Fortnightly Writing Competition - Faustian Bargain (Results)

[kconan]

  Everyone wants something...and what if there was a "shortcut" to getting that something?  Perhaps that shortcut comes at a sinister cost, which begs the question, does the end justify the means?

Rules:
-> Anything goes storywise as long as a pact with a literal or a figurative devil is made
-> Short story, not a sketch story, so at least 500 words
-> Deadline is Wednesday, July 12th

The voting categories will be:

Best Bargain:
Best Devil:
Best Setting/World:
Best Writing/Style:


There will be tailored trophies for the top three.  I'm taking your forum avatar head, shrinking it, and adding gold, silver, or rusty tin colored horns.

[Mandle]

Why the 500 words line in the sand?

Doesn't that just discourage people who have a quick and simple, but potentially good, idea and/or encourage them to pad their story just to reach that limit?

It's not a school assignment...

[kconan]

Why the 500 words line in the sand?

Doesn't that just discourage people who have a quick and simple, but potentially good, idea and/or encourage them to pad their story just to reach that limit?

It's not an assignment like something required for school, it's an optional competition and this round is for short stories and not simply ideas alone or sketch stories.  I could see people trying to pad for 1500 or 2000 words, but 500 isn't a tall order.

[kconan]

Right now Mandle and I are tied on votes for the 500 word stipulation, if another entrant wants me to drop it then please speak up and I will waive it.

[Frodo]

Right now Mandle and I are tied on votes for the 500 word stipulation, if another entrant wants me to drop it then please speak up and I will waive it.

I say Keep that stipulation 

Have an idea I'm working on. 

[Rocchinator]

I`m inspired. I`m writing something.

[Baron]

I want a 497 word limit, just to be difficult.  What if brevity is our devil?

[Mandle]

I want a 497 word limit, just to be difficult.

I support your bill and amend to it an NC-17 rating on any story containing 399 swear words or more!

[Ponch]

I reserve the right to use the word "fuck" at least twice and/or include an explicit and unnecessary sex scene. Also, I will hold fast to 499 words and cannot be swayed on this issue.

Also, are these bargains with the devil Kconan our FWC entries? That will certainly save a lot of time.

[kconan]

Also, are these bargains with the devil Kconan our FWC entries? That will certainly save a lot of time.

I'm gonna need more asterisk trophies...

[Rocchinator]

ADVISE: My main language its spanish, so its probable that my writing will have lots of errors. Sorry about that.
I wrote this between yesterday and today. Hope you all enjoy.

Lucky Number 3



-…So do you really want this? - The dark figure approaches from mist of the night

-Who are you? I can't see your face, IDENTIFY YOURSELF! OR I SHOOT! â€" Eric pulled out a gun from his pocket and pointed to the unknown man.

-Guns are loaded by the Devil, and I know I didn't load that one- a small grin appear on the figure face.

Eric freezes for a brief second he knows he was right, and then he laughed â€" Ha-ha-ha! Funny jokes Dennis come to the light so I can see your stupid face- He reclined on the bench and taps the space next to him, asking the man to join a seat. The mysterious man stayed in the dark and the crickets singed along with the silence.

It was a cold winter night, so there was no one more than them in the park; the only light was an old lamplight that was placed on the right of the bench.

-You really don't want to see me, I will save you the shock. - said the figure while he stayed still.

-So you are a spooky man, haha, whatever… What you want?-

-You called me, I should ask that question.-

-I didn`t called you, I don't even know who you are.-

-oh no you don't, mister “I will do anything to stay with her”. - Goosebumps came down through Eric spine.

-How do you know that? I wasn't talking out loud- he started to get nervous.

-I'm a special man let`s say I have really good hearing-

-Are you the Devil? - Eric tried to stay calm.

-Devil, Dark Angel, Mephistopheles, Demon… but none of them it's my real name.- He walked around the dark fog.- But let`s go straight to business. You really love your wife Caroline don't you?-

-You are not gonna get me. I will not give you my soul; I know it's that what you want. - Eric answered confidently â€" Eternal pain and suffering... I'm not that stupid.-

-Humans, humans, humans, you really think it's like that how it works? - The figure smiled and the moonlight shows his inhuman teeth for the first time. - I don't care about your soul, but what it can produce. I can offer you something that you maybe can be interested in. How much time do you have?-

-The doctors said about 6 months, pancreas cancer it's a bastard.-said Eric while he lighted a cigarette.- Ok, If you don't want my soul what is that you need?.

-It`s your wife pregnant isn`t it?-The Demon looks at Eric eyes for the first time. His eyes were black… entirely black. Eric swallowed and felt a fear that he never experienced before.

-Yes… but why you ask.-He was scared of the answer he knows it wasn't a good thing.

-I will explain, before a human it's born, during the gestation his soul starts to get form and it's in his more pure state, in this instance it can be manipulated, and that's like gold for me, the soul isn't property of the baby yet but his father so if you give me the power I can became its owner, and then I can offer you life to live with your beloved wife but sadly the child will die.-

-What!? I can't do that, we are waiting for this child for so long and we love him, you are really a monster, I prefer to die, stay away for me! - Eric stands up and angrily pointed the devil.

-Think it this way, this baby is not going to suffer because he will never “exist”, I just need his essence, you can always have another baby and I can give you eternal life if you want.- answered the Demon in a polite way.

-So If I give you his soul he will not suffer. - Said Eric carefully thinking about it- But I don`t understand, don't we both have to give you the approval to get our son`s soul?-

-No, even thought the mother is the one carrying and sheltering the baby, the father creates the very first vital force. So you are the owner. - The Devil explained.

Eric meditates about it some seconds.

-Well but I want to you to give eternal life to my wife too, my heaven it`s whit her and my only desire is to love her forever. If you really want that soul that it's the price- He said firmly.

The Devil Smiled.

-You are a really good Business man, very well it's a deal, let`s shake hands.- He raise his old white hand towards to Eric.-I have to admit the seal its gonna hurt a little.-

-But don't I have to sign a contract?-

-Another miss conception. - The Devil laughed and they both shake hands. Eric felt his hand burning and shouted. After closing his eyes for a brief second the Demon was no longer there and he had a red mark in his hand but suddenly his pains, the color of his skin, his fever, started to recover and he felt more alive than ever. The joy was extraordinary, this was a miracle for him; he went back running towards his home.

Years pass by, and another cold winter night, same park, same bench, Eric was sitting looking into the darkness, his eyes were red of crying and his face looked tired.

-Long Time no see. â€" The Devil appears from the dark and started the conversation.

-432 years to be exact, I've been waiting for you, coming here every night since the things messed up.- said Eric almost with no energy.-Please, take me to hell, nothing can be worst than this. At first it was all magical, but know my wife hates me, we have seen all our sons, grandson, die for generations, our love has vanished, she curse me every time she can, she only cries, scream and tried to kill herself so many times that I can't count anymore. Everyone ignores me, my sons detest me.  I live in constant pain, depression, suffering and guilt, please, please take me too hell. I deserve it and I prefer it. â€" He begged with their hands in prayer.

-I can't take you to hell.-

-Why? WHY!? Please anything it's better that this! - Eric shouted in agony.

-You don't get it don't you? You are already in it, and you created it yourself. You think that if I gave eternal life for both of you, you will never die so no one can go to “hell” and I will be tricked, hahaha!, please you dig your own grave, metaphorically speaking because you can't die. - The devil took his time to laugh out loud. - There`s no such this as hell. I fed from souls negative energy let's say the emotions, suffering, pain, anger, disgrace are fuel to me so you are an active unlimited resource… well you, your wife, and your unborn son, lucky number 3. I don't need a hell I build cells, it been a pleasure doing business with you my sheep.-

- PLEASE GOD, HELP ME! - While shouting Eric fall on his knees and looked at sky tried to cry but no more tear were left.

-Why should I…- Said the Demon he smiled once last time, and vanished in the dark mist of the night.



THE END

[Mandle]

One Last Deal

I sit in my office behind the desk constructed from a little here and a little there of the iron content of the blood of every person who has ever lived. The desk glows red hot and I caress its surface with my taloned hands fondly. Ahhhh, red, what a beautiful colour. I look around to admire the dripping, red walls of my office for what is to be the last time. My eyes linger on the heads of past deal-makers, impaled on pikes in quaint little alcoves littered around the walls. All are still screaming, but not for much longer.

The hour grows closer. Hanging over the entrance door, woven from a billion human tendons so finely it could be mistaken for the finest mahogany, the clock ticks the hair from the head of Judas that is its second hand one notch closer to the top. I stretch in my chair, a collage of the genitals of the lustful, sewn together with the thread from the coin-purses of the greedy. My ancient spine cracks in just the right way to send a shiver of pleasure from my hooves to my horns.

The second hand ticks again, to the thirteen right at the top and, God-damn perfect as always, the doors open and God walks in exactly on time for our meeting.

Now, you might think that we would immediately try to destroy each other the moment we met face-to-face, but there is a little clause those tabloid rags that humanity calls by many names left out: Our "supernatural" powers do not work on each other.

So, as God approaches my desk, walking over the rug woven from the dried, extruded entrails of the gluttonous, in the many glorious colours of their extreme consumption, and without His feet ever touching what must offend Him to the core of His sanctimonious  being, I fold my many, many fingers together in front of me, smile, and say:

"lOng TImE nO SEe!"

He doesn't even crack a smile. No sense of humour. I conjour a chair for him made from the various bodily humors of the worst examples of his failed creations. I think one of their names perhaps started with an "H".

Whether he got the joke or not, he says:

"I PREFER TO STAND!"

So, straight to boring old business I suppose, as is usual with Him. I say:

"yOU cOMe Here wItH a dEaL?"

He booms:

"YOUR ATROSITIES HAVE FORCED MY HAND! SO..."

I interrupt:

"wHAt'S tHE fucKInG dEAl, kINg sHit!?"

His "divine" features almost twist into one of my faves: Wrath, but then he regains his composure and amplifies:

"A FINAL CONTRACT TO END ALL SUFFERING ON EARTH THAT YOU ARE THE CAU..."

I love interrupting this guy:

"cHIll, biLL... conTrAct'S aLReaDY WRItTeN. PERuse aT ThiNE cUNtISH leisuRe..."

The contract I have been slaving over for millenia unrolls itself from the oriface in my blotter pad torn and resewn from the rectums of uncountable sexual predators.

He spends the next few revolutions of Judas' hair perusing the document, and then sound barriers:

"AS IT IS WRITTEN, SO SHALL IT BE DONE!"

And then the universe's creator and ultimate dumbass actually summons a quill of finest angel feather and signs his real name right on the line dotted with the squished fleas that carried the Black Death.

I say:

"ThIne diVInE brillIANce dID of course rEAd cLAusE FiFTEen BILLiON TwO HuNDRed milliOn ThReE hundRED tHOusANd NiNE huNDReD ANd FivE?"

He shockwaves:

"IT IS REGRETTABLE, BUT ONE HUMAN LIFE IS ACCEPTABLE TO PREVENT THE SUFFERING OF BILLIONS FOR THE REST OF TIME! NAME THY SACRIFICE AND THEY SHALL BE ERASED FOREVER FROM EXISTAN..."

I love interrupting this guy, again. It never gets old:

I fold my many, many, many fingers just under my goatee and say, in my own one true voice this time:

Spoiler

"Adam."

[close]

[Mandle]

I just read Rocchinator's story and it was AWESOME!!!

And I promise that the line

Spoiler

Long time no see

[close]

was not stolen from his story. In fact, I was amazed that two stories with similar themes but seperates naratives would have the same key phrase...

And also:

To write a story that good and not in your native language... AMAZING!!!

[kconan]

To write a story that good and not in your native language... AMAZING!!!

He's coming off fresh background blitz and coloring ball wins, and now he's gunning for the writing comp.  We get it Rocchinator, you are multi-talented

I assume he will enter the music competition next.  The only way I'll ever step foot in that thread is if there is a beatboxing themed round.

[Rocchinator]

@Mandle Thanks Pal really apreciate it! i just read yours, good call with the deal betwwen god and the devil and great end. I really enjoyed you story, the description of the room was sublime i want to draw it

@kconan hahaha! I don't know if I'm multi talented It`s that I just like this forum a lot, I love the expresions of arts in all its forms, drawing, composing music, writing etc. and of course making games .  This is my antistress activity to detach from work and all day problems. I will love to make a living from this, one day, but my family thinks that it's a waste of time , so this is a little secret that im sharing with you guys hahaha.

[Baron]

Six more days....  Six, six, six....    My soul for some inspiration!  Or, barring that, a really good jelly doughnut.

[kconan]

  I know you have something rolling around in that pith helmeted noggin of yours. 

  When the deadline looms, I can grant a small extension...for a price.

[Blondbraid]

Six more days....  Six, six, six....    My soul for some inspiration!  Or, barring that, a really good jelly doughnut.

I have just the opposite problem, two very different ideas and I just can't decide between them!

[Frodo]

Wow, Rocchinator's story is just AMAZING!   

Eric's dream of staying with his true love... turning into his own private hell! 

Excellent writing, there! 

[Rocchinator]

@Frodo Thanks Pal glad you liked it

[Mandle]

I'm wondering how many readers thought that the hidden final line of my story would be:

Spoiler

"Jesus"

[close]

That would have been

Spoiler

a stinging revenge tactic on God from Satan, but not in line with his ultimate goal: In the Chirstian mythology Lucifer rebelled against God because God created Man, and He loved Man more than His original creations of the angels. So I imagined that Satan's ultimate goal, which he had kept close to his chest for millenia, would be to erase the creation of Man once and for all, where the timeline would be reset and Man would never have existed, and where he and the other angels were still the most loved of all. This raises the potential plot-hole where God could just create Man all over again. But, this time Lucifer would be forewarned and perhaps do something more preemptive than just turning into a snake and creating original sin after the fact, which didn't offend God enough, as He turned out to have infinite forgiveness. Well, to an extent... I mean, Lot's wife was warned after all, right? ...and cool people don't turn around to look at explosions, right?

[close]

Also, I hope nobody was offended by the way Satan talks to/about God. The story is written from the first-person perspective of someone who has been pissed off at the Creator for billions of years, and that's all I meant by the way it was written and...

Oh no... I'm actually going to Hell for this I suppose... Well, at least I can plead Satan to read my story and hope it moves him to at least contemplate some kind of deal with me...

[Frodo]

WARNING:  LANGUAGE



The Rock Singer


The local rock club is buzzing.  Friday nights in ‘The Black Rainbow' club are always exciting, cos the club hires a live rock band.  It's just a small club - little more than a bar & tables, with a stage - but it's a good place for local talent to get themselves known.  Plus, it's a good place for rockers to just hang out and relax. 

It's time for tonight's live band to start.  One of the club's security guards steps up onto the small stage.  He walks up to the microphone, lets out a loud ‘HHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP', then flicks his long hair back, away from his face. 


SECURITY GUARD:  *into the microphone*   Fridays nights don't come around often enough, do they? 


The crowd let out a collective agreement.  Everyone loves the atmosphere of a live band on Friday nights.  It's a completely different vibe from the radio that's played the rest of the week. 


SECURITY GUARD:   *into the microphone*   Well, tonight, we have a treat for you.  Local rock band "The Urban Legends" will be performing for you tonight, with their new singer, the incredibly talented Jacob Knight.  Please give them a lovely ‘Black Rainbow' welcome.   


The crows whistles and cheers, as the band come out onto the stage.  The singer, Jacob Knight, stands at the microphone, staring out at the crowd.  He stands there, for seems like an age, but it can't have been more than a minute. 

And with a small nod to the drummer, launches into the set.  The first song goes down well.  And by the second song, murmurs of  ‘Wow, they're really good!', and ‘Best singer I've heard in years!', and other similar comments can be heard.  The crowd loves this band. 

Well… most of the crowd. 

One man, early 20s, sits at a table with his friend, drinking beer.  And he's obviously not happy! 


TOMMY:  Fuckin' wanker's faking it!   *drinks his beer*

FRANK:  Who?  The singer?

TOMMY:   *nods*  Fucking Jacob Knight!  Just look at him, he's miming. 

FRANK:  *looks across the room, at Jacob*   How can you tell?

TOMMY:  How can I tell?  Because, Franky-boy!  Remember when my band, "UpTempo Maniacs" were auditioning for a singer last month?  Guess who stopped by.  None other than… Jacob fucking Knight.  And he was god-awful!  Couldn't hit a single fucking note!   *laughs*  Honestly, he couldn't sing to save himself!  Sounded like a parrot being strangled.   *laughs again*   Scratch that… the parrot could sing better than him. 

FRANK:  He couldn't have been THAT bad.   *pauses*   He wouldn‘t be singing here, otherwise.  . 

TOMMY:  If you had heard him when he auditioned for us… oh god, I still can't believe ANYONE could sing so badly!  That's how I know he's miming tonight.   *drinks his beer*    We're lucky to have found Danny to sing for us.  Not only is he an excellent singer, he also fits right in with our band. 

FRANK:   *looks across at Jacob again*   I can tell when someone is miming… and he is NOT miming. 


A man at the next table looks at Tommy and Frank, and joins in the conversation. 


STEVE:  You talking about Jacob Knight?  He auditioned to sing for my band a while back.  Bloody awful!  Stupid idiot actually thought he could sing! 

FRANK:  You two are talking about him like he's the worst singer in the world.  But look at him… he's good.  I mean, REALLY good.  That man can SING! 

STEVE AND TOMMY IN UNISON:  He's miming! 


Jacob Knight, and his band The Urban Legends, continue to perform, as Tommy, Frank, and Steve continue to discuss his singing technique. 

Eventually, Jacob's set comes to an end.  He thanks the crowd, leaves the stage, and walks straight over to Tommy's table.  He leans his hands down on the table, looking Tommy straight in the eye. 


JACOB:  I heard what you were saying about me. 

TOMMY:   *drinks his beer*   So fucking what!  You're a joke, Jacob.  You were a joke when you auditioned for my band, and you were a joke tonight, when you were miming.  You'll always be a joke.  And a bad one, at that. 

JACOB:  DON'T MESS WITH ME!

TOMMY:  Why not?  What you gonna do about it?   *laughs* 

JACOB:  What am I gonna do?  I'm gonna enjoy knowing that I played a successful gig here tonight… and you and your pathetic band… didn't!  *smirks*


Tommy scowls.  He's been trying to get the club owner to let him play a set here for months!  Why should Jacob play here, when he hasn't? 

Jacob inhales sharply. 


JACOB:  Jealousy is a terrible thing, Tommy.  Maybe you should remember that! 


Jacob re-joins his band, leaving Tommy seething. 



A year goes by. 


Jacob has gone from strength to strength.  Since that first gig at The Black Rainbow Club, things have only got better for him.  Now, he has it all - fame, fortune, a huge mansion, lots and lots of fans, a record contract, a No 1 selling album in the charts, more money than he knows what to do with.  And a new band - Knights Of The Round Table. 

Now he sits, relaxing in his Jacuzzi in the garden, sipping cocktails.  He thinks back, to ‘That Night', just over a year ago.  Thirteen months ago, to be precise.  The night that changed his life forever…

Flashback…

Jacob is feeling nervous, as he auditions for the band UpTempo Maniacs.  He's singing the best he can, but the lead guitarist, Tommy, was picking fault with absolutely everything. 


TOMMY:   *sighing impatiently*   Okay, let's try that song again, from the top.  And this time… SING IN TUNE, JACOB! 


Jacob clears his throat, and begins singing again.  Tommy, and the rest of Tommy's band also play.  But Tommy still isn't happy.  Half-way through the song, he waves his hands around, wanting everyone to stop.


TOMMY:  NO, NO, NO, STOP!  STOP, EVERYONE!    *looks coldly at Jacob*   Are you really that dense? 

JACOB:  …

TOMMY:  My cat can sing better than you.  You fucking CANNOT sing, Jacob.  You're voice is all over the place.   

JACOB:  I'm doing the best I can.  It's the first time I've seen these songs, remember. 


Tommy laughs callously. 


TOMMY:  You think I give a shit?  Get it into your thick head, Jacob   *slaps Jacob's forehead*   You're garbage!  You'll always be garbage!  You'll never amount to anything.  Loser!   *pauses*   In fact, garbage like you needs to be taught a lesson.   *looks at other members of the band*   Boys… should we take the garbage out?    *laughs*   


The band pounce on Jacob, stripping him down to his underwear.  Then they cruelly push him out the rehearsal room, out into the alleyway.  Jacob, beaten down and humiliated, bangs on the door. 


JACOB:  *shouts*   You're gonna be sorry for this!  I'm gonna be the world's greatest rock singer, and then I'm gonna make you regret doing this to me.  You wait and see!  BASTARDS!   THE LOT OF YOU! 


Jacob turns away, not quite sure what to do next.  How is he going to get home, in just his underwear. 

He jumps, as he hears a voice behind him. 


VOICE:  So you want to be the greatest rock singer, ever? 


Jacob looks towards the voice, and sees a man standing there.


MAN:  I can make that happen. 

JACOB:  … What do you mean?

MAN:  Just what I say.  I can make it so you're the greatest rock singer ever. 

JACOB:  What do I have to do?

MAN:  You have to WANT it, Jacob!  I mean, REALLY want it!  You have to desire it more than anything else!  Do you desire it, Jacob? 

JACOB:  I do! 

MAN:  Well then, I can make your dreams come true.  My name is Corley, by the way. 


Corley reaches out a boney hand, and places it on Jacob's chest.  Jacob feels a searing pain tear through his body - he almost passes out with the pain.  Then Corley speaks again, but it's barely more than a whisper.


CORLEY:  You Have Passed! 

Jacob takes another sip from his cocktail. 


JACOB:  *smiles*   And now, here I am.  All my dreams come true. 


Two days later, Jacob and his band are performing a stadium concert.  After the concert is over, the band is hanging out backstage.  A young woman enters the room.


YOUNG WOMAN:   Wow, you guys were just AMAZING! 

JACOB:  I know!   *smiles confidently*   And you are…?

YOUNG WOMAN:  I'm Michelle.  My brother is head of security.   *smiles* 

JACOB:  I see.  Well, welcome, Michelle. 


Jacob looks at Michelle.  There's something about her… he can't put his finger on it.  But he can't take his eyes off her. 

The band play at the stadium for the next 3 nights, with Jacob and Michelle beginning to spend time together between rehearsals and performances.  And as days pass, and the band perform at other stadiums, Jacob keeps in touch with Michelle.  They become closer, and soon become a couple.  The band notice a change in Jacob.  He seems… calmer… more content. 


Another year passes.  Jacob and Michelle are very much in love.  She goes to many of his concerts, and is his Number 1 fan.  After one such concert, Jacob takes Michelle home to his mansion.  They sit in the garden, looking up at the stars.  He takes her hand, and smiles. 


JACOB:  This past year has been the best year of my life.  And that is all down to you, Michelle.   *leans in and kisses her*   Never thought I could feel this much for someone.  I love you, Michelle. 

MICHELLE:  *clasps his hand, and smiles*   I love you too, Jacob.  I really do.  I tried to deny it… but I can't help it, I love you. 


Jacob wraps his arms around her, and kisses her neck.  He whispers.


JACOB:  Stay with me, Michelle?  Stay with me tonight?


Michelle nods, and strokes his cheek.  She is deeply in love with Jacob, as he is with her. 


The early hours of the morning… a bell sounds.  Jacob wakes, with a searing pain tearing through his body.  He sits up in bed, gasping in agony.  A shadow passes over the bed, and Corley appears next to him. 

Corley speaks with a low, sinister whisper.


CORLEY:  YOU… have broken… our contract! 

JACOB:   *still in pain*   What do you mean? 

CORLEY:  We had a deal… you and I!  I would make you the greatest rock singer in the world.  But YOU had to desire it above all else. 

JACOB:  I did!  I do!

CORLEY:  What of HER?


Jacob turns to look at Michelle, sleeping peacefully next to him. 


JACOB:  YOU LEAVE HER THE HELL ALONE! 

CORLEY:  TOO LATE!


A bright flash.

Corley vanishes.


`Morning comes.  Michelle wakes up, and rolls over to cuddle into Jacob. 


MICHELLE:   *smiles*   Morning Jac….AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH  AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH  AAAAAAAAARRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH


Michelle screams hysterically.  Jacob lies there… stone cold… his chest ripped open… blood everywhere. 

After shooting to the top and realising his dreams, Jacob broke his deal with the devil… by falling in love. 

[Frodo]

Loved your story, Mandle 

That last line packs quite a punch 

[Blondbraid]

Old man sunshine
The old man sunshine wasn't considered an entirely respectable topic at first, something which had started as hushed whispers around the fires of the outsiders and slaves, but as generations passed on word of him had wormed it's way into the mouths of even the most upright and god-fearing men until old man sunshine was a matter of fact as tangible and real as the crocodiles dwelling beneath the brown water in the rivers. He is called the old man sunshine because he only appears on hot sunny days, on days so warm you'd swear hell itself is seeping up through the cracks in the dirt. But old man sunshine sits in the shade, always in the shade, watching passersby. He cares little for those with spring in their steps and straight backsides, and clean-shaven men with tidy clothes hardly ever catch his eye. Old man sunshine looks for those who drag their feet behind them with hunched backs as if carrying a burden that can be seen by him and God alone. Those are the souls which the old man sunshine are calling for, and when the old man meets their gaze and offers them a cold glass of lemonade, it is already too late.

She must have made a strange sight indeed, the last woman to fall under his sway. Down the dusty dirt road she walked in her pretty little shoes and bell-shaped dress, with little care for what the crones and gossips would say.
She wore a long lace veil over her hat to hide the tears and grief that tore up her face, but there is no hat or scarf or veil hat can hide your face from old man sunshine. Candice, Candice he called from under his poplar tree. The woman, for Candice was her name, looked up to see an old man sitting on an old bench in the shade.
The old man stretched out an ivory white wrinkled hand from within his great dark coat and said "Oh my, it's hot today.
The sun is out and shining strong, would you join me in the shade?"
But Candice said "Who are you man? And how do you know my name?"
"It's just a little game. I play as I watch good people passing by, I try to guess their name.
And it seems to me that I got yours spot on this time.
Say Candice dear, will you come and sit here by my side?"

Candice must have grew quite confused indeed,
but she was curious as well. And it was a very hot day with the sun shining mercilessly.
She took a few steps closer, now she was standing in the shade,
and seemingly from nowhere, the old man poured a glass of lemonade.
He said "Have you been crying? Your voice sounds hurt and hoarse.
Some lemonade might soothe and cool you, and help your throat of course."
Candice hesitated and he continued "I know you should be going, and I know I shouldn't make you stay,
but I know that you have sorrow, and I wish to try and wipe your tears away."
But Candice said "You are too kind, but I fear no man can make my crying end,
for John, my sweetheart, got injured in a fight.
He did one foolish thing, and now they say he might not last the night.
And with him gone I cannot see how I could ever smile or laugh again."

"It is a sad tale you tell, a most sad one indeed.
But I have lived for many years, and I think I know what you might need.
Now, I'm no magician, and God alone can help the dead,
but an ice-cold drink with sugar in might help you clear your head."
But Candice frowned "So you say that you'll take my tears away just by offering me a drink?
It's good for you that I'm a lady too well behaved to tell you what I think."
"I give you an offer, but if you wish you can refuse.
But surely you can't tell me that if I could replace your tears with laughter, it's a choice you'd never choose."
Candice bowed her head in silence, for she knew,
what the old man said was honest and the last words he said was true.
"Here now Candice, have some lemonade,
and if you do I promise you, you will never cry another day.
Instead of tears, your face will hold laughter and glee.
And when you laugh, and laugh you will, you will think of me."

Carefully Candice lifted her veil and licked her lips.
She took his glass and with closed eyes she took a single sip.
When she opened them the man was gone, as if he was never there.
Left was an empty bench and Candice with a puzzled stare.
She saw a silhouette coming towards her on the road, but it belonged to a different man.
It was her sweethearts' oldest friend, his sweet young brother Stan.
His hair was all in tangles, and his eyes were sore and red.
His voice was nearly breaking "Candice… John is dead."
Candice knew her heart was broken, and she knew that she wished to cry,
but her face did not obey her, and her mouth cracked in a smile.
It dawned her to her horror, as she tried to hide herself under the veil's lace,
Stan had brought her news of death, and she was laughing in his face.
Her tears was gone for good, and forever here on after,
when those she loved spoke of their sorrow, she was doomed to mock them with her laughter.
She would laugh helplessly as everyone around her would think that she had a heart of stone,
but the last laugh was that of old man sunshine, and belonged to him and him alone.

[Frodo]

Excellent story Blondbraid! 
And love how it rhymes.  Very clever.

Poor Candice!  That Old Man Sunshine is so devious! 

[kconan]

  Rocchinator, can I borrow a horn?  With a few minor adjustments, your coloring ball trophy horns fit nicely for this round's FWC trophy.

[Sinitrena]

In a Days Work

The pale man sat on a old, dark desk over a piece of parchment, his face scrunched into a mask of utter concentration. A quill in his sinewy hand knocked against the wood in a steady rhythm to a melody only he could hear. From time to time, he stroked out a line of text or added another one, only to then mark it and annotate it a short time later. Silvery hair glittered in the fluttering light of a large candle that didn't give nearly enough light to see anything else of the room he was in or even the note on his desk.

“There is too much on your desk.” The voice came from behind, creeping up to him like shadows.

It was a literal statement. The desk was cluttered; ink and sealing wax stood nest to burnt down candles and flasks with unidentifiable liquids. Papers lay over and under each other without any discernible system next to more than one hourglass, some with the sand on the bottom, some with it still running through the neck. Here or there a knife or other sharp instrument poked out from under the papers and long forgotten bones were strewn there as well.

It was also a metaphorical statement, as the silver-haired man knew all too well. He sighed but did not dignify the speaker with any other reaction.

“This time, you will lose.”

“I never lose!” He didn't want to say it, he didn't want to talk with the other man, but there was nothing he hated more than losing. Besides, he hated the gloating tone of his opponent.

He didn't need to turn around to know that the other man had similar features to his own. Only his hair, black instead of silver, and his clothes, neutral instead of flamboyant, distinguished them.

“This time you will. How many are there this time. Five? Six? All in the same place, all wanting different things. And you promised them all...”

“How is it,” he interrupted him with a voice that was no less sardonic, “that I am always the one doing the work? You just sit in your armchair and wait until I make a mistake and than you score a point. Somehow, you are better off in this deal.”

He shrugged. “Who cares? As long as you lose. And as long as people adore me and hate you...”

“Yes, yes, yes, as long as you are the good child and I am the monster, right? - Right. Leave me be. I have work to do.”

“Just because you do as they want, they won't love you, you know.”

“Who needs love?”

“You do, Beliar, you do” And with a laugh, the dark-haired man was gone.

Beliar sighed again, first out of frustration, then to keep calm. In the end, he banged his fist on the table.

He stared into nothing, idly drawing symbols on his parchment. After a while, he looked down on the mess, not just from his scribbles put also from the work he tried to do before. In the end, he just shook his hand and pulled out a new piece from under the stack that made no sense to anybody but him.

*

The boy limped. It was usually the first thing people noticed, though they rarely cared. He limped from the mess tent to his master's, he limped to the latrine, he limped to the river to wash his master' clothes. People noticed and looked away. They knew why he limped, so what was it worth to look?

The bucket was heavy, filled to the brim, and his uneven steps made it slosh and spray. If it wasn't full enough when he returned, if he â€" gods hope not â€" dared to splash some in front of his master, he wouldn't only walk strangely for a while but couldn't sit or comfortably lie down either.

He hauled the third bucket up the slope of the river's bank when he slipped and fell into the mud. The water drenched the front of his shirt and trousers, and, as if to taunt him, slowly and still too fast and out of reach for him, glided into the stream.

“Beliar be dammed!” the boy cursed. “Who wants to bath in the middle of a siege anyway?”

“An idiot?” a soldier above his head suggested with the hint of a smile in his voice.

The boy winced. If the commander heard...

Of course, the commander didn't hear the insubordinate soldier. The boy's master would never sink so low as to walk to the river himself.

The soldier helped the boy up. “You must hate him,” he said mildly.

“No. No, of course not!”

The soldier laughed. “I do, too. Everybody does. Some say it's a good thing. Soldiers should fear their commander and the best are not only feared but hated too. They are the ones to make the difficult decisions, aren't they?”

“No, no, I really don't hate him. He's a good master, a good...”

“He is good and you are bad. A bad liar, that is. Be honest, boy. Everybody can see that you hate him. And hate him you should.” More silent, like speaking to a confidant, he added: “Every time something goes wrong for him, you suffer. An attack goes wrong? You can't sit for a week. His sweetheart doesn't answer a letter? He let's you stand in the middle of camp and hauls insults at you. He doesn't get a promotion, he doesn't deserve â€" he sees that different, of course. He starts sprouting funny stories about his servant and all officers laugh about it and mock you for a month. And because the officers laugh, so do the foot soldiers, and because the soldiers laugh, the servants do too. A servant of the commander should be respected in his own right, shouldn't he? But you aren't. How does it feel to be the lowest class in the pecking order?”

“All right!” the boy said, too loud. Heads turned and he collected all his willpower to say the next words in a quiet voice. “All right. I hate him. By Beliar, I hate this man. And if I could do anything about it, I would. I'd love to see him laughed at like me. I want him to be ridiculed, I want him to suffer. I'd sell myself to Beliar just to see it! Beliar himself can't be a worse master than he. But it's not going to happen, so...”

Ignoring the last words of the boy's outburst, the soldier said: “So it is said. So it shall be.”

*

A table stood in the middle of the tent. Crude representations of soldiers, fortifications and siege machines stood on top and served as useless help for the officers as they tried to plan their next move. Quite literally, they moved the figures from place to place, taking them up and putting them down again.

It felt like they were at this fruitless exercise for hours, though in truth it wasn't nearly as long. Still, they had acted out most possible scenarios a couple of times by now and some of the unlikely and impossible ones too.

“It's not possible. It's simply not possible.” a major said, not for the first time.

The angry looks of his superior officers silent him in a second. Their commander was in one of his moods. It was not a good idea to add to his ire.

“It is possible. It has to be. And if I have to ask Beliar himself for help, I will see this castle burn!”

The meeting came soon to a close, though without any real resolution, and the commander stayed alone in his tent, or so he thought. The major, who had so unwisely talked earlier, still stood in the entrance, the flap of the tent, not secured as before, whipping against his back in the autumn wind.

He waited silently for the commander to turn around and notice him, but the other man still stared at the table and map of the castle.

“Ask Beliar for help. As if I would ever be so stupid. Dinor protect us, why did I even say this?” he murmured to the empty air. “But I want to see it burn. I want to win. Win, win, win. There's nothing else. My life is worth nothing when I lose.”

He sighed and pushed the figures around for the thousands time. It was impossible. The major was right, it was. The fortifications were too good, his soldiers too few. And their intelligence about their provisions was not promising either. They could withstand a siege for several months. That was bad in winter, very bad. And if their allies decided to actually help instead of be allies in name only...

“I will see this castle burn, even if it costs me my life.” he said in the end and knocked their largest catapult over.

“So it is said. So it shall be.”

The commander wheeled around, but it was already too late. While the voice still rang in the air and the cloth of the tent flapped in the wind, the speaker was long gone.

*

He should have stayed with one side. It was easy to win a war for one side. It was easy to make people traitors or poison a well. It was easy to promise and not deliver. But that, he never did. He kept his promises, unlike some other members of his family. And he still didn't understand why Dinor was loved and worshiped and he was feared and hated. Maybe it was because he made the difficult decisions, as he had said himself?

Poison the well, burn the crops and wasn't there an escape tunnel? Yes, giving the commander what he wanted was easy. He had noted it on his parchment early on, right after he listened to the commander, and he put it down again on the fresh piece of paper.

He felt the presence of his brother again. He stood behind him as before, laughing silently at his struggles.

“Weren't you just here?” he asked before Dinor spoke.

“Just. Time, what is time? Turn it back. Do it again. It is so easy, just change the past. Too many promises, my friend.”

“Leave!”

“And stop taunting you? Never.”

Fire burned in the eyes of the silver-haired man but when he turned around Dinor was gone. It was worse when he disappeared like that, when he left him alone with his anger. Especially because he would never go to Dinor's room. And so his anger stayed with him, festered and burned on the inside and grew into hatred.

*

She looked at the book again, then put it out of the way. She had moved the table to the side and the chairs on top. It was a precarious arrangement, but it was the only way to make enough room on the floor in her study. She didn't dare go anywhere else. If someone knew, if someone found out...

I thick rug lay on the ground to warm her feet in the winter and she went on to roll it to the side as well. Candles and fibers did not go well together.

The knocking hat stopped now. It was persistent on the door for the last hour or so. She had locked it. Her attendants were worried. At first she had tried to ignore it., then she had called out to leave here alone, that she needed time. They understood, they knew she wanted to cry or scream. They were worried too.

But this wasn't the reason. She didn't want to nourish her despair. She didn't want to be alone to weep. She had a plan. But if they knew of her plan, they would worry all the more.

With the carpet finally out of the way, she consulted the book again. Seven runes were necessary and she had never learned to draw the old runes that were in constant use hundreds of years ago.

She had no idea why it was so complicated. Praying to Dinor was easy. He had temples and priests, but Beliar lived in the dark and never showed his face to the people. Or so it was said. And if you spoke of him just once, he might hear you, fear his wrath. But to strike a bargain was more complicated. It required so much more. It most of all, you had to be careful.

After she was finished with the runes, she put the candles on the ground, then she got the book back. Holding it up in the air, she intoned in a sombre and slightly ridiculous voice: “Oh great one. Oh powerful one. Oh darkness and night. Come forth, come forth, lord of night, lord of hell, come...”

“I always hated this chant,” Beliar said with a dry voice.

“My lord.” She turned around and was in the process of kneeling down when she stopped and stared at the apparition in front of her instead.

Beliar was young, which was to be expected from an ageless demon or god â€" there was no real difference between the two. But he also looked ludicrous. Wearing the traditional clothes of a jester, with patches in all possible and impossible colors and including a high hat with bells, he had his long silvery haired braided and wound around the three parts of the hat. His shirt was open and on his hairy breast shone the largest pendant she had ever seen. He had a ring on every finger, some of them with long chains on them that reached to the ground and were â€" involuntarily â€" entangled with each other. Long fingernails were painted with symbols she didn't know. Small bells on his ankles chimed with the smallest movement of his feet.

She expected him to be scary. After all, he was the demon and enemy of their savior and protector Dinor, who had taken to lead the world after their father's death. But only his eyes scared her immediately. They were fiery red, sparking with a fury that was impossible for any mere man, and at the same time cold and calculating.

“Yes? You asked for me?”

Belatedly, she knelt down. “My lord, I...”

“Just tell me. I have work to do. And stand up, please.”

She did as she was told. “My lord, I do apologize...”

“Would you just talk?”

“Yes, I... well... I... This castle, it is under siege, and...”

“I hadn't noticed. It's not like there are catapults on the front door and an army camped outside.”

I want to get out. I want to save my son. I want to live and I want him to live.”

The demon slit his hat from his head so that it dangled on silvery strands of hair down his back. He stepped towards the woman. Pressed against the wall of the room, she couldn't back off further. She hadn't thought she needed to, because the chalk on the ground, the runes and the candles were supposed to hold him back. He didn't seem to care.

“What do you offer?” he asked, caressing her chin and stroking her hair. His pendant and naked chest pressed against her breasts.

“You can have everything you want, everything. Take my husband, take my brother, I don't care.”

A smile played on his lips. “You cannot offer what you don't have.”

“Then take me!” she nearly shrieked because the demon got closer and closer to her, even though she thought it impossible, pressed against her as he already was.

“Will you love me?” he asked with an innocence in his voice that was almost child-like.

“Yes, yes, I will love you, if this is what it takes.”

The smile grew bigger. “So it is said. So it shall be.” And with these words he was gone and she felt like she could breathe again after hours and hours under water.

*

Some say Dinor's priests can feel the presence of the demon Beliar, but he had never believe this. As a matter of fact, he doubted that either Dinor or Beliar were real. Maybe thousands of years ago, and than they forgot about this world and its people. It was unlikely, at least, that they still walked the earth.

When the doors of the temple opened, he expected the king or his courtiers. All of them had come a few times in the last months and especially weeks. They prayed, they cursed, they talked and confessed. He listened, but he couldn't really help. “Trust in Dinor,” he said, “trust in his protection.” He wasn't sure he believed it himself.

On this day, the man who entered the temple was a stranger. Wearing the clothes of a pilgrim he was an impossible sight. The castle was under siege, no stranger should be able to enter. And he felt strange, strange in a way the priest couldn't place.

The pilgrim took the steps down into the middle of the round room and the altar gingerly, as if he wasn't sure his legs would support him. He met the priest on the mosaic, the center of the temple.

“Praised be Dinor and his protection may cloak your shoulders,” the priest intoned the traditional blessing.

The pilgrim did not answer with the expected words. As a matter of fact, he didn't answer at all for a while.

The silence soon became uncomfortable for the gray haired priest. “Um, can I... Can I help you?”

Finally, the pilgrim looked up and fiery-red eyes met the gray ones of the priest. He recoiled, stumbling over the steps behind him and fell to the ground.

“Usually, I am the one helping,” he said mildly.

“You...You are... are... are...” the priest stuttered.

“Beliar. Most people know my name.”

“Demon!”

“God.” Slowly, as if nearing a wounded animal, Beliar stepped forward and sat down next to the priest. “Tell me, what do you want?”

“For you to go away!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a look of terror crossed the priests face. “I... I did not...” he spluttered.

“No, no, no”, Beliar said, patting the priests knee. “Do not worry. I am not a monster, you know.”

“The script begs to differ.”

“So it does. What is it again? Beliar, the demon, tempts the people and steals their souls?”

“And Dinor protects us.”

“So it is said.”

Silence fell again between them and made the priest fell even more uncomfortable than before. But this time he endured it, even though the demon still sat next to him and patted his knee.

“Dinor is my brother. Is this written in this book of yours?” Beliar finally asked.

“It is.”

“Then how come I am called a demon and he is a god?”

“You are evil?” the priest suggested mildly as if speaking to a child â€" or a very dangerous demon he didn't dare to lie to.

“I know what you want. I always do. And I can always give it. But it has to be said.”

The priest kept quiet.

“I could give you what you want.”

There were no words to answer without a danger.

“I am no bad master. I help my people. And in the afterlife, there are so few, I know them all, by name and by story, by wishes and pain. I can give you what you want.”

“Are... are you sure you want to give it? Just for one soul.”

For the first time since his eyes had frightened him so, the demon looked at the priest again. Cold, calculating eyes fixated him. “You want them to believe. You want to believe yourself. So it shall be.”

As if his bones were tired and old, Beliar heaved himself up from the steps. He shuffled to the door, slowly and turning back from time to time, his look unreadable.

The priest sighed with relief.

*

In the throne room, the king sat worried. He was surrounded by his court, by barons and officers, planning a defense for the thousands time. As the soldiers in the camp, they knew the current state of the war all to well. They knew where hope was and where defeat. They talked about despair and surrender, they talked about allies and lies.

The king was a burly man. His usually impeccably trimmed beard hang scraggly down his chin and the knots irritated his skin. He didn't care. For a while now, he hadn't said a word, only listening to the courtiers and lords plan and argue.

Finally, he spoke, more to himself than to any of the people around him. ”If only I could save the people here. Protect them somehow.”

The people closest to him heard the king. They looked up from maps and lists of provisions to stare at their king. They didn't know him like that, tired and hopeless, had never seen him so sad, without any fight left in his bones.

“Your majesty,” a courtier said, “please your majesty, do not give up. We would all die for you, for this kingdom. If worst comes to worst, there's always the escape...”

“I will not run away!” the king suddenly screamed, some of the power back in his voice they all were used to, “I will not grovel through a fireplace while others fight for me! I'd rather die. I'd rather give myself to Beliar than watch my people die! I'd give myself to him even if he just saves as many people as humanly possible! I will not give up! We will not give up!”

The king had sprang up from the throne and was shouting to all his people now, who had, one and all, fell silent.

All, except for one, that is. The courtier, who had suggested flight to the king, grinned and murmured into his arms: “So it is said. So it shall be.”

*

Dinor snatched the parchment from underneath his brother's nose. The quill, ready to write, scratched over the surface and left a long, ugly mark.

“Save a kingdom, win a war.” Dinor pretended to read. “Would be easy if both were on the same side.”

“Give this back,” Beliar said, standing up and snatching for his notes, but the other held it behind his back and turned away whenever Beliar tried to round him.

“You will stand in front of mother and she'll...”

“I do not lose! Ever!”

“But you will, brother, you will. You can't have both sides win. There are things that are impossible to us.”

Again he was gone as fast as he had appeared and the parchment fluttered to the ground.

Every time he started to think, his brother showed up, every time he started to plan, he was interrupted. It was an old game.

But sometimes the taunts helped him out. When he bent down to pick up his notes, his eyes fell on the words he had actually written.

“No. No, that's not true,” he said to the parchment as he sat down. He hadn't listened properly. It was so easy.

And the meeting with the king happened again.

*

The private quarters of the king! It was the only logical place, the only possible place. With her infant son in her arms, she sneaked through the halls. Deserted as they were, because all soldiers had to serve on the walls in a time of crisis, they were eerily quiet. Not even the king's chambers had their usual contingent of guards and the court was still in the throne room with the king.

She had waited. All day she had waited for Beliar's help to come, but the demon had done nothing for her. A small, incredibly small part of her said, that she wasn't supposed to be in the throne room during the king's outburst but she ignored it. She knew of a way out, she had to take it.

The bedroom was pure chaos. The sheets were in disarray, a pillow ripped open in impotent anger or fear. Papers lay all around the room in stacks and piles, some knocked over by a gust of wind and now lying on the ground.

In her haste to clear the fireplace, still burning embers landed on the carpet and on the papers strewn all over the place. They festered, slowly but surly. She didn't notice. Knocking against the back wall of the fireplace, careful not to burn herself on the few metal parts, she only had eyes for a secret door and thoughts for her son.

Finally, a panel slid to the side, revealing a narrow passage, hardly large enough for a slim woman, probably impossible to pass through for a burly man. She pushed her son through the hole while the room behind her slowly caught fire.

It started with a spark, as all fires do. First, the carpet just simmered a bit, then the papers burned. Then a single flame caught on to a tapestry. But still it was more smoke than flame. But the tapestry ignited a second and then the curtains and the bedsheets and the armchair in the corner.

Flames burst out of the room on the second floor, illuminating the castle against the autumn night. Tongues of flame licked the wall. Cries were heard on the wall and in the camp a commander laughed.

“Now,” he ordered, “attack!”

He gloated. They all had said it wasn't possible, but now it was. And if it had taken a deal with Beliar he didn't mean to take, so be it.

He didn't listen to cautions and warnings.

The soldiers were distracted but the wall was strong, too strong. Arrows rained down on the attackers, burning oil and pitch. The commander looked on but did not call the soldiers back. He had a deal with Beliar, hadn't he?

But the walls stood and the defenders fought and in the end, on onslaught ended in panic and desertion. They ran, if they could, they stumbled and fell. When the doors of the castle opened and a squadron of cavalry galloped out, they even left their camp behind.

Helpless, the commander stood by and screamed at them to return, to fight, but they didn't fear him anymore, not as much as they feared the swords of their enemies.

Near the river, a boy laughed for the first time in years.

*

“The commander was humiliated,” Beliar said, standing in front of his mother, his brother at his side, though only in a physical sense. In truth, he stood against him, arguing for his own side. “So the boy belongs to me.”

“The boy wanted people to laugh at him. Nobody laughed,” Dinor protested.

“The boy laughed,” Beliar said with a shrug, “It is enough.”

“So it is said. So it shall be,” the goddess agreed.

“The commander saw the castle burn.”

“He wanted to win the battle.”

“Not what he said. He just said he wanted to see it burn. He did. The commander is mine.”

“So it is said, so it shall be.”

Dinor seethed but said no more about the commander. He hated this ritual, he hated to lose just as much as his brother.

He also hated this. He hated it to fight for every single soul, for every single life, but this is the way their father created the world and this is the way his mother judged it.

“Most people in the castle survived,”

“Many died.”

“It is war. People die. More lived than died.”

The old goddess nodded. “The king is yours. Do it is said. So it shall be.”

“The mother escaped with her son.”

“There was no need to escape!”

“That wasn't even discussed.”

“So it is said. So it shall be.”

“Thank you, mother,” Beliar finished the ritual with a bow and turned to go.

“What about the priest? His whole congregation is promised to me.” Dinor followed him through the twisting passages of their world.

“They always are. What do I care?”

“You...”

“I didn't strike a bargain with the priest.”

“You said the words.”

“Words, just words. Like time, meaningless. Only mother seals the deal.”

With sure and angry steps, Beliar rushed to his room.

“They still won't love you,” Dinor called after him.

He didn't hear the answer. “They never do. But a priest just might start believing â€" in me.”

[kconan]

The deadline is tomorrow...Does anyone need another day or so?

[Stupot]

I want to enter but... does 'the end' count towards the word limit?

[kconan]

I want to enter but... does 'the end' count towards the word limit?

Yes.

[Rocchinator]

Wow, I had a wonderfull morning reading all your stories, real good material here. So unique every one of them.

kconan Yes man, you can borrow it no problem!

[Baron]

Diabolus Imperium

   Hyperbolus Ornatus paced nervously around the atrium, the clicking of the mosaic tiles beneath his four inch heals echoing maddeningly through the courtyard.  He rung his clammy hands together anxiously before running them through his sweaty mop of curls.  His cherubic face, normally so poised beneath a thick façade of makeup, now looked a ghoulish shambles of streaky mascara and smeared lipstick.

   â€œDo stop it, Darling!” called the waspish voice of Lenis Penicius, his Armenian lover, as he lounged on a nearby dining couch.  “You'll burst an aqueduct in your cerebrum!”

   Hyperbolus shook bodily with frustration, causing his numerous bracelets and necklaces to jingle like a cart full of tambourines bouncing over cobblestones.  “Lenis, you cad!” he caterwauled.  “It's easy for you not to be all trepidatious, because you are not about to be murdered!”

   â€œYou mean I'm not about to be emperor, Darling.”

   Hyperbolus scoffed and fidgeted with his penile piercing, wishing to Saturn that time could be turned back and decisions reconsidered.  What had he been thinking?!?  There had been 11 emperors in the last three years, not one of them lasting more than six months.  The shortest reign was that of Ejaculus Primus, who had lasted a mere eight days before being stamped to a pulp by the iron-shod marching boots of his own Praetorian guard.  But even Ejaculus' brief flirtation with the marble throne was an unqualified success compared to most conspirators. How many scores of pretenders had he seen over the years, crucified or garroted, or thrown to the lions, or tied up in a sack with a pack of little sharp-clawed vermin and thrown into water just deep enough to panic them?  Hyperbolus poured himself a cup of wine with shaking hands to calm his nerves.

   â€œGo easy on the sugary drinks!” Lenis opined hautily.  “You know those calorums go straight to your hips.  And you'll need your wits about you when you meet the Cranky Captain; nobody ever won over the troops with that dancing senator thing you do when you get drunk.”

   â€œShut up!” Hyperbolus whined, draining the cup and flinging it at Lenis.  “You can be such a queen sometimes!”

   â€œDo you want to be called emperor Hyperbolus, or emperor Hippodromus?” Lenis asked cattily, referring to his friend's slight weight problem.    “Have a carrot, fuck!”

   â€œI'll scratch you!” Hyperbolus threatened, advancing unsteadily on his heels.  “So help me, I'll give you such a pinch!”

   Their impending mêlée was interrupted by the sudden sound of heavy footfalls in the corridor beyond.

   â€œOh my gods, oh my gods, it's the Cranky Captain!” Hyperbolus squealed, his hands shaking with tremors.  He danced on his toes in one direction, then another.  “What do I say?  Where do I sit?  Oh my gods, how do I look?!?”

   â€œLike a painted sphincter!” Lenis exclaimed, sitting bolt upright on the dining couch.  “Come here, you skanky humming bird!  Let me try to fix you up.”

   Frantically the two men tried to compose themselves as the footfalls grew louder and ever more menacingly.

   â€œHurry, to the solium,” Lenis fretted, trying to patch up Hyperbolus' eye-makeup while pushing him into an ornate armchair at the end of the atrium.  “Gah!  You have puffy eyes!”

   The footfalls stopped, and the great wooden doors at the front of the atrium exploded inwards like a burst dam.  A short, burly man in full military regalia had burst through the gates like a Hun looking for plunder.  He was so short, and so burly, that he appeared to be broader than he was tall.  He had a thick beard shaped in the Scythian style, and a large scar cutting across his left-eye from forehead to cheek.  But for his height, he looked every inch a warrior of the fiercest calibre.

   â€œWhere's Hippocampus?” the soldier barked, looking around the atrium.  “Is it you!?” he asked Lenis, sizing the silk-clad dandy up and down.

   â€œBy Ganymede's shaved legs, No!” Lenis protested.  “Hyperbolus is right here behind me.  Well, not right behind me, of course.  Ha, ha!  No, that wouldn't be very, er, regal of him.  Say, is all that chest hair regulation, hmmmm?”  Lenis impulsively grabbed at the tuft of chest hair erupting over the Captain's breastplate, but before he could his fingers were severed by the flashing blade of the Captain's sword.  Lenis stared momentarily at the stumps at the end of his hand, his face contorting into  a visage of pure disdain.  “You beastial barbarian!” he spat, scurrying off to gather his severed digits.

   â€œAye!” the Captain retorted, stepping past Lenis to address the potential emperor-in-waiting directly.  “That I am, a barbarian, through and through.  My mother was the most diseased whore in the Roman army, and my father was the most vicious brute in the barbarian horde that killed her clientele.  My breast milk was human blood, and my school was the whip.  I am the weed that has been mowed and burned a thousand times, only to come up again stronger than before.  I am Virilus Indomitus, Captain of the Praetorian Guard!  And you are Hymenus Opennus, my would-be emperor.”

   â€œActually, point of clarification,” Hyperbolus began pedantically, “it's actually Hyperbolus Ornat-”

   â€œI don't fucking care what your name is!” Virilus barked, licking Lenis's blood off his sword.  “I've made and broken eight emperors, and it will be nine in half a heartbeat if you cross me, boy!  You can play dandy or scholar or priest, it doesn't bother me.  Womanizing, sodomizing, cannibalizing, incestisizing: for me it's water off a Spartan's shield.  There was even that one guy who did freaky things with shaved chickens; whatever!  But don't.  You.  Ever. Cross me.  Your name is what I say it is!  Do you understand?”

   Hyperbolus barely hesitated.  “Er, yes sir!”

   â€œGood boy!” the Captain roared approvingly.  “You've already made it further than my last four applicants.  Now, listen carefully.  I've got ten thousand of the most elite storm troopers the world has ever seen willing to slit open their own mothers at my command.  Do you know why?”

   Hyperbolus squirmed in his solium.  Lenis had promised him that there would be no difficult questions in the interview.  He closed his eyes to stop his body from shaking, but all that achieved was focusing his mind on his failed bladder.  Suddenly the answer came to him: “fear?”

   â€œHa!” the Captain shouted, smashing a priceless marble sculpture with the haft of his sword.  “No!  Well, in part, yes.  Their fear of me keeps me alive and in my position, but why do they obey the commands of the Captain of the Praetorian Guard?”

   Hyperbolus squirmed in his puddle, intensely aware that the moisture was slowly wicking up his toga.  He wished he hadn't thrown the wine goblet away.  Now Lenis was quietly using it to gather up the ends of his fingers.

   â€œWell-” he began, stalling for time.

   â€œShut up!” the captain commanded, continuing to strut about the atrium like a puffed up rooster.  “I'll tell you why: silver!  They love silver, more than life, or love, or liberty.  Your job,” he jabbed a finger in Hyperbolus's direction, “your only true function in life, is to provide a vast and every increasing stream of silver.  Your soon-to-be-predecessor is late in his silver payment, as was his predecessor before him.  I need that cash,” Virilus said in an uncharacteristic whisper, making him seem suddenly all the more menacing.  “Can you provide it?”

   Of course there was only one answer that Hyperbolis could realistically give at this point, regardless of his actual ability to come up with the money.  He was about to seal the deal when Lenis piped up from a safe distance across the atrium.

   â€œHow does the illustrious Hyperbolus know that you will fulfil your end of the bargain?” he asked piercingly.

   Virilus growled like a blood hound at a biting fly, but continued to pace nonchalantly.  “I don't show good faith, if that's what you mean.”

   â€œTypical,” Lenis sneered.  Hyperbolus suddenly became aware of a very prominent vein bulging in Virilus's forehead.  Undaunted, Lenis continued.  “You could just steal the silver and dump poor Hyperbolus's murdered corpse in the Tiber.  We might as well just be murdered now and save the expense,” he added haughtily, carefully placing the cup containing his fingers on the side table.

   â€œWhat do you want?” Virilus rasped, swinging his sword at the air.

   Lenis took the precaution of pacing the captain's speed on the opposite end of the atrium to keep a safe distance.  “You can kill us now, and get nothing,” Lenis reasoned.  “Or you can kill us in a week and have your money.  You need the money.  The troops are restless.  Aren't they, Darling?”

   â€œRestless.  Yes.”  Hyperbolus only dared to agree because Virilus was currently on the opposite end of the atrium from him.

   â€œYou need the money,” Lenis repeated.  “We need Hyperbolus to be emperor to secure the funds from his ...backers.  You make him emperor, and then you shall have your coin.”

   â€œHow long?” Virilus barked, stroking his chin in thought.

   â€œThree days,” Hyperbolus replied before Lenis could jump in.  If he was going to be emperor, he might as well pretend to be in charge.

   Virilus sniffed disdainfully, but after another quarter circuit of the atrium he sheathed his sword.  “Gentlemen, I think we have an accord.  Vengeus!” he bellowed.

    There was the clatter of iron-shod boots in the hall before a lone guard appeared at the door.  He was taller than Virilus, and his scars were arranged differently, but otherwise the two appeared to be cast from the same mold.  “Yes sir!” the man shouted.

   â€œVengeus is my second in command.  The men follow Vengeus because they know he has my absolute trust, and he has my absolute trust because he is unswervingly obedient.  Hail the new emperor!” Virilus commanded.

   â€œHail Caesar!” Vengeus shouted unquestioningly, punching his chest and raising his arm in salute.

   â€œGo tell the men to kill What's-His-Face, the current emperor, and have Hippopotamus here declared emperor by all the heralds and criers in the imperial bureaucracy.  He is now emperor, and any man who dares to question him must answer to me.”

   â€œYes sir!” Vengeus cried.  “How shall we kill him, sir?  The current emperor?”

   Virilus gestured magnanimously towards Hyperbolus.

   â€œOh, um.... Oh my!  So many ways to choose from....  Can we have him launched from a siege engine into a prominent monument?  I've never heard of that one before.”

   â€œExcellent choice, majesty!” Virilus smiled, waving Vengeus off on his way.  “You have a ruthless streak that will serve you well as emperor,” he declared, grabbing the goblet full of fingers as he passed by.   â€œA toast is in order!” he called, filling the goblet from the amphora.  “Gentlemen, to power!” Virilus drank the cup in one great gulp, then leered a grin at Lenis with one of the severed fingers between his lips like a pipe.

   â€œOne must always be careful with cylindrical objects in one's mouth,” Lenis commented dryly, coming to stand behind the new emperor.

   Virilus spat out the finger and tossed the cup aside.  “You know,” he frowned pensively, “I need him to be emperor, not you to be his smart-mouthed advisor.”

   â€œYou know,” Hyperbolus chirped in, not able to contain himself now that the sands were flowing in the glass.  “We need Vengeus to declare my rule law, not you to get in the way of imperial authority.”

   Virilus's brow furrowed, and the throbbing vein was suddenly apparent once more.  He reached for his sword, but his hand lingered on his stomach, whence the poison was now spreading through his body.  He made to shout something, but all that came out was a disturbingly frothy gurgle before he collapsed in spasms upon the mosaic floor.   

   Hyperbolus rose and pranced merrily around the atrium in glee.

   â€œQuickly, you dainty princess!” Lenis cried.  “Help me rinse the toxins from the fingers.  And summon a Greek physician and a manicurist!”

[kconan]

The Entrants:

Rocchinator
Mandle
Frodo
Blondbraid
Sinitrena
Baron

The Categories:

Best Bargain:
Best Devil:
Best Setting/World:
Best Writing/Style:


Let the voting commence!

[Rocchinator]

This was a really hard one really love all the stories, but guess I have to go with what I like the most.

Best Bargain: Frodo - Untalented musician that get what he wants among everything elese, even though he never tought of love. Rushed desition by a young man delivered by his passion. liked it.

Best Devil: Blondbraid - That was some heartless devil. Really clever to put pain diguised in joy. I think that psychological pain its worse than pyshical pain.

Best Setting/World: Mandle - Love the Description and place that the deal took over, I could imagine it. And the punching last line was awesome.

Best Writing/Style: Blondbraid - This was genius, really unique style. It's almost like someone was singing the story.

[Baron]

There were some seriously good stories this time around, making voting very hard.  In future we should just assume that if there are more than five entrants we can double up votes, unless the contest administrator specifically says otherwise.

My votes:

Best Bargain: Frodo.  It was such a simple thing, tweaking Jacob's vocal tuning, but it made all the difference in the world.  I've got to give a special mention to Sinitrena for trying to tie together five deals at once, but I thought it was more of a gift than a deal for the limping boy, so I've got to give Frodo the edge here.

Best Devil: Mandle.  Another close one, but I just loved the provocateur that Mandle created.  Honourable mentions go to half the entrants. Blondbraid's Old Man Sunshine was creepy, opportunistic, and wielded his devilry to particularly ironic effect.  Sinitrena's Beliar also deserves mention, for being a misunderstood soul collector just trying to give people what they truly want. 

Best Setting/World: Mandle.  What an office!  Quaint little alcoves filled with screaming impaled heads?  Chairs made of the woven genitals of the lusty?  Rugs of dried extruded entrails of the gluttonous?  I thought as a setting it was pitch perfect for the tone of his story.

Best Writing/Style: Blondbraid.  Yeah, some of the rhyming lines had inconsistent rhythms, but the language was phenomenal.  Days "so warm you'd swear hell itself is seeping up through the cracks in the dirt" paints the whole setting and sets the atmosphere for the whole story.  Likewise, "Her tears were gone for good, and forever here on after / When those she loved spoke of their sorrow, she was doomed to mock them with her laughter" sums up the whole story in a tidy little nutshell. 

I think I've left out Rocchinator unjustly, since his story was great; it just didn't seem to be best according to the categories this time around.  If we had a "Best Tempted Category" he would have won hands down, because I could see my own attitudes in Eric's worldly scepticism.  Eric also made the vilest deal, I think, which is what the whole competition was about.  If there was a category for "Best Deal Circumstances" I would have given Frodo another vote: what else would you do if you were tossed out in a dark alley in your underpants?  If there was a category for "Best Diabolical Motivation" I could have cast a vote for Sinitrena, since the sibling rivalry she described goes a long way towards explaining the almost childish rivalry we see in the struggle between darkness and the light.  It kind of reminded me of this movie called Erik the Viking where all the gods of Valhalla are all toddler brats.

Finally, in answer to Mandle's querry:

Spoiler

Yeah, I thought Jesus first.  Then, for some reason, I thought Santa Clause.  When I read Adam at first I thought, wtf?  Isn't that already water under the bridge?  Then I thought, well, there are lots of Adams and clause 15 200 300 905 and/or the devil himself isn't specific as to which one, leaving kind of a legal loophole that the devil himself would love.  Then I thought there was some sort of time travel element, which would somehow impact the whole of human history.  Then I thought that if God had the power to turn back time and make that happen, then he could easily turn back time again and make it unhappen (either unsacrificing Adam, or if that runs against the contract, then going back before the contract was signed and not signing it).  Finally, I thought I was putting too much thought into the deeper meaning of a comedic story and moved on to Frodo's submission.

[close]

[Mandle]

Finally, in answer to Mandle's querry:

Spoiler

Yeah, I thought Jesus first.  Then, for some reason, I thought Santa Clause.  When I read Adam at first I thought, wtf?  Isn't that already water under the bridge?  Then I thought, well, there are lots of Adams and clause 15 200 300 905 and/or the devil himself isn't specific as to which one, leaving kind of a legal loophole that the devil himself would love.  Then I thought there was some sort of time travel element, which would somehow impact the whole of human history.  Then I thought that if God had the power to turn back time and make that happen, then he could easily turn back time again and make it unhappen (either unsacrificing Adam, or if that runs against the contract, then going back before the contract was signed and not signing it).  Finally, I thought I was putting too much thought into the deeper meaning of a comedic story and moved on to Frodo's submission.

[close]

Thanks for putting so much thought into it! Santa Claus?! Hahahahaha!
And,

Spoiler

...yes, but how many of those Adams only have a first name? Well, probably quite a few actually in olden times. Let's just assume that the particular Adam was clarified after the story ends.
As for all the loopholes/plotholes: The devil has been writing this contract for millenia. He's got them all covered in sneaky clauses hidden here and there I'm sure...

[close]

[Sinitrena]

Rocchinator: I relly enjoyed your story. The idea of a self-created hell and the obvious diabolical delight the demon gets from Eric's agony is very good and well written, despite the sometimes questionable use of the English language (sorry). I'm not a native speaker either and far from perfect, though, so I won't go into detail. Question: "Guns are loaded by the devil" - is that a quote or a saying of some kind?

Mandle: The descriptions of the Devil's office are very vivid - very well done. And the descision to have the devil speak in "questionable spelling" was, while difficult to read ar first, a good one. It gives him a kind of detached character, like as if he isn't part of this world, more so than God, who just seems to scream (Yes, I know, it's supposed to be a booming voice, but he seem's so pissed off by Satan that I couldn't help but think of an incompetant manager or something.)

Frodo: Probably the story I liked best this round. A musician making a deal with the devil is a classic (see Robert Johnson) and that falling in love would break the deal was in interesting idea. I just have to point out that the last line of the story was completly unnescessary. Readers are not morons, after all.

Blondbraid: As Rocchinator said, this almost reads like a song, sung at a pyre late at night in a hushed and slow voice. You know how you sometimes think something should remind you of somethink but you just can't find the memory? That's what I feel with your story. The old man sunshine is probably the most diabolic entity in our collection here (with Rocchinator's devil right behind). He seems innocent, his offer seems innocent, his promise seems nice but in the end only he is laughing (well, technically, Candice is laughing too, but you know what I mean.) It's a strange choice though to start the story as prose and then slowly change to peotry. Any reasons?

Baron: The names, oh gods, the names! Your story is an deviation from the rest of ours: first, the devil is not a supernatural being and second, the deal doesn't exactly go through. The ending was certainly unexpected because I the two "heroes" really didn't seem all that smart, so is it a case of abfuscating stupidity or just a stroke of luck? The fact that there is no supernatural being and the fact that Lenis might be smarter than he seems actually makes me question who the devil was supposed to be.




Now, votes:


Best Bargain: Frodo
Best Devil: Blondbraid
Best Setting/World: Mandle
Best Writing/Style: Blondbraid

As Baron, I feel like we need more votes per category. Rocchinator deserved some votes but looking at the categories, there just always was someone slightly better. Same for Frodo, I liked her story best but in the categories, Blondbraid deserves the votes.

[Mandle]

Mandle: And the descision to have the devil speak in "questionable spelling" was, while difficult to read ar first, a good one.

My purpose with the garbled-looking upper-case/lower-case was to give the impression that Satan was speaking in many different voices at once, all garbled together. He is Legion. But at the end he speaks his word of revenge in his own, true voice of Lucifer the angel. The voice God gave him and once loved.

[Baron]

@ Sinitrena: My whole idea for a story was that sometimes it is hard to see who truly is the devil.  I'm glad I got at least one person second guessing their first impression!

[kconan]

  Noted for future comps on the need for more votes per category when there are a lot of entrants.

  I'll leave voting open until Sunday.

[Rocchinator]

Sinitrena Thanks for the feedback, I'm almost self taught in english, I know my limitations, I like to write stories, but never give the try to write in english so this was my first try , I will try to get better. about the quote, yes, it's, here in Argentina is "Las armas las carga el Diablo" my granny used to say it, its a commmon quote here.

[Frodo]

The entries are all really good.  Makes it hard to vote. 

Sinitrena, didn't know that Robert Johnsen apparently sold his sold.  My story \ Jacob Knight honestly wasn't based on him. 

Anyway, here's my votes. 


BEST BARGAIN:   Rocchinator.  I feel so sorry for Eric.  All he wanted, was to be with his wife.  But his desire to do that, became his own, personal hell. 

BEST DEVIL:   BlondBraid.  Old Man Sunshine is SO devious - appearing nice and sympathetic, then tricking poor Candice at the end. 

BEST SETTING:   Mandle.  The Devil's office is so beautifully described, with so much detail.  I just love it. 

BEST WRITING STYLE:   BlondBraid.  Love the rhyming style.  Not every line rhymes perfectly, but it must be really tricky to get words that rhyme, as well as getting your meaning across.  Well done. 

[Mandle]

Voting in the next few hours!

[Blondbraid]

Sinitrena Well, I wrote the first part before the rest, it started with the idea of old man sunshine and I wanted to create something like felt like part of old folklore.
I didn't get any idea of what sort of bargain he would make until just a few days before the deadline. I noticed some of the sentences rhymed and it sort of flowed from there,
but if I had more time, I would probably worked rhymes into the intro too. You were right about me being inspired by song too, but also opera.
I actually got the idea of the curse that befalls Candice from Kundry in Wagner's opera Parsifal.

Anyway, here is my vote:
Best bargain: Roccinator, it was a good twist indeed.
Best devil: Sinitrena, because Beliar was a fascinating and fun character, and even if all the deals weren't quite tied together in the end, it was impressive to have him attempt so many deals at once!
Best setting: Baron, because the gleefully corrupt setting gave me some serious Blackadder vibes, and it was entertaining reading about all the insane schemes in the emperors court.
Best writing style: Mandle, because I like how the writing and fonts gave him a very special voice, a cool touch indeed!

[Mandle]

Best Bargain: Frodo. Yeah I must agree with Baron. Such a simple deal, but enough to change the character's life forever, and end it!
Best Devil: BlondBraid... I can honestly see Old Man Sunshine as a character from ancient folklore (was he?)
Best Setting/World: Baron, not only for the names, but mostly for the names!
Best Writing/Style: Blondbraid, for the amazing rhyming that still told the story perfectly. Damn hard to do!

[kconan]

1st place, Blondebraid 


2nd place, Mandle 


3rd place, Frodo 


I've counted, recounted, and re-recounted some more...Congrats to Blondebraid for winning the comp!  And congrats to Mandle and Frodo for making the top three.  There were lots of entrants this go 'round, as well as lots of unconventional and awesome takes on the theme.  Good show FWC peeps!

Hosting duties are officially turned over to you, Blondebraid!

[Rocchinator]

YAY! Congrats to the winners really enjoyed this contest really entertaining, Well done everyone!

[Baron]

I demand another recount, just to be sure.

Congratulations to all the winners!

[Frodo]

Congrats to Blondraid for winning, and also Mandle. 

And of course, all the entrants. 

[Blondbraid]

Thank you so much!