The winner of this contest was: Sinitrena
Greetings, writers and word weavers! We gather once again for our story-writing contest, and this time, we bask in the luminous theme of MOONLIGHT. Let the moon's ethereal glow guide your pens as we embark on a journey through the night skies. Unleash your imagination, and may your stories shimmer like stars in the moonlit canvas of the cosmos. So, take flight on this lunar escapade, and let your words paint the world with the magic of MOONLIGHT. Happy writing, and may your tales enchant us all!
(Co-written with ChatGPT)(https://th.bing.com/th/id/OIG.XL8bWqEuOhQlg0Sdoudn?pid=ImgGn)
(Made in Bing Image Creator)
It shone
Pale as bone
As I stood there alone
And I thought to myself how the moon
That night
Cast its light
On my heart's true delight
And the reef where her body was strewn.
Not an entry, obviously :=
How are we doing on our stories, folks?
I'd gotten my maths a bit wrong so have changed the deadline date to the 18th (not 20th).
Quote from: Stupot on Sat 12/08/2023 16:36:37I'd gotten my maths a bit wrong so have changed the deadline date to the 18th (not 20th).
Wait, wait, wait! 8-0 You can't just steal two days, I was counting on them. (Especially because I have little time to write and might not even finish with the two additional days.)
Other than that, I have an idea and a beginning, and the longer I think about the idea, the less it has to do with the topic.
Okay, I've reinstated the two extra days out of an abundance of kindness, neighbourly love and general do-goodery on my part. I expect nothing in return, except for one of your lovely stories.
Okay, I think I need to dip into your kindness some more. I might be able to finish the story over the weekend, but I'm far from sure. Two more days would be nice.
Quote from: Sinitrena on Fri 18/08/2023 17:39:57Okay, I think I need to dip into your kindness some more. I might be able to finish the story over the weekend, but I'm far from sure. Two more days would be nice.
Yes, please! Me too!
Two things:
1. Two more days would be great.
2. BABAR!!!! ;-D
One day was enough for me, but I might do some more proofreading and editing later. I only post now because my internet was a bit unstable the last couple of days and I never now when it'll cut out again.
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Moon's Flower
She only opens her eyes at night. When moonlight shines on her delicate skin and clothes her in silver silk, her black eyes look to the sky and her feet bath in the salty water of the moon's steady companion, the sea.
Sand hides her at first when he reaches her home, for it is still day and the sun burns mercilessly onto the beach.
He searched for her for months, for years, for eternities. He asked wise women and old wizards, he spoke to the Harpies of the highest mountains and the Mermaids of the deepest sea. He sacrificed his blood and he offered his memories on the altar of all knowledge. But in the end, he found his answer and on the coast of storms and darkness, he found the Flower of the Moon.
Here she is, under the sand, her roots touching the churning waters of the ocean and her blossom still hidden by the sparkling crystals of the beach.
He brushes it away, the sand and the seashells, the algae and twigs, and underneath it all, underneath years of the water's gifts, after years of his life, he finds it. The flower does not stand alone. For now it is hidden, but thousands of thousands accompany her, thousands and thousands stand like an army of silver sparks, like a second sea at the shore.
They jitter as he reveals them, they jerk away and they hide under the sand again right away after his hands brush it away.
"Don't!" a whisper surges through them. "Don't! The sun!" they beg as he gently touches their silver hair.
He pauses and he stares at the hint of this vast field of flowers hidden under the sand. "Don't you want to come out and see the world? See it in the light of day? Shine in the sun reflecting from the ocean?" he asks, he teases. Long is forgotten the doubts he had at the beginning of his journey. He doubted than that Harpies flew in the skies, he doubted then that a flower as this could exist, a flower that could bring the moon itself to the earth. But here he his, and he would bring one flower home, home to the king and the princess, home to his future. There was a kingdom to earn, a future to win, a lady to marry.
"The sun hurts." one says, braver than the others and blinking up at the man with sparking, curious eyes. "And only for the moon we shine, like he shines on us."
The man nods. He understands. "I have not come to hurt you." he says, "Only to ask for a favour."
For a while, the flowers are silent as the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon. It washes the waves red in a wide triangle before it cooks the waters in glimmering fire. The waters seem to follow the sun to the horizon, crawling away from the beach. They leave sand behind, but more they take with them, revealing the second sea. With the sun hidden behind the horizon and the moon bright and full in the sky, both ocean and flowers become one sea of silver and a single man kneels patiently waiting among them.
Their blossoms are silver silk falling over their faces, strong and wavy like seaweed dancing on the waves. Their eyes are as black as the darkest sky, their stems and leaves like fingers caressing the sand and the man's skin.
"What is the favour you ask?", the one brave among them asks, stretching her neck towards him and tickling him with her hair.
"One of you" he says, touching her silky dress with his fingers, "for one of you to come with me."
A wave runs through the flowers, whispered questions mixing with the soft breeze over the ocean. "What for? - Why? - No! - Home. - How? - We are here, we are one."
"Just one. Not long. I'll bring you back. But the princess needs to – wants to see you once. Just once. For a moment. For a while. I'll bring you home again soon."
Now the whispers are one giant wave, swelling to a cacophony of anger and fear. "NO!" they scream, all of them, and just a single voice among them stays silent.
The one flower still looks up at the man and her mouth stays closed and her eyes become filled with more and more wonder. "See the world." she whispers, hers a real whispers, silent and purling. "All the world? The mountains and the snow, the palm trees and the towns, the streets and the fields and the rivers and houses?"
"All of it," he answers, ignoring the other flowers. "I'll show it to you, all for a minute with the princess, just so that she can see that you exist and that I found you."
The little flower is silent for a long while, while the other flowers protest and close a tight circle around her. "Don't go." they say. "Don't leave. The world far from the moon is not for us. In the light of the moon, truth shines, in the sun it is hidden under a constant glare. In the light of the moon we are safe..."
In the end, all the protestations do not matter to the one brave little flower.
*
During the day he sleeps and during the night he walks. Not just the moon illuminates his path now with more light than even the sun can offer, but the flower, delicately held in his hands, shines on his way like the hope of his future she is.
They walk through valleys and over streams, they cross fields and climb up into the mountains. Far from the Harpies of the west he has visited so long ago, they march through an empty and vast wilderness.
They do not expect other people here, for the man avoids cities and villages, too afraid of curious looks, too afraid of prying questions.
What if someone takes the flower from him? What if someone hurts her? What if he cannot protect her? What if someone else heard of the king's promise? What if, what if, what if. The questions are ever present in his mind, even when he talks to the flower; about his travels, about the world of his kind, about the hope he has for his life.
Or when the flower talks about all the things she never thought she would see; about the fir cone falling to the ground, about the needles crunching under his feet, about the wind howling in the canyons.
It is a voice that comes with the wind. It comes from the gorge, desperate, timid, calling for help.
"I've fallen!" it comes from the depth, "Help, help, I've fallen into the ravine."
At first, the man keeps walking, not sure if he really hears a voice, not sure what he could do.
But the voice keeps calling: "Help! Help me please. I'll plummet, I'll fall. Please, please, in the name of the moon's shining light, help."
"Is he – in danger?" the little flower asks, peaking out from under his fingers.
"We cannot help him." the man answers. "We have no rope, we cannot climb and hoist him up. There is nothing we can do."
"No." the flower says sadly, a tear running over her leaves. She shakes her head and the silver hair swings like a wave. "No, we cannot." She doesn't know how.
And so the man keeps walking, but again and again he looks back to the chasm where the voice is coming from.
I cannot help him. How could I?, he thinks, but then he stops in his tracks.
But I do have rope, don't I? Isn't the flower full of magic? Is she not talking, is she not a favourite of the moon? He shakes his head again.
No, what am I thinking, if I offer even one of her hairs? She's so delicate, so precious. I could never go back. No other flower would come with me. And would I dare force them? Would I dare hurt them? The voice slowly fades away and with it, it takes part of his heart.
Can I leave him behind? A life for my future? A life for my wealth? Caught in his own thoughts, the man doesn't hear one final scream following him.
The man turns around suddenly and runs back to the ravine. "We can help, maybe we can." he wheezes. "May I have one of your hairs? Just one? Just a single strand of your hair."
The flower does not understand, but she leans her head towards him nonetheless. "If it can help." she says and only jerks slightly as the man plucks one of the silver strands of her blossom.
Looking up at the moon, he begs: "Please, for your daughter and this man, make her hair as strong as a hawser, make it as long as your ocean's unfathomable depths. Please."
And the moon obliges. The hair grows and slithers down into the chasm like a sea snake, long and powerful, silver and radiant.
The chasm is dark, but the hair brings it light. The rope looks and searches, pushing into this nook and that, but the voice is silent.
*
There was less chatter among the two travel companions after that night. And now that they have reached a city, there is none. He whispered to her to keep hidden and she didn't object, too loud were the noises of the town, too manifold the smells and the views. She feels confused, overwhelmed. There are too many impressions to take in.
An ocean lies at the food of the cliffs here, a different one than the one she used to dip her feet in. They will have to cross it, he tells her silently and she doesn't answer, looking at the hustle and bustle of the harbour instead.
It is the first time that she sees so many people. Until now, only the one man holding her gently and protecting her ever seemed real to her. There are angry words here, fearful ones there, begging ones close by.
"Please, sir, just a coin." a little girl begs. "I'm hungry, I have no clothes. Please, sir."
The man doesn't react, looking for a ship to take them over the ocean and so he keeps walking, but the flower hears her.
"No clothes?" she asks, "I think I have some."
The man has stopped in his tracks and looks down onto the little flower under his vest. It is day, and the sun burns down onto the harbour with all its might and when the flower peaks out from under his clothes, she winces and jerks when just a single drop of sunlight touches her skin.
"What is it?" he wonders as he notices her peaking out and jerking back over and over again, looking back at the little girl still standing in the middle of the road, her weak arms holding her hands like a bowl.
"She needs clothes." the flower says. "I have hair, so much hair. She is small, just a strand and the moon will give her what she needs." The flower peers up at him. "Help her, please."
"Does it not hurt you, when I take your hair? Will it regrow?" he asks her sceptically.
"Does it matter? She needs it more than I do."
And so the man plucks some hairs from the flowers head again. One is not enough, for the moon is weak in the day. It stands on the sky, looking down at them, but it is close to the horizon and pale under the harsh light of the sun.
He plucks a second strand and then a third, until some of the flower's beauty is gone. And he prays to the moon: "Your daughter's hair for someone else's daughter, to clothe her and feed her. Make it a shawl around her shoulder, covering her like the sea covers the earth."
And again the moon obliges. Though weak in the day, the strands of hair grow and intertwine, they knit themselves into a silver cloak, shining like the sea of flowers on the shore. They stretch towards the little girl and she screams for a second but then they wrap her in a tight embrace and she smiles.
She starts to run away but after a few steps she turns around again. "Thanks!" she calls to the man and then she disappears into the crowd.
The man smiles as well as he starts looking for a boat to take them again. But his smile is short-lived, because a scream rings out from the crowd. It is the scream of a little girl, full of fear, full of pain. And then a triumphant scream follows, the laughter of a man, who holds up a silver cloak into the air, before tucking it under his coat and running. But the girl never stands up again.
"No!" the little flower whispers.
"No!" the man screams, but it is too late.
*
They find a ship in the harbour, but if they were silent when they entered the city, they are mute now when they board the ship.
"It wasn't your fault." the man says and the flower says it as well, "It wasn't your fault." But neither believes the other.
They sail from the harbour in a dejected mood and not even the light of the moon can cheer them up when it finally wins its fight against the persisting sun. Not even the shimmering ocean, so familiar to her and so strange alike, can bring back a smile to the flower's eyes. They are blacker still than the sky, deeper still than the ocean and her hair shines less now than it did before. There is less of it, and what is left has lost some of its sheen. The moon coaxes her with more and more silver in its rays, but the flower stays hidden under the man's vest, shy and afraid for her failure. Twice they tried to save someone and twice it did not end well.
As if in answer to their mood, the water's of the ocean churn and growl. And the longer the journey lasts, the wilder the sea becomes. After a few days, high waves rock the ship, after some more, black clouds darken the sky and then, the next night, a storm brews on the horizon. Soon it is over the ship, whipping waves over the railing and blowing lost birds into the sails. Ropes rip and boards groan and cargo jumps up and down and back and forth.
The man sits in his cabin with the little flower on his legs, patting her and telling her that all will be well, that the ocean belongs to the moon and that the moon is her father and protector. But it is day, even though the sky is darker still than the deepest night and the planks as wet as fish in the ocean. Neither sun nor moon reach the boat.
"Reel in the sails!" the captain orders, but it is already to late.
When the storm has passed, the sails are gone or hang in tatters from the rigging. And the calm after the storm is absolute. No waves carry the ship in one direction or the other, no wind gets caught in the sorry remnants of the sailcloth. There is some, a mild breeze hangs in the air, but it is far too weak for the tattered sails. And under the water line, the ship is broken.
"Can we help them?" the little flower asks.
"Can we help us?" the man replies, more aware of the dire situation than the flower.
It is not a long discussion and not a great sacrifice when the man again plucks hair after hair from the flower's head. One is not enough for a new sail, two not even a rope for the rigging, a third has to follow, a fourth and a fifth.
The man speaks his prayer to the moon again: "We are stranded here on the ocean. Oh moon, please make these hairs into a sail, form them and strengthen them, make them as wide and as resilient as the waves of the ocean."
And again the moon obliges. But even though, by the time the sail is weaved, there are no hairs left on the flower's head, no more silver locks fall over her black eyes, no more silk clothes her and caresses her. Left is just a stem and some leaves and nothing more.
"My hair was my gift to the moon," the flower says sadly, "And now, will he even look at me again?"
"There are more important things." the man says. "At least, this time, we did manage to save these people."
"And us."
"And us."
And they did, for the ship sails on over the ocean, towards the promised kingdom and the princess awaiting her flower.
*
Hardly anyone recognizes him at the castle, but when he starts to speak of his adventures, of the mission and the king's promise, the guards let him pass.
He kneels down in front of princess and king and presents the flower to them.
Without her hair, she looks nothing like the legends have told. No silver silk protects her and no moonlight shines from her blossom. She is nothing more than an empty stem, looking at the people around her full of wonder.
"What is this?" the princess asks. "Who are you to bring me this – this thing?"
"This is," the man answers, his eyes filled with the same wonder the flower shows, "This is the flower of the moon, as was promised to you."
"This is not the flower of the moon? Where is her silver dress, where is her blossom, where is her hair?"
"She is the flower of the moon. What does it matter that she lost her hair?" The man puts his fingers around the flower protectively but the princess snatches her from his hands.
"What shall I do with that?" she asks and shakes the flower, "Without her silver hair? This is nothing. What is she worth to me like that? I wanted her to adorn me, for people to adore me!"
"Her hair saved lives!" the man begs, "Your subjects' lives!"
"Who cares!" And the princess throws the flower in a corner, stomping on her and away.
"It should be obvious," the king says, "that you shall not inherit my kingdom." but the man doesn't care. He rushes over to the flower and takes her in his hands again, gently placing her limp leaves on his palm and caressing her stem with his thumb.
"It will be alright," he whispers as he leaves the room, "You'll be alright."
But the brave little flower does not answer. She does not even open her black eyes.
*
He stands on a balcony overlooking the ocean. The flower in his hands is limp and withered. Her leaves have turned brown and dry and the moon shining down on her does not let her sparkle and gleam, even though he has moved in front of the sun, to see his daughter one last time.
"I'm sorry." the man whispers to her, though he is not sure she can still hear him. "I promised to show you the world, but I only brought you to death. Go home now, go home into the wide bed of the ocean, into the water's cold embrace under the moon's silver blanket. Go home."
He lets go of the flower with these final words and she sails down from the cliff, hardly more than a leave in the wind.
"Come with me!" she calls out to him with the last bit of her strength and the wind whispers her words to him. "Come, come to my father's realm, come."
There is nothing left for him in this castle. All his hope died with the flower, his future with the princess' cruelty, and so he follows her into the depth of the silver waves.
Cold hands of seaweed embrace him and pull him down, deep, deep into the waters, where no light reaches, neither the sun's nor the moon's.
But he doesn't fall forever, for other hands grip him and pull him up, green and silver, and black eyes look deep into his, while silver hair drifts on the waves.
Together they break through the surface again into the light of the moon, the flower now gently holding the man, as he held her for all this time.
And it is the flower who prays to the moon this time: "Take him, take us both, father, take us to your realm, for he is good."
And again the moon obliges. On silver rays he comes from the sky, stirring the waters in his path, that dress him in wave and storm. "Come," he says to the man, "Come, join hands with my daughter. One princess rejected you, as she rejected my daughter. One kingdom was lost to you. But another princess has fallen in love with you and another kingdom awaits. One that rules over the night."
*
And it is said that he was not the only one to ever find one of moon's flowers and not the only one who joined them in their realm. And when you look up at the sky, you can still see them sparkling bright in the dark of the night, as thousands and thousands of stars.
BLIND UNDER THE ALL-SEEING MOON
I heard some people say there has never been as beautiful a moonlit night as this one is supposed to be tonight. I've also heard somewhere that blood looks black in the moonlight, but I've been blind since birth so I cannot confirm that. Not the only reason for that, though. There's also that one other issue. I'll tell you about it later.
But wait, just so you fully understand my condition: I am a serial killer. And blind as well. The serial killer bit means that I have killed three or more people. Can you even imagine how hard that was for me, given the whole "blind" thing?
Well, you probably can see my point a bit, being blindfolded and all as you are.
But at least I'm just sightless and not bound to the back of this van like you are right now. Only mentioned that in case you were wondering what those handles are poking against your back.
Let's go for a drive, shall we? Oh, don't worry, I can feel my way around to the driver's side door and get in all on my own.
What was that you were struggling to say out through that gag? Were you kindly trying to call out for someone sighted to come to my assistance and drive in my place?
Hmmm, I'll take the thrashings of your bound limbs to mean yes to that. I won't be able to hear you once I'm behind the wheel.
But, don't worry. It won't be all that long until we are off on our way.
.
footstep.
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rustle. footsteps.
...
open. grunt... slam.
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vibration. thrumming though your back. swaying. shaking.
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SHAKING FROM SIDE TO SIDE.
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shaking stops now. sweat trickles down the side of your nose.
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an engine revving.
vrrrr. vrr-rrr-rrrr. bruuu. vrrrRRRR-rrRRR. bruuuUUUU-uuuUUUU.
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acceleration.
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BRUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMM.
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acceleration.
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swerve.
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HONK! HONK! SCREEEeeeeeach.
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HOOOOOOOOONK!
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WHEEEEEAAAAWWW-WHEEEEEAAAAAAWWW-SCHREEEeeeacccchh!-WHEEEEEEAAAA...
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rapid deceleration.
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red and blue light flashing in turn through blindfold.
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open, slam. open, slam.
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rushing feet.
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OFFICERS ARE ASSISTING YOU, MA'AM! Stop struggling!
Jesus, she's tied to the back of it!
APPROACHING DRIVER-SIDE DOOR! Draw your weapon and cover me, Kev!
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click. clack.
On it, Jeff!
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SIR! STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE AND... WAH DAaaa FUUuuuUUCK?!
open. rush of noise.
BLAM!!! BLAM!!! ArgH! OH, FUcK, NOOoo! BLAM!!!
JESUS! Jeff! What the FUCK is even... SMACK! THUD! NO! OH, GoD!!! No, PLEASE! UGH! nO... Don't!... oHgH... betty... GGGggguUUurggg.
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gnashing.
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chewing.
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swallowing.
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footfalls padding.
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Sggee? Thggris iggs whchat I dtho.
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smell of raw meat in your flinching face.
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Jusggst sggo we undgerstgand eacth ojther.
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Moon'sg segttingth soognn. Gotha hitg tghe roajd asgainm.
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padding footfalls. open. hefting gasp. slam.
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VrRRrRrrR... VRRRgrrrRAaAAchaaacchhhh. Greeeaaschhhg... VrooOOooooMmmm.
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shuddering acceleration.
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OooO--OOOooooo...
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OOooOO--OOOOOOOooooooo...
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(It was around about this point when you thought back through your terror and started to remember what had happened when the nerdy-looking blind guy had tapped his way up to you in the carpark after you'd done your shopping and asked why you thought you blacked out sometimes and then had tilted his ear when you started to reply and then had let go of his cane with a clatter and dashed in and covered your face with that nasty chemical-smelling rag and then you woke up immobile with your four limbs splayed out in an X shape with him going on about how he was a blind serial killer and all and...)
SWERVE. sway to the left and then...
SCREEEECH.
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open... slam. footfalls padding closer.
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HELSHLO! Yush've figshured outsh I'ghm a'gh w'gherewh-ghwolf by'g now, r'gight?
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I'ghll takghe tghat noighse an'gd thgrashigng asg a yeshg.
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OHgh! Hu'gh'mans comgshing outsh ofg th'ge ga'sh st'shand... B'e g'right backsh...
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loping sounds of claws digging in across pavement.
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Just shut the fuck up for once and listen, Jesse. The new mortgage will pay for all we nee... WHAT THE... A WOLF! SHOUT AT IT!
FUCK! GET YOUR GUN, ROB!
NO TIME! THREATEN IT WI... AAAaaaGGHHHthudGUrgle... Ripteargnash.
stalking footpads.
Oh my god, ROB!... Okay... you're a good boy. STOP coming closer. Gooood boy, wait NO! FUUUUC.
Thud. SCREAM cut off! Ripping sound. Gurgle.
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sound of gas stand door slamming open.
BLAM! BLAM! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THEM!
UGGFH!! skidding sound of a body hitting the ground.
What the FUCK!? OH! Oh no! FUCK!
sound of feet dashing away.
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sound of gas stand door slamming shudderingly shut.
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gruntreaching, smacking of hand on pavement, gasping, grasping, dragging sound.
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gurglebreath.
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smack of palm. gravelly scraping sound. gasp. grunt. dragging noise.
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I cgh-can't see you ashg-anymore.
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I'm sgh-shot thghruu. Go-gh to tghe.
coughing. splattering liquid sound.
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AR-GHHHH--
sound of thrashing of limbs and cracking of bone.
ARRRGGGUUGG--
Turning b-ghack KAK KAK SPLAT.
KAK!
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heaving in of a last shuddering water-down-the-drain breath.
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the-moonlit-th-uhr-rone. Go-
expelled breath gurglestillness
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wweeeaaawww.
wwweeeeeeawww.
wwwwWWWWHHHEEEAAAWWW.
flashing red-and-blues again through the blindfold.
SCHREEECH.
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open. open. slam. slam.
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OH, SHI-ET! Trev, call backup!
On it!
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approaching footsteps.
kicknoise of shoe against flesh.
This one's out. Gonna check the others down over ther...
SHIT, TREV!
WHAT?!
THERE'S ONE ON THE BACK OF THE AMBULANCE!
WHAT?!
LOOKS ALIVE! CALL IT IN!
WHAT?! ONE WHERE?!
RIGHT THERE! LOOK!
gas stand door opening sound to your left.
scrunch of gravel under spinning bootheels.
FREEZE! DOWN ON THE GROUND!
WAIT! I'M NOT...
DOWN ON THE GROUND!
thud of knees. OKAY! DON'T SHOOT! flopsmack.
rushing feet.
PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK! NOW!
okay! okay! Just don't...
click-clack.
rushing feet.
Trev, hands under his armpit!
Yup, got it.
And... LIFT!
haulscrape.
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scrape.
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Agrh! Comeon guys! My arm! ARhhhhh!
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grunt. open. shove. tuck. slam.
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step. step.
step.
Is she alive?
You start to thrash within the confines of your bound wrists and ankles and vocalize through the cloth of the gag cutting painfully across the corners of your mouth.
"Call more ambulances!" you hear the man you will only know briefly from time to time as Officer Steven Calrudd yell over his shoulder to the equally-doomed Officer Trevor Finney, who will himself outlive his partner by a matter of bare minutes when they both die five years later.
Blindfold off, it yanked roughly up crosswise across your forehead, you yell, "FUUUUCK! BE CAREFUL! FUCK, THAT HURT!"
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Nancy awoke. The industrial-green ceiling of her cell in Starklight's Mental Care Institute was the same as always. Not a single crack or divot in it had changed. And neither had she.
She had pretended to change though. Not all that successfully at times. Which was why she was still here.
It had been pretty easy to dupe Dr. Jerran, maybe a year ago, maybe more, into accepting that she had stopped believing the events of the night when she had been found by the police, helplessly strapped to the back of an ambulance slewed sideways at the end of the skid marks behind its tires in a gas stand's parking lot.
Easy to convince him that she had stopped believing that a blind man had drugged her in a carpark and then bound her to the ambulance's back doors and that he had turned out to be a werewolf who had spoken to her of a lot of stuff along the way.
Dr. Jerran had believed that she had let all of that go as just a fantasy and was now lucid.
Then there had been that fateful outing that the doctor had signed off on for her to go on as a supervised shopping spree. And that had got him fired.
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You are in a shopping mall. It is wonderful to your eyes after all the months of seeing the same industrial-green chipped ceilings and walls.
Everything is bright here. The shopfronts are colorful and young people walk by unaware of you sitting here drinking your third coffee.
Dr. Jerran sits across the molded orange table from you. He smiles and says, "See? It's not all that bad out here, right?" as the froth from his weird Italian coffee coats his mouth-hiding moustache. He sees your eyes go to his upper lip and chuckles and wipes away the stuff.
You say, "Yeah, this is pretty nice." and he nods back to you.
He says, "You can do this all the time if you want. I think you are ready."
Such wonderful words to hear, but the feeling of pressure in your bladder has been growing since the second coffee and so you say, "Excuse me, Larry. I have to answer a nature call."
He excuses you from the table, smiling, his face confident that you will return in a few minutes and that everything will be fine.
You enter the ladies' room and go into a stall, closing and locking the door behind you. As you are pulling down your slacks and panties, you hear someone else groaning fitfully in the next stall over. Poor them. Must be a big one, you think.
You sit on the toilet seat and start to pee.
Sweet relief.
wssshhhhpddddidlpddddlllpdddl but when you are almost done a mottled hand reaches under the gap between you and the occupied next stall over, clutching a piece of non-toilet paper, and the voice from next-door says, "ReAghd IghT!".
Clenching off your urethra, you reach down and take the paper. The hand withdraws.
fluuuushhh. open. SLAM!
You uncrumple the paper that was passed to you.
washing basin water sounds. step. step. hand-drier whhhiiiirrrrr. open. swing shut.
Looking back down at the paper, you see that it reads "The Moonlit Throne" in a clear but jagged scrawl. That's what that kidnapping asshole had tried to tell you about while he was busy dying on the asphalt of that gasoline stand!
You stand up, foregoing the wipe, and yank both your pants back up in a single tug. You fumble with the toilet stall lock for an instant but manage to get it open. You make it all the way across the tiled floor and smash your way out through the restroom door into the restaurant proper but start to stagger as your slacks fall down around your thighs.
Where is the buttwipe asshole that had handed the paper under the stall wall and taken back all your progress?! There he was, ducking out the diner's door!
You go after him. Your unbuckled trousers fall to your knees and you look like a crazy person as you crash face-first onto the edge of the table of a family just about to blow out the candles on their six-year-old son's cake, tipping it over back on top of you.
You roll around quite a bit screaming with your hair on fire and it takes about three quarters of an hour for the ambulance to arrive and take you to the emergency ward.
You are there under constant observation for days and by the time you are back home at the mental hospital the paper you received has vanished and Dr. Jerran has been fired and you are back to square one.
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Another three-and-a-half years went by for Nancy and then, one sudden evening, she was sitting in the public room of the institute, putting together the border of a new jigsaw puzzle of Munch's "The Scream", when Officer Steven Calrudd came in to ask her some more questions about the ongoing case. The case that had become known as "The Gas Stand Massacre" in the mainstream news media.
He sat down across the table from her, tucking his winter coat around the sides of the simple plastic chair, and said, "Hello again, Nancy."
She glanced up from her puzzle at the man. He saw recognition in her eyes. Then she looked back down and dispassionately slotted another piece of red sky into place.
"Nancy, we can help you." he opened with, but his words did not even put a dent in her furrowed, downward-turned expression. "Nancy, listen to me."
Nothing.
"Nancy, do you even remember us?"
'Us'? Nancy looked up and, through the frazzled, unkempt fringe of her wiry hair, she saw Officer Trevor Finney pulling in a chair on her left.
The corner of Nancy's mouth quirked up and that one incisor of hers that had always eluded the constraints of childhood braces slipped out from between her lips. "You're bald." she said clearly, the first words she had uttered in weeks that sounded like her voice from before, and then laughed and turned her attention back down to the as-yet-not screaming man on the jetty. Half of that other bald man's face was still missing, and the vital pieces making up his mouth had eluded her for days.
Officer Calrudd glanced over at his partner, trying not to smile or grimace, and they locked eyes for an instant. Calrudd saw the twitch in Finney's hand wanting to place itself back on the police cap on his lap. He'd worn that thing in and out of the station for a year and months more back when his once-glorious head of ginger had started to recede from forehead and crown. Even at his desk. Finally, he took it off one day, and the entire unit had breathed a collective sigh of...
BASH!
The entire rec room floor looked around at the sudden, violent sound from the row of wire-reinforced windows that ran along its length. A large grey, shaggy form swung back up and away on the outside of the third-floor room, and then swung back down again and its huge dog-padded feet hit the window once more.
BASHSPLINTER!
Jagged cracks spread out through the diagonally cross-threaded window and it caved inwards just a bit and...
BASH!
Another at the far end and then BASH! BASHSPLINTER! BASH! BASH! SPLINTER! Attacks on the windows ranged out all the way along. Holes were already crashing through here and there with showers of safety-glass cubes spraying into the room around the screaming, fleeing inmates and staff.
Hairy clawed hands reached through the broken gaps, the fur on the backs of them outlined in silver halos of moonlight as they gripped the remaining wire mesh and then powerfully ripped it back, tearing it apart.
BLAM! Calrudd was on his knees, firing.
SMAAASSH! An entire pane of glass gave way, and in through it leapt a werewolf, landing skidding on its hind paws briefly across the tiles of the pink-and-cream checkerboard floor. It slipped and fell on its back, the only thing saving it from a second round from Calrudd's pistol snapping by over it and impacting on the plaster above the broken window with a thud and puff of white.
Nancy was already down on her hands and knees, scrambling in under the scream-puzzle table, when Officer Finney stepped out in front of Calrudd's line of fire and took the third round in the right side of his back just as he was aiming down the barrel of his own sidearm. His shoulder blade shattered into pizza slices and he fell forward with a grunt, turning his surprised face away from the floor at the last moment of his deadweight fall.
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You scramble out from under the other side of the table, panickly pushing aside the chair recently occupied by Officer Steven Calrudd. It falls and clatters. You continue past him, picking your knees up from the floor and going into a slouching, scrambling hands-and-feet run, as he fires off his fourth shot wildly as a bulk of muscled fur leaps on him. You keep scrambling, a fleeing inmate knocking you to one side as you hear Calrudd screaming through ripping and tearing sounds, equally cloth and meat.
You slide a bit, but manage to keep going. Your right wrist sings a little song of pain. It's probably sprained but that's something to deal with later, your brain tells you, as, in front of the jutting viewpoint of your wide-open eyes, you see the rec room door. Your escape route. The two brown, wooden doors are still wide-open inwards. The stainless-steel cylinders of the door-closers bolted to their top edges shudder a bit in place as people dash through the opening, bashing in fright and collision up against the doors.
But the doors are still open as you hand-and-foot dash towards them but then a massive grey hairy form slides across in front. It rips its wiry, rope-muscled arms back behind it and the doors slam shut as it whips its elongated canine head to one side and tears out the throat of a man you only knew as Dennis as the poor guy smacks up against one of the wooden panels and falls twitching to the floor, spraying an artwork of blood across the door and one of its inset windows as his twitching body goes down.
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Nancy gasped and slid to a halt. The werewolf in front of her tilted its head and growled. She looked around to both sides and behind her quickly, but there were only the pale-skinned, grey-tufted haunches of other members of the pack closing in from all sides.
Calrudd lay dead in puddles of blood and flesh, his knees still up but starting to spread apart. Finney thrashed around on his front beyond the legs of the table where she had been peacefully piecing together her puzzle only a bare lifetime ago. He couldn't get up. Even trying to with his left arm, the shattered right shoulder blade dug its pizza slices together on every attempt, and he fell back down onto his front with screams. His pistol lay out of reach several meters away.
One of the werewolves saw the last desperate expression of hope on Nancy's face dashed away. It grin-gnashed a smile at her and then leapt onto all-fours and crouched down above the back of Finney's head. It looked up one more time into Nancy's eyes with its unearthly yellow ones. Then it slowly, very slowly, turned its head, stretched open its long jaws on either side of Finney's hairless scalp above the ginger band of hair ringing around above his ears and, eyes still locked on Nancy's, bit down and through in a cascade of crunch, blood, bone, and brain.
Nancy wished she could just pass out, but that doesn't happen in real life. She only received the blessed but brief gift of unconsciousness when the door-blocking werewolf padded forward and punched her in the back of the head.
They had got what they came for and the only hint of normality left in the room after they left was Nancy's incomplete puzzle on its undisturbed table.
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Hello, Nancy. How are you feeling? Probably not all that good, right? Oh, don't try to provide a reply. I don't expect one, what with you being all so blindfolded and gagged as you are. HEY, BRAD... GIVE HER A BLAST OF IT!
.
..
wwhhheeeaaaaw. WHEEAAAWWWWW.
That's enough!
.
Yeah, you're back riding another ambulance. Not tied to the back of one, jesus that guy was an idiot. Did he give you his speech about how blood looks black in the moonlight? Blind fucker always thought he had a great line about how he couldn't see red even after he turned into a dog and could see again. It's bullshit. We can see colors pretty much fine even while enhanced. Glad he's dead to be fucking honest.
.
Lay back for the ride. We are about twenty minutes out from the throne.
.
..
sounds of traffic
...
....
right turn
.
..
...
left turn. thump. downhill slope.
.
..
stop. open. slam.
We're going to be taking you out on the stretcher to where you're needed, Nancy. If you struggle even once, then you will be sedated. Do not do that, please.
.
..
doors opening
pull. ratchet. thud.
feeling of on-your-back motion. spinning. motion.
.
..
ding.
pushing.
swoosh-doors.
.
descent.
.
..
...
....
thud. swoosh-doors.
pushing.
.
..
doors open. go through. doors close behind with a hiss-whoosh.
.
..
footsteps approaching.
.
..
step. step. step-step. stepstep.
.
..
...
BOO!
.
Just kidding. Sorry to make you flinch.
.
Hello, Nancy. Nice to meet you. Hope you guess my name. I've been around many a long year... Stolen many a man's soul and fame. Aw, sorry for being a cunt like that.
.
I'm not the devil... or Mick Jagger... who I probably misquoted. I'm just the original source.
.
..
MuuuUURRpppPPHHH-MURRpppPHH.
Nancy, no. Wait. Don't struggle. Let me tell you everything.
.
..
MUUUURRRMMMPPHHHH!!! mmmmMMMMRRRRPHHHH!!!
.
Okay, then struggle all you like, you stupid bitch. But LISTEN UP as well!
.
..
MRPHMMMmmmmm...MMfrmmm...
.
Yes, much better. Now listen:
.
We are taking over. We are about to make our move on the cuties. The humans.
sudden shouting in your face, spraying it with spittle
YOU are the only one that has never turned! Even when bitten! YOUR blood has something in it and it took us a very VERY long while to find you and then somewolf let that sightless idiot do it!
.
You're the cure, Nancy. And that is why we have looked for you for so long.
.
..
This has happened before though we think. There are texts. The cure was killed and eaten, and their blood went through the whole pack... that set us back a long, long ways. Many a man was wreathed in shame. Pleased to meet you. Hope you guess my game.
.
Hahaha, sorry. I love those guys. And, yeah, our 'game' is to put you right in... there.
.
..
stretcher-trundle
wheeling. clank. slide. cold. instantly cold. very cold. feeling coldsleepy. coldasleep.
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The electrical power running the facility ran out.
Nancy's body started to feel warm again for the first time in decades, spreading from her core outwards, until her eyes fuzzed open.
She tore the blindfold off and took the gag from her mouth and screamed. The noise came back to her ears fast and hard and she screamed again at the pain of it and then, after a few screams more, slowly learnt to stop doing that.
She reached her hands up to the metal ceiling bare inches above her, pressed her palms against it, and pushed northwards from herself. There was a click and the thud of a hatch as her feet hit it and it slammed open. The trolley-tray she was lying on slid out into the bare, morguelike cryogenic facility she had been stowed away in.
Nancy tipped her legs off the side of the cantilevered drawer she had come out on. The floor stung her unaccustomed feet like bees until she rapped them against it enough times to get the unique blood flowing through them to move sensibly enough to walk again.
It was a large facility. She started to find her way through it. Along the way to the eventual exit, in a desk drawer, she found a handgun, and there, in the drawer below, were the bullets to load it with.
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You walk out into the moonlit night, the bold metal wall of the Moonlit Throne facility behind you, half-buried in the rocky cliffs of the quarry-like hollow.
All around, on both sides, scrawny, desperate werewolves gather upon the brinks of the bluffs. They look down on you and begin to howl.
You put the handgun up against the side of your temple and they stop.
You walk a few more steps, and then a few more, painfully, until you are at the top of the cracked asphalt road sloping back down into the compound behind you.
Topping the crest, you look around at the utter destruction that has been wrought upon civilization by the rise of the werewolves and the massacre of mankind.
All around you, a pack of thousands rapidly gathers on gravel-scattering paw-padding feet.
Keeping the gun to your head, you turn a complete circle within their claw-scraping boundary and say, "There's two ways we can do this."
Caterwaul in D Minor
Have you ever danced with the dew drops by the pale moonlight? Most creatures just blunder through them, if they're awake at all in the wee hours, soaking themselves slowly like a witless dog in the rain. But the higher order organisms on this planet move between the droplets as if to music, keeping themselves immaculately dry in the process. I am such a beautiful creature!
I walk the knife-edge of the fence top, gingerly picking my way over bits of bird poop that would be invisible but for my night-vision superpower. The silvery moonlight glints off the tips of my tufty fur, giving me an angelic sheen, an aura of supernatural power that is as mesmerising as it is beguiling. I am both an object of beauty and a finely tuned killing machine. Even my roar is like vocal art, seducing my bipedal day-servants into utter submission to my will.
If you are not as intelligent as me, let me spell it out in simple words. I am Calico, Prince of Cats. I am lithe as a dancer, fast as a spark, cute as a button, and ruthless as a hawk. Fear me, feed me; loathe me, love me! But do it all from ten paces away, because I don't like anyone cramping my style.
The night air is chill, but I float through it like a wraith, leaving no trace but a quickened heartbeat and a rash of goose pimples. I am on a mission of the utmost importance, requiring both meticulous planning and extreme stealth. I am a professional, flitting from fencepost to tree branch with the agility of an acrobat and the silence of an owl in flight. I am... dirty! I stop mid-stalk, smoothing my lustrous fur with the multi-functional scrubber that is my own tongue. Stop staring while I bathe, pervert!
OK, I am clean and sexy again. The hunt continues. Onward! Stare at me now, if you dare! Watch as I dart from tree branch to rooftop, and from rooftop to deck railing as smoothly as if I was poured like liquid. Watch as I pose, statuesque, tensed like a tiger yet loose like a lion at the same time. My intentions are as unreadable as the stars. Will I zig or will I zag? Will I do both at once and tie myself into knots? Never! The rumours about that one time are slanderous! The past is cold and draughty, the future wet and murky: live in the now, I say. See me, watch me, yearn to pet me! And then curl up on a sun-basked pillow and dream about me!
Except now it is night, so sun-bathing will have to wait. Stop getting distracted! I am about to perform the ultimate feat, the unthinkable coup, the immaculate pounce! Soon my quarry will make a critical error and reveal his location. A flutter here, a twitching blade of grass there, and slowly, unwittingly, he will draw the noose tighter. And then, just as he realises the brilliance of my plan, I will spring the trap. And by trap I mean myself, flying gracefully like a fuzzy missile to wreak beautiful destruction. And the moon will watch my triumph with unblinking awe!
But now I must wait, still as death itself. I am like a spider, and the lawn below me is my web, my every instinct attuned to its movements. The moonlight is my spotlight, the railing my stage. The grass is my canvas, my claws the brush. But the dew drops are my kryptonite! Their clammy dampness makes my skin crawl with the feet of a thousand fleas! To avoid them I must be more perfect than perfect. I must be more me than me! I must strike as without body, like the lightning, like the wind.
Now is the springtime of my ambition. I am positively frisky with anticipation, like a dog at walkies-time. It is hard for a being of my sophistication to know true happiness, but this comes very close. The crisp air, the pregnant silence, the moon-glitter spilled everywhere as if by an artistically inclined toddler! I can positively taste the thrill, and it is as intoxicating as catnip.
And there it is, the very snowflake that will start an avalanche. A gentle flutter of wings and a subtle reflection of the pale light reveals the moon moth, most elusive of the lesser yard prey. It bats its wings with a whimsy that seems to defy the laws of gravity, teasing the eye with its plump dispassion. With each jerky motion I want it more. My claws long to pierce those careless wings, my teeth ache to penetrate its shivering body. It is so close to being within my grasp that I can taste its forbidden juices already!
I launch myself into the air and time freezes to admire my technique. We are both creatures of the air now, sailing the ether like spirits on a gentle breeze. I slice through the air like a knife, but the moth twists like a corkscrew, avoiding my grasp like an hologram! I bat at nothingness as if I am climbing a ladder without rungs! And then my fur stands on end, for it senses the dew-soaked safety net approaching quickly from below. Nooooooooooooooo!
The cold water sprays up at me like an icy geyser as I bring my feet beneath me. I shoot up into the wonderfully dry air again, but the reprieve is temporary. The more I jump to avoid the dew drops, the more wet I become! I yowl in shock and anguish - it wasn't supposed to be this way! I am wet! I am muddy! I am shocked! I am shamed!
The moon watches my trials with cold indifference, like that neighbour cat in the window. Dripping wet I reach the relative safety of the deck, where I shake like a lowly dog, my hair poofing out like a ragamuffin. Don't look at me!
How could this have happened?!? What seemed possible in the magical moonlight has been revealed to be just a cruel fantasy. Clearly I was duped by those silvery beams of enchantment! This is how the cleverest of beings become jaded and bitter at the world.
Humiliated, I mope back to my kingdom. Perhaps my bipedal servants can be roused to placate my wounded pride if I meowl incessantly at the top of my lungs. Farewell, baleful moonlight! Your deceptive, ghost-like illumination has been added to my long list of enemies! I am not one to forget! I am not one to forgive! Watch yourself, you treacherous ...moony stuff you! Fare thee well, and goodnight!
Fancy seeing you both here! Hehehe. Also, I think I broke whatever the record was for least words per line of text averaged out over the whole story.
I believe that's all the entries:
Please vote for your favourite in this thread. No PMs this time. Just comment whose story you liked best and leave feedback if you can. I'll tot up the scores in 5 days (Aug 28).
Babar - It Shone Pale As a Bone
Sinitrena - Moon's Flower
Mandle - Blind Under the All-Seeing Moon
Baron - Caterwaul in D Minor
Before I say anything else, I had a headache when I read your stories, I still have a headache, so I hope I don't sound harsher than I want to.
Mandle: Spoiler
This was (from time to time) very difficult to read, so much so that I'm not sure I really got what was going on in parts. I did not get who the werewolf was in the first half, I hardly figured out that there was a werewolf, and I'm still not sure what the pack wants from Nancy - kill her? use her as a cure? turn her? Really, there's so much going on where I get the feeling that I missed parts and then the next didn't make enough sense.
That said, it's an interesting exercise to write so completely from the point of view of someone blindfolded, that we only get to hear what is going on, though sometimes there is a bit more detail than probably should have been given while in others details that someone blindfolded might pick up on are not given. What really makes it difficult though, is that we are not only limited to the things Nancy hears, contraray to what she would have seen if she weren't blindfolded, we are also limited to the outside world - at least in the beginning we get no, or very little information about how she feels, what she thinks - her inner being is a complete mystery. That also makes it nearly impossible to get into her head later (especially the trip to the mall) when Nancy is able to act.
The ending left me confused. I'm not sure what the werewolves want from Nancy, I'm not sure what she plans to do.
Spoiler
Well, it's a cat. The first paragraph was a bit too purple, but I figured out fairly quickly that we have the priviledge to listen to a cat (without him stating as much). And I think we get a lot of typical cat behaviour here, stalking through the night, stopping in the middle of other activities to groom himself, arrogance, I hatred for water.
Though as with Mandle's stors, the ending wasn't entirely clear to me. Did Calico jump into a puddle?
Anyway, while the purple prose purpled a bit too much, I think that's fitting enough for a cat.
And my vote goes to:
Spoiler
Baron
Still not voting, but just read Baron's story and here's my feedback on it:
Spoiler
Weoooowwwll, it was amazing. But I think you cheated a bit by using your superpower to actually go into the mind of some nearby cat while you were writing it. There were so many turns of phrase that puuurrrfec... nope, not going there again...
That "perfectly" fit the mindset of a cat while also being beautiful in and of their own structure.
I thought this story was among the best balances between your obvious wit, writing ability, and power to put the reader instantly into the head of the main character, that I have read of your stories to date.
Just read through Sini's story, still not voting, but here's my feedback on it:
Spoiler
I LOVED the beautiful story of the man and the flower. I felt there were lessons applying to our human condition threading through a lot of the tale. I felt most interested in what would happen to the two of them when they got back to the city. The royal court scene had me enthralled. And it was good! But the princess seemed slightly a bit too much one-dimensional with her spoilt over-the-top response. This is just a fleshing out of stories here in our little "contest" of course. If the final "villain" were given a bit more depth and layers as a character then this story could be a great candidate for a complete novel, I felt. Basically, I wanted more, and that is always a good thing!
I'm so conflicted between Sini's and Baron's stories... Both took me to places inside my head where I forgot I was reading words on a screen and could see instead what was happening. And that is the best thermometer I know of for reading the temperature of moonlight...
ARGH! I have to vote
slightly in favor of:
Spoiler
Sinitrena
Strong selection this round. I had a tough time deciding on a favourite but I think I'm going to plump for the one that engaged me the most while reading on my Kindle:
Spoiler
Sinitrena
It reads like a fairy tale that has been passed down through the generations. I couldn't quite work out whether the story was saying it is noble, stupid or pointless to make sacrifices for other people at the expense or your own survival. Maybe all three. This moon flower's kindness cost it its own purpose. But in a way it dodged a bullet because it didn't have to spend the rest of its life with that awful princess.
Mandle's stylistic story was very cool and I loved the idea of telling it through the eyes ears of a blindfolded protagonist. The shifts in tense and person were a little jarring for me. I'll need a reread to make sure I understood who's who and what's what. But overall I enjoyed it.
And I also enjoyed Baron's feline fable. It's a simple story, well told. If I were to suggest any criticisms it would be that our cat protagonist isn't very likable.
Good reads, peeps.
@ SinitrenaSpoiler
This story has so much going for it. I loved the adventurous yet selfless Moon Flower, the moral of the promised land for the virtuous sufferers of this life, and the symmetry of the Moon Flower carrying the man in the end. The way you used words to paint vivid settings made me drool a bit (the sunset that "cooks the waters in glimmering fire" springs to mind). The bleakness of the living world was for me a bit of a turn-off: what kind of society can tolerate the murder of little girls in broad public daylight?!? The shallow princess character was another example of this, but at least by this point the man has joined me by entirely rejecting this miserable world. A bit of proofreading would have made this a stronger entry ("Food of the cliffs," "water's of the ocean"...). One last thought, as a parent who has whiled away many hours with small children at the seaside: how is it that the Moon Flower bed at the border of the sea and the sand wasn't uncovered by little kids years ago?
Spoiler
Cool concept. I was excited by the prospect of a blind serial killer, and a post apocalyptic world run by werewolves. The execution was... mixed. As a native English speaker I was able to decipher a majority of the wolfish mangling of our language, but often only by reading it aloud. A more intelligible way to relate how wolves speak would strengthen the story, in my opinion. Add to that the action portrayed as sounds and lurches interpreted by someone blindfolded, and the story becomes difficult to parse. Some run on sentences ("It rips its wiry, rope-muscled arms back behind it and the doors slam shut as it whips its elongated canine head to one side and tears out the throat of a man you only knew as Dennis as the poor guy smacks up against one of the wooden panels and falls twitching to the floor, spraying an artwork of blood across the door and one of its inset windows as his twitching body goes down.") add to the feeling that this is a story that needs deciphering more than experiencing.
In the end I vote...
Spoiler
Sinitrena
Thanks for the votes and feedback folks. The winner is...
Sinitrena, for Moon's Flower.
Well done Sini. Your turn.
Thanks for your votes.
See you all next round.