree. All I have to do is swear that I will help him steal. It's so easy.
Stupid Alexander. If it is so easy, then tell my why you haven't sunk your teeth into it yet?Great, now I'm talking to myself, in writing no less. It's as if the blood is already blurring my better judgement.
April 20th 2016 laterTechnically, it's the 21, I think.
I've made my decision. I bit into the plastic and I...
There's still blood there. Just a drip, a mere memory on the lips. It will never go away. I remember them all, always and forever. Other things I can forget, the blood always stays with me. This time, it tasted like iron and sugar. There was a bitter note to it. The fear was missing. The taste of sweat, salty and hot. It wasn't there. It wasn't the same as biting a living person. Not as fulfilling, not as exciting.
But it was better still than any other time. It had been too long.
April 21st 2016I've made my decision. And I guess I'm repeating myself but it is true, I did make it. I told Oliver. I agreed. And now I'm waiting. I'm waiting for the blood and for the opportunity. Soon. Soon.
April 21st 2016 laterI forgot how much I hate the taste of cow blood. I never liked it, but now I seem to hate it more than ever before. Peter brought me my daily bottle and I drank it without thinking about it. I spit it out, spit it all over the desk and the TV. Peter was worried. I've never seen him like that before. He asked if the blood was bad. If I was sick.
I don't think I can get sick. At least I've never been sick. But how certain can I really be? What do I actually know about my own kind? I learned more in the years here than in freedom before. And it is still not nearly enough.
The blood was bad. It was a good excuse, a good lie, an easy lie, easy to believe. Peter, at least, believed it. He apologized. He cleaned my room for me. Not with me, for me. Told me I should sit and relax. That it was his duty to bring me my food, that it was the contract we had.
It is, I guess.
April 26th 2016It felt so good to sink my teeth into a neck again after all this time. It was as easy as ever to open the skin, to pierce the flesh. So easy, so natural.
And there is no remorse. There never was, but somehow I expected it this time. The thought was so clear in his eyes, amidst the fear and the pain, the thought of betrayal and incomprehension. He didn't expect it. He didn't think I could do this. He didn't think I would break my word. Idiot.
He tasted sour. It's what I imagined
Peter to taste like. I always thought of a lemon when I saw him with his wrinkly face and the crow's feet around his eyes. With the corners of his mouth closer to his shoulders than his cheeks.
And Oliver? What did I think of his blood before? Nothing, as strange as it might seem. I never thought about eating him. Never. Until the day he brought me blood and the temptation became too strong for me. And I took his offer.
I followed him, out of my room, my
cell, out of the cellar, out of the castle that is exactly 100 years older than me and over the large fan-like castle square. I remember what it looked like here when I decided to fight against my own kind: destroyed and gone. There was nothing left, just a ruin. And I remember seeing the rebuilt castle when they moved our unit there in 1956.
Technically, I knew that there is a bank at the corner of the castle square and the pedestrian zone but I'd never thought much of it. It was not closed yet but the last costumers left. They smelled of hecticness, tired after a day of work, the stop at the bank the last thing they would do this day. They rushed past us, minding their own business and only the teller noticed us. He sighed. He did not want a costumer so late in the day.
I looked around. I smiled. People say my smile alone can open doors. The order in my voice really did. We followed him into the back, down a couple of stairs. Oliver smiled. His teeth were showing. It was strangely predatory, like my own smile, I guess.
The safe was opened. It was easy. It is always easy to deceive, to manipulate the thoughts and will of someone. At least when I'm well-fed, at least for a while. Oliver stuffed a couple of bags with money and the teller just stood there, a stupid smile on his lips, a vacant look in his eyes. Of course.
And then it happened. I'd expected it, of course. He would remember, and Oliver would loose the life he had built for himself. He couldn't let this happen now, could he? I expected it and I was disappointed nonetheless. Maybe if he had said nothing, if he had left...
He ordered me to kill the teller. My hand brushed along the man's neck, stroked his black hair, caught in the arms of his glasses, nearly tumbling them to the ground. My lips kissed his pale skin, sexual, demanding. It was what Oliver expected, what he wanted. He thought it disgusting when I drink animal blood, but he likes watching me violate this innocent man.
He is disgusting. His character, his actions, his thoughts â€" even though I do not know the details, only what I could read in his eyes. He had a choice, after all.
And in the end, I saw fear and pain in his eyes and the inability to understand what I had done.
He tasted of roses. Like the perfume my mother had used and which I accidentally drank as a child. He also tasted sour. I can't decide. It is both. It is neither. And while I still taste his blood on my lips, I can't describe it at all. What did I think Oliver would taste like? Not like that.
I wonder if Peter will notice tomorrow that I was gone for an hour or two. I locked the door with Oliver's key and threw it through the grate. It looks like someone lost it a few meters from my door.
Maybe they will figure it out. Maybe they'll think it was a random vampire. The teller will remember, but will he believe his own memories? Sometimes I envy the short lives and the coping mechanisms of the human brain.
But even if they figure it out, do I care? I killed before. I'll kill again. There is nothing more to it. There is no remorse, nothing. Can Peter trust me? Could Oliver? Trust? Trust is an illusion.
-----------------------------------
Off-topic: Is anyone else missing the options for italicized, bold, ect when posting? I only have the smileys.
They have been removed from the reply options for some reason.
test
Who needs rich font buttons when we've got BBCode 4evar!!!1! :-D
Well, BBCode is fine and dandy when you know it - and I do know those I use more often and usually type them in the text beforehand anyway - but when you need one you don't know off the top of your head, it's inconvinient. :-\
Quote from: kconan on Wed 24/05/2017 03:47:05
They have been removed from the reply options for some reason.
test
They still appear and work for me. I'm using Firefox btw.
Quote from: Sinitrena on Tue 23/05/2017 21:30:22
Off-topic: Is anyone else missing the options for italicized, bold, ect when posting? I only have the smileys.
I had mentioned previously in my post here, that Bold, Italic etc are missing. :wink:
Quote from: Sinitrena on Wed 24/05/2017 04:11:27
Well, BBCode is fine and dandy when you know it - and I do know those I use more often and usually type them in the text beforehand anyway - but when you need one you don't know off the top of your head, it's inconvinient. :-\
Yeah, me too. Years back I got tired of always having to convert fonts in my stories when I cut & paste from my word processor to the comp thread. Since then I've just typed the codes directly into the text to save time.
So I guess there's nothing for it but to storm the throne room. Who's with us? I think it's AGA that's hiding behind the curtain these days. Unlike Celtic warriors of old who charged into battle bravely in the nude, he's always struck me as a sensibly clothed individual, which should work to our advantage. We'll take him by surprise, and then play on his computer and rustle his papers until our demands for
snacks & attention forum modifications are met. ;)
Here's a screenshot from my "Reply" screen from just now:
(http://i66.tinypic.com/2gv10mg.png)
BBcode hot-keys all in place where they have ever been.
Aha! So it was Mandle who stole the formatting buttons! :tongue:
Quote from: Frodo on Wed 24/05/2017 12:16:33
Aha! So it was Mandle who stole the formatting buttons! :tongue:
Really? You guys don't see this when you use the "Reply" button?
I use Firefox 48.0.2 if that helps track down the issue...
Quote from: Frodo on Wed 24/05/2017 05:11:32
I had mentioned previously in my post here, that Bold, Italic etc are missing. :wink:
Huh, so you did. In my defense, I normally read ths thread only after posting my story.
Mine looks like this:
(http://img5.fotos-hochladen.net/uploads/postingd370sjawt4.jpg)
Edit: I posted in the bug thread over in forum problems and linked this thread.
Edit 2: I use Firefox 53.0.3
^ Mine looks the same as Sinitrena's. And I use Internet Explorer, and Google. :cool:
And thanks Sinitrena, for posting it in the Forum Problems. Never thought of that. :smiley:
Gah! Now AGA will know we're coming.... :P
---------------------------------------------------------
The Gnawing Worm of Treachery
Decimus sat sweating on the wooden bench of the rickety waiting shed. He stared at his long-time bond-brother, Fabius, who sat across from him. They sat so close in the tight confines of the waiting shed that their knees were staggered like the cogs of two wheels. The gaps between the planks of the shed walls admitted little fresh air to relieve the musty heat, but the sound of mortal combat in the arena beyond passed through with little difficulty. The crowd cheered as steel rang on steel, but neither man broke the other's gaze. Theirs was the very next match.
Decimus was reluctant to reveal his anxiety by breaking the silence first, but he wanted to gauge Fabius' reaction to his worries. “Let's go over the plan again,†he said casually, hoping to convey a sense of respectful camaraderie with a hint of healthy paranoia. If Fabius replied too quickly or curtly, or if he tried to sooth excessively, Decimus would know that he did not command the other man's respect. If there was no respect between brothers of the sword then betrayal was inevitable, and he would have to plan accordingly.
But Fabius did not reply immediately. If anything he seemed to be measuring Decimus' character with his eyes just as Decimus was measuring him. “Belgian Wine Trot to start, followed by Dacian Salutes, then a Greasy Syrian melee,†he said calmly. “I lose my blade, but dive to recover. Then a quick Spartan Dance, you pull a Dirty Phoenician, fade to Iberian Whore Tumble. You cut my left arm lightly, then ham it up with the crowd. I rejoin with Suevian Nipples followed by Arabian Moustaches. Finally a climactic Britannic Hand Job, after which you fall sensationally beneath my blade and we get you off on mercy. We both walk relatively unscathed out of the arena and are drinking wine back in the barracks in half-an-hour.â€
Decimus didn't blink, and neither did Fabius. They'd fought each other once before, and had pulled off a convincing draw. But that time the plan had involved Fabius falling beneath Decimus' blade before the mercy-call. Decimus was less comfortable with reversing the roles, but to admit as much would be to show a lack of trust. And a match-fix without trust was nothing more than a backstabbing race.
“I think we should throw in some Moaning Ephesians,†Decimus offered with what he hoped seemed like genuine cheerfulness. “It'd look better if I get more blows in.†The idea was to make the whole match look like an implausible upset, getting the crowd to empathize with the stronger gladiator who appeared to lose only due to a horrible turn of bad luck at the very end.
“Samitus and Pollox are doing Moaning Ephesians right now,†Fabius countered. “How plausible would that be two matches in a row?†Indeed, the sound of impassioned grunts drifted freely through the wall slats of the waiting shed, to the delight of the mob in the seats above.
“Alright then, Shaved Egyptian Cats,†Decimus offered.
“We did that last time,†Fabius reminded him.
“Gaullish Tongues, then,†Decimus said with just a hint of exasperation.
“Before a Britannic Hand Job?†Fabius retorted in a sceptical tone. “No one will believe that.â€
There was a sudden bang against the slats as Samitus slammed Pollux against the outside wall, initiating a new bout of fevered grunts and moaning as they grappled with each other in close quarters like Turkish wrestlers. The crowd loved it. Fabius casually pulled at the slat that the two fighters had broken in their passionate charade, easily removing it for a better view of the action.
Fabius clearly wasn't interested in changing the plan, that much was clear to Decimus. But what did Fabius have to lose by giving his opponent more lustre in the spotlight? It seemed a lot like he was just conceding the minimum to make a draw seem plausible, while secretly hoping that the crowd turned nasty and showed no mercy in the end. Decimus raked his memory for motives. Could it be that he didn't want to share the meagre 200 denari purse? Or was he interested in the new scullion boy who had recently hooked up with Decimus? Or maybe it was some slight or grudge that was so trivial that Decimus wouldn't even be able to recall it? It was even just possible that Fabius was getting a little nervy and starting to doubt whether or not he could truly trust his opponent....
“Fine,†Decimus said at length. “We'll do it your way. I trust you completely.†Decimus began plotting the preemptive murder of his bond-brother immediately.
Fabius nodded a salute. “As do I you, my bond-brother.â€
Jove's Swollen Gonads! Fabius was clearly plotting Decimus' murder too! But when? He would want to make it look like an accident, to avoid complications back at the barracks. Probably towards the end of the fight, during the more complicated manoeuvres of Iberian Whore Tumble or Arabian Moustaches. Men can easily lose their balance on the bloody sands, blades slip, stuff happens. There might be a sideways glance between chums over the wine amphora tonight, but everyone would soon shrug it off as happenstance and move on; he'd done it dozens of times himself.
So he would have to strike first, probably during his Dirty Phoenician bit. It would be a tad early in the fight, earning him arched eyebrows instead of just sideways glances, but a day or two of suspicion and he'd be back in the good graces of his brother gladiators again. He smiled broadly at Fabius.
Fabius smiled back. Shit, shit, shit! He knew that Decimus would calculate that a strike during the Dirty Phoenician sequence would be his best bet. That's why he was probably planning on a little mishap during the Spartan Dance! Decimus wiped the sweat from his brow, noting that Samitus and Pollox were building to their climax out on the sands. There would be whispers and rumours for a month or two, but if he cut Fabius open during the frenzied Greasy Syrian melee he would eventually recover his standing amongst his brothers.
“Ready?†he asked as the crowd roared their approval of the two previous showmen.
“Of course I'm ready.â€
Shit! Of course he's ready! He knew all along that Decimus would be forced to make his move during the Greasy Syrian melee, and so he would have planned to strike sooner! Probably during the Dacian Salutes.... Now Decimus was painted into a corner. He'd have to strike right off the bat during the Belgian Wine Trot. He'd be socially ostracized back at the barracks, but at least he'd still be breathing. So be it.
Samitus and Pollux walked past the slatted waiting shed toward the arena exit arm in arm, waving to the adoring crowd. Now was the moment of truth. Decimus drew a long breath and psyched himself up for what he had to do. “Good luck, my friend,†he said kindly to the man sitting across from him.
In a heartbeat Fabius stabbed him in his sword-wielding shoulder with a wooden shank that had splintered from the broken wall slat. Of course! Decimus thought, kicking himself inwardly....
Good show entrants! Ponch could be - might be - adding his own backstabby tale.
I'll extend the comp until Saturday night.
Will there be betrayal by the deadline or betrayal by the deadline? Poor Ponch has painted himself into quite the corner this time. ;)
Will the cow-man himself be betrayed? Or will he be the betrayer??? :kiss:
Quote from: Frodo on Sat 27/05/2017 10:02:13
Will the cow-man himself be betrayed? Or will he be the betrayer??? :kiss:
For whom the cow-bell tolls!?
I've been out of town all week. I need to unpack, do laundry, and buy groceries. Can that deadline get pushed back until Sunday night, Texas time? Otherwise, there's no way I have time to work on this today. :undecided:
Quote from: Ponch on Sat 27/05/2017 19:22:00
I've been out of town all week. I need to unpack, do laundry, and buy groceries. Can that deadline get pushed back until Sunday night, Texas time?
Done. The deadline is now late night Sunday, Texas time.
Ponch, that new avatar rocks!
Quote from: Mandle on Sun 28/05/2017 01:58:52
Ponch, that new avatar rocks!
All credit is due to
jwalt problem. He made it, along with many others, about 3 years ago. :cool:
EDIT: Whoops. A quick forum search tells me Problem made this avatar. :-[
Quote from: kconan on Sat 27/05/2017 19:23:59
Done. The deadline is now late night Sunday, Texas time.
My cinematic research indicates that "sundown" or "high moon" would be more proper terms in the Texan colloquial. :)
Quote from: Baron on Sun 28/05/2017 15:24:13
My cinematic research indicates that "sundown" or "high moon" would be more proper terms in the Texan colloquial. :)
While I'm glad Ponch is in the comp, I'm a bit out of it from building deck stairs and the ground underneath (using topsoil) and so I hurriedly wrote that with utility in mind rather than entertainment.
Translation:
I'm happier than a two peckered dog Ponch joined our rodeo, but I'm all tuckered out from being busier than a cat covering shit on a rock pile and so I wadn't fixin' to make purtee writin'.
Wow! He's like some kinda ...Ponch-whisperer! 8-0 You can sling that sultry slang all over me like a roadkill on pavement, pardner. :=
Quote from: kconan on Sun 28/05/2017 19:43:26
I'm a bit out of it from building deck stairs and the ground underneath (using topsoil)
This sounds like
my deck-stair building experience, where I was too cheap to buy the larger stringers and had to build the ground up to meet the bottom step.... (roll)
Quote from: kconan on Sun 28/05/2017 19:43:26
I'm a bit out of it from building deck stairs
Were you building a Stairway To Heaven? :cheesy:
And YES! The
Bold\
Italic\
Underline buttons are back! :grin:
Sadly, it's almost 9pm and I'm just now getting home after a very busy Sunday. I had hoped to hammer my story into some kind of workable state, but alas, it doesn't look like it's going to happen. Sigh. :sad:
I had high hopes for it too. It was told from the point of view of Crazy Horse, the native American leader, visionary, and warrior. At the end of his long war with the army, he finally surrendered to the army and prepared to move to the reservations. However, just after he signed the peace treaty, he was literally stabbed in the back and died.
Like I said, I high hopes. But I've run out of time. Good luck to everyone else! :smiley:
That's a shame Ponch :sad:
Hope to see you in the next competion
Can we have all that deck-building talk once more with New Zealand accents please?
Quote from: Baron on Mon 29/05/2017 02:36:55
This sounds like my deck-stair building experience, where I was too cheap to buy the larger stringers and had to build the ground up to meet the bottom step.... (roll)
I refused to have 6 steps, but my reasoning was just stubbornness rather than being frugal as I've spent way more on Lowe's topsoil than I would have on larger stringers and extra treads.
The contestants:
Mandle
Frodo
Blondbraid
Sinitrena
Baron
The categories:
Best Stab:
Best Stabber:
Best Setting/World:
Best Writing/Style:
There is one choice per category...Time to VOTE!
My Votes :wink:
Brilliant stories all round though. :thumbsup:
Best Stab: Blondbraid - A Cold Blade
Best Stabber: Baron - The Gnawing Worm of Treachery
Best Setting\World: Sinitrena - Trust Is An Illusion (love a good Vamp story! :grin: )
Best Writing\Style: Mandle - My Memoir Of Me
Best Stab: Mandle. There's something particularly loathsome about the helpless turning on their benefactors. (roll)
Best Stabber: Ponch. For not following thr Blondbraid. Kazimir's backstab was just about as close as you could get to noble. He seemed genuinely to mourn his despicable plan, gave his victim a year of great life that would have otherwise been nasty and foreshortened (without an appendage at the very least), and even offered his poor victim an out. If that's not class, I don't know what is. :=
Best Setting\World: Sinitrena. Because Vampire Wars. ;-D
Best Writing\Style: Mandle. I thought the rushed dictation style really worked for this story.
Best Stab: Blondbraid - Very good story overall and very clear demonstration of Ahmed's motives (and why he didn't see the Kazimir's betrayal that was fairly obvious to me early on.)
Best Stabber: Frodo - While it was clear pretty early on that Kalena would steal the onyx dragon, she showed signs of deception and lead Anthony to trust her.
Best Setting/World: Mandle - What an abysmal human being you created! :-X
Best Writing/Style: Baron - I just love the names of all the fight moves. It's a bit unfortunate that the story is very little else. Still, very enjoyable.
What a great bunch of stories this round! I had a great time reading each and every one. I guess the fun of writing about betrayal brings out the inner Shakespeare?
Best Stab: Baron: I didn't see the stab coming at all! I was as blindsided as the stabee. Also loved the parody on modern pro-wrestling and the Princess-Bride-poisoned-wine-scene feel of second guessing the opponent. Such fun!
Best Stabber: Blondbraid: I was very invested in Ahmed's character and my mind was racing towards the end wondering where the final betrayal would come from: Ahmed himself, Kazimir, or perhaps even the king. Gripping!
Best Setting/World: Baron: Masterful world building. The reader can understand exactly the situation of Roman gladiator fights, and the wider slave-society the men live in, and yet none of this is ever described as direct exposition. The whole story takes place in a wooden box and yet we know so much about the entire world through subtle writing. My favorite examples are the purse of Roman coins, confirming we are in Rome and not a different culture or fantasy setting, and the torn board, which gives us a small window into the outside world and also, unexpectedly for me, the twist at the end of the story. Really wonderful yarn!
Best Writing/Style: Frodo: I really liked the play-script style of the piece. It stripped away the need for lengthy visual narrative and other cumbersome tropes that would have only slowed down the simple but effective story. It would work well as a short radio play, and I just LOVE radio plays!
Good reads and some new blood for the FWC (Welcome, Frodo). :cheesy:
Best Stab: Mandle
Best Stabber: Blondbraid
Best Setting/World: Sinitrena
Best Writing/Style: Frodo
Need Blondbraid to vote, and maybe - hopefully - we can get a few more voters and then we'll wrap this up.
Well, it was hard choosing between such great entries, but here's my vote:
Best stab: Baron
Best stabber: Baron
Best setting/world: Mandle
Best writing/style: Baron
The other entries were great, but Baron's entry was simply so tense and claustrophobic yet fun and exciting at the same time!
I enjoyed all the entries, and the various treacheries found within! I have tallied, and tallied again...and Baron wins!
(http://i66.tinypic.com/1431f9t.png) : Baron's great writing has earned him the poisoned, blood-red Dagger o' Gladiatorial Guile
(http://i65.tinypic.com/b3lwmw.png) : Mandle, creator of this round's dastardliest character, receives the silver Dagger of Despicable Dastardliness
(http://i65.tinypic.com/b6bsxf.png) : Blondbraid gets the blonde Dagger of Crafty Coldness for A Cold Blade
Good times, you are up Baron. Hehe, Dirty Phoenician bit. That will stick with me for a while.
Wow! Thanks for all the votes folks, especially the last minute ones! ;-D I really enjoyed the topic and all the other submissions. Hope to see everyone out again next time. I'll get the next topic up as soon as I can come up with an equally smashing idea.
Congrats Baron, Mandle, and Blondbraid. :grin:
Cheers and congratz to all! This round was the most fun I had writing my own entry and reading the rest! Great theme too, so thanks to the host, kconan, also!