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[recycling]

I'm sure pretty much all of us were taught at some point in our lives that it's important to recycle. A piece of trash, if properly reused, might not be a burden on our ecosystem, but a resource that might be cleverly reused time and time again. The topic came up recently as I discussed how different the methods for recycling something as mundane as beverage containers is from country to country, and so I decided to cheekily recycle the observations of that conversation into a topic for our contest!

Write a story that somehow revolves around recycling something. That is, using something that has once been used for its original purpose, for some new purpose, either as-is or after some kind of refinement.



The deadline of this contest is Sunday 15th of May at 23:59 UTC.

Each person choosing to read and vote has three points to allocate, one for each of the following:
1 point for the best or most interesting or imaginative idea of recycling.
1 point for the best or most interesting setting / character.
1 point for the best technical writing, ie. grammar, readability etc.

Holy heck, thank you folks! I tried to keep the story short enough to read comfortably in a single go, and wound up with a hasty ending, but apparently that wasn't too bad this time around. I purposefully left a bunch of stuff vague, so the reader had room to inject their own interpretations and ideas, while trying to provide just enough to work with and make things interesting and impactful.

I'll get the next FWC set up later today so you can get to work! 

What I don't get is why they had to burn down their dwelling, why destroy any chance of survival for those who want to stay in the caves? It seems unnecessary and rather drastic - they could have just slipped away in the night.

I tried to convey a character who was so fundamentally sure in their beliefs that they felt it would be nothing less than a crime against all to let anyone stay behind in the caves, if they could be made to leave. The Elders, and their closest followers, were the force keeping the people down in the caves in their "false sense of security", placated and unwilling to work for something greater and grander. I wanted the character to represent that kind of religious fervour that some might mistake for working for a true and just cause, but which might just as easily slip into destructive madness if not checked by facts and wisdom.

I aim to send in my votes today. Apologies for being so late, it's been busy at work and elsewhere.

I was today years old when I found out you can change the editor layout. I've been doing everything with the default...

Is there any way to get better at squeezing through those tight passages (other than just shedding weight)? That's usually the limiting factor on my dives.

No. The roll is purely determined by your current weight, which makes you clumsier. This was designed to work with the theme of greed as well: gather too much treasure, you might get stuck while struggling to make your way to the surface and drown due to your own greed.
Thematic, but not optimally fun as a mechanic.

In case you're too disheartened:

Spoiler

The game is built so that any obstacle can always be passed with enough attempts. To make sure the player does not get stuck in an infinite loop of bad luck dice rolls with obstacles, the odds of success are slightly improved with each consecutive attempt. You will always pass the obstacle eventually.

[close]

[One More Fathom]

How deep do you have to dive

Spoiler

Artefacts spawn at a random percentage change, and there can be only one artefact per dive. I think the first ones can appear roughly 25% of maximum depth down from the surface, but the last ones will only appear after 50% or even 75 % of max depth from surface. I can't remember exactly. Heck, I can't remember if I went with 100 spaces from surface to bottom or 200 in the end, I toyed around with various values here.

[close]

And about the mermaids:

Spoiler

Like most things, there are random chances involved. While you are starting a new dive, go down a few spaces, then try tossing out a few spare pieces of bait sometimes, and she might appear nearby.

[close]

And generally about treasure

Spoiler

Treasure value increases the deeper you go. I never made exact calculations on what is the most profitable method of play, though, so I can't really give a solid answer. A certain minimum number of treasures always spawn, but random die rolls are in effect again. The deeper you go the higher the maximum value of each treasure generated is, but you can still find junk deep down if luck is not on your side.

[close]

The theme of the MAGS was Greed, and so the whole game was built on nudging the player to take risks and push their luck.
In case you didn't notice it yet, I took a lot of inspirations for this game from gambling and slot machines.

Just One More Fathom deeper, and MAYBE that next treasure will make this trip! 

Thanks for the heads up, Cat!

The way the game is built did result in some issues if the player clicked too fast, so I built in some error handling to try and figure out what was going on and, hopefully, recover without having to quit the game and restart.

Sadly I will likely not be updating the game anymore to fix bugs, unless they seem to be utterly game-breaking and unrecoverable. The bugs I am aware of are mostly relics of the hastily built MAGS code that is barely functional to begin with and after so much time I am afraid of touching any of the code. I am considering either rebuilding the game with new art and all new code structure for improved gameplay, as One More Fathom - Deluxe, or just making an outright sequel to build on the theme and core gameplay loop.

I think the only reason you can't drop tools is the fact I didn't bother coding in a verification step for it, and one of my testers dropped theirs by accident and complained, so I stopped that from happening. If I did the game again now, I'd add an "are you sure" prompt with an added checkbox for "don't ask again".

As for the weight calculation, it is checked after each move, and at specific points in the code. There may be a case missing for dropping treasure? Few players did that, I found, out of principle. The graphic is also purposefully vague, since I don't like crowding the screen with numbers.

These are useful, though! I've added them to my list of things to keep in mind in the future, if the next game project starts to really take off.

Sorry for the late reply, Snarky! I haven't thought to look at this part of the forums for a while.

There is a final ending for the game, at least programmed and it worked during testing, though I had at least one person report an issue that caused it to not appear properly, so I released an updated version that removed one of the requirements that might fail. Check the readme to make sure you have the version 1.1.0.0.

As for how to find the ending:

Spoiler

Dive deep and dive much. Make sure you have found all the artefact pieces, (they will appear only quite deep down) and you should eventually encounter a cutscene that combines them into a whole. After that, dive as deep as you can, and you may find something final.

There is a bottom to the chasm to be found, but if you lack the required things, you will find nothing but disappointment down there.

[close]

Oh, and the Mermaiden's kiss:

Spoiler

If you've got some seashells from her and she likes you, and are about to die and lose the game due to drowning, she may just find you and save you in exchange for your shells.
If you're just short of air and close to the surface, she may appear as well (I think you can also lure her out by tossing out some bait to get her attention, but I can't recall the conditions for this) and give you some air to make sure you can reach the surface.

[close]

[The Wasteland]

The Wasteland

Once, long ago, a great war tore apart the sky, the sea and the land.

Precious few found shelter below the land, deep enough, where the great tears could not reach.

The air burned lungs and water scorched the tongue, but the few survived on.

Never could we return above.

Never should we see the sun.

--

Tikemas wound the rope tighter around the handles of the door, securing its two halves so that they could not be opened. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked the thick strands tighter and tighter. Once finished he reached down for the small bucket carrying a thick, sticky syrup which he poured over the knots he’d created, sealing the portal of the Elder’s Palace. As he stepped back to inspect his work, his eyes scanned the two-tiered structure that nearly reached the ceiling of the vast cavern his people called home. Banners that had once displayed many colours hung, ragged and heavy, off the walls. Three doors led in and out, and were now all sealed. None could get out for a long time, not without great effort.

But it wouldn’t be enough. The people were too stupid and stubborn to see their own good.

Tikemas turned and slipped away, knowing he still had some time before the long fuses he’d prepared would run out. He’d prepared the narrow streets between the crude mud huts that housed his people, his own wife and child, and the few hundred others who called this dank underground cavern their home. He’d had his brother help move the carts aside so the main passageway was clear all the way up to the Forbidden Stair.

He smiled as he ran, hand reaching up to brush across his forehead and face, then flicking away to send the salty wet droplets scattering to the dusty stones that made up the passage.

“Almost time, brothers.”

As Tikemas reached the corner of his home he slowed his pace and leaned forward, hands pressed to his knees, to draw ragged breaths.

“Husband?” -came a delicate voice from the alley. Tikemas straightened his back and gestured feverishly, drawing his wife and son into view.

“My love. It is done. We are ready. Make for the stair and be ready, the others will soon follow.”

“Will they, truly?” -she asked, disbelief and distress in her eyes. The young boy beside her, only eight years of age, clutched her hand.

Tikemas reached into his robe and pulled out the slip of marked skin. The markings were difficult to read in the dark, with all the overhead fires atop the clay towers dimmed and dead for the hours of rest, but the message was of great importance to Tikemas.

‘We are right. Green and life. Water flowing. Light. Blinding. Joyous.’

It was the message wrapped tightly around a stone, which had rolled down the Forbidden Stair a week ago. The symbol pressed at the top of the message marked its writer: Tyrinej. Tikemas’ brother. The one who had dared climb the steps higher than any other, and had promised to send word of what he found above.

“The Elders are wrong!” -Tikemas exhaled, the words ragged with tension. “They are too stupid to believe, or too fearful. But he found out, and sent us this to tell us.”

“Then why not go, my love? Why all this?”

Tikemas felt a piercing pain in his soul. He knew it was guilt and worry, but he shrugged away the sensation as a drop of sweat from his coarse black beard.

“And abandon them all? For the foolishness of the Elders? How cruel would that be, my Deimas, my love? To leave them to eat insects and mushrooms and stale water, when we could be above, in the light, and reclaim the world of old!”

Tikemas had painted images of the world above, in words and colours. Some laughed when he spoke in town meetings, others were silent and hopeful. None dared oppose the word of the Elders, who claimed the world above was full of death and nothing more. Tikemas could see the world above as it had been described in the old writings: full of green and blue, of life and motion and flowing clean water. With light other than those cast by the smoky watchfires, warmer and purer.

“We must go.” -Tikemas declared, and the three began to move toward the Forbidden Stair.

They were a short dash away from the first steps, closed off with braided ropes and seals of the Elders, when the first scream echoed from behind them. Tikemas hurried his wife and son ahead as he turned to look back. A fuse had ended, and the fire-brew in the pot had burst its vessel. The food storages would soon burn. The workshops would be alight. The Elders Palace would explode from within and the Elders words would never again poison the minds of another generation!

The pain of guilt shot through Tikemas again, and he bit his tongue to distract himself.

“Quickly! Fire! Fire! Run fast!” People stumbled out of their homes to witness the destruction of their old lives. Some, who believed in Tikemas, already ran to the Forbidden Stair. Others sank to their knees and had to be pulled up or carried by those capable of action. “It is not safe here! To the stair if you wish to live!”

Some never moved. They clung to the old ways and ran to the Elder’s Palace to seek wisdom, but found only a blazing husk of a building, with screams instead of commandments. As they clawed at the sealed doors to try and save the Elders, their time ran out and they perished.

The Stair was long and winding, passing through many doors and seals placed to ward off the foolhardy, but now the doors were cast open and the seals torn down. Tikemas himself had gone far up before, cutting off the ropes to prepare the way.

This night he witnessed the highest landing for the first time with his own eyes. Great doors of metal, covered in arcane symbols and locked away by great wheels. Except the locks were undone, and the doors were split apart with a gap just wide enough for a young man to pass.

“Now! Push them apart! Hope awaits!” -Tikemas shouted, and the believers rushed ahead to press their bodies to the metal, forcing the ancient mechanisms to yield and grant the exiles their freedom. Bright light poured in through the widening gap, and Tikemas cried. His wife cried. Most could not hold back their tears, whether they be out of fear and disbelief or hope and fulfillment.

Tikemas stepped out first. He could see a wide open field and a sky of blue, dappled with fluffy white clouds. He kicked off his shoes and pressed his bare feet into the soft dirt, feeling the blades of green grass. It felt like heaven to him. Off in the distance he could see a bright glimmer that could only belong to water!

“Heaven!” -he cried out, and many voices answered in kind, with more joining as they stepped out into the light the like of which they had never witnessed in their lifetimes.

One voice, however, screamed in fright. Then another.

Tikemas turned to these voices and found them staring at the exterior of the great doors through which they had just passed. He rushed past the men and women pointing and gesturing. The pain stung his soul again as he saw what they were looking at: a dead body, Tyrinej, lay curled up in the grass beside the door. His eyes were sunken, his face twisted by agony. The robe over his body had frayed, as if worn by a lifetime of use, so that his dark skin could be seen through the frail strands.

Tikemas knelt beside his dead brother, mouthing silent words of disbelief. What could have done this? Tyrinej’s right arm was outstretched, the bony fingers clutching a stone with a piece of marked leather wrapped around it. A message undelivered.

Tikemas unwrapped it and read the few words.

‘We are wrong’

The words registered, then blurred before his eyes. The voices around him became dull and droning. Cold sweat oozed onto his forehead and his breath became short. Tikemas’ head felt soft and light and the very world before him appeared to tilt off to the side. He could barely make out the voice of his wife, asking questions he could not answer as he wavered beside his dead brother, the pain in his soul and chest too great to overcome, forcing the very consciousness out of his body. He fell like a child's doll, collapsing amids screams and shouts and confusion.

Had he doomed them all?

Hat, meet ring. I've begun writing something for this one.

Good point, and I really need to finally get to playing Thimbleweed Park. Heck, I might even make that my next stream game after I finish Tunic. Bloodstained I gave up on after a few hours, as it just got kind of boring.

Not all of these "old master returns to beloved franchise" projects are bad, but there are enough bad examples that I tend toward scepticism rather than optimism. Funny thing is I just recently played through MI1 and MI2 with a friend of mine. A lot still holds up nicely, though especially to non-native english speakers some of the puzzles can seem a bit confusing.

I feel pretty conflicted. The art style seems weird to me, and appears to take the style of the MI remakes and then exaggerate it even further. The fact the game is stated to also pick up in between the existing games, potentially retconning or just cutting out some of the old story (which may not have been perfect, but I still have warm memories of it, dammit!) strikes me as odd, too.

Still, always curious to see what happens when the old guard steps back up to pick up where they left off. So far I can't recall a single case where this has succeeded so far... (Phoenix Point, Star Citizen, Peter Molyneux's entire existence, Double Fine for an alarmingly long time)

Let's hope this one breaks the mould! Would be nice to see the three-headed monkey again.

I tried to coax a couple friends of mine who aren't yet on the forums to hop on, read and vote, but sadly to no effect. Perhaps next time.
Congrats on the win Sinitrena!

Hopefully I'll have some more free time in the coming weeks so I can throw in my hat again.

Precisely and indeed. Just worded a little differently.
Though, with such low voter and participant numbers, the issue of duplicate scores remains very much the same. But that's just life on a cozy little forum with a handful of active users. I do look forward to the day when the fortnightly breaks through into the double digit participant numbers...

That sounds like an issue to me. Most people, when given a range on 1-10 to score things with, tend to default to 7 or 8 for everything, with a few rare exceptions gaining a 9 or 10 if they stand out, and veeeery few exceptionally poorly perceived subjects scoring below 7. It's too subjective and allows for overlapping scores, which might cause issues when there are so few voters to begin with. Forcing the voters to pick out one above all would help guide them to pick a favourite and to compare stories among each other.

Say:

Score your favourite of the stories at 5 points.
Second place at 3 points.
Third at 2 and fourth at 1 point. Others gain no points.

This way the voter has to decide on one they like the best, which gets an extra point, and have a scaling range that pushes them to also evaluate the remaining stories against each other so they can set them in order, rather than just score each of them some average-ish value.

Congratulations to the winner, a great tale and a well deserved win!

[Interview With A Horror Icon / Mandle]

FWC votes

Interview With A Horror Icon / Mandle
"Too a few too many puns and jokes and... okay, that reveal was pretty good, anyway, and I got a solid chuckle out of it! I know it's not really an entry, but I gave it a score it anyway."


Quoth the Raven / Baron
"Well that was an exciting and hearwarming tale all in all. A fine setup, a solid conflict and while the resolution of said conflict was perhaps a bit too swift for my tastes, and seemed a tad too easy, that might have well been the point now that I look back at it all. Good show!"


The Arbitrator - The Ghost of Wiltly Hall - / Sinitrena
"As often seems to be the caes, Sinitrena treats us to the longest tale of the bunch. I've never been a fan of the first person perspective, though. It can be fun to experiment with, but something about it always ends up feeling off to me. In addition to some stiff sentences that feel awkward to read ("..that there once was one already.."), a handful of those annoying typos that the spell checker won't catch here and there, I guess I'm not the only one haunted by those! While this was definitely the most nuanced of the stories, I feel it also goes too far in explaining the supernatural and seems to unravel its mystery far too soon, with far too much story left after that point. Still, who doesn't love a happy ending?"


The Beggarman of Blackbridge / Stupot
"A strong descriptive start to the tale, I have to admit, and a story so British it made me taste tea despite having drank only coffee today. I've always been a fan of urban legends, and this one managed to hit a whole bunch of the right notes for me! It has everything from the unreliable sources for information, the obsessive habits of those influenced, and explanations that make it all work out, including the experiences of the protagonist. Love it! On a serious note, though: don't do drugs, folks!"


EDIT: oh, right, my own story.

Spoiler

I was actually surprised with how positively many of the readers I showed it to read it! In my mind it was a rather grim and dark tale, which tries to suggest how one man's pursuit of personal happiness can doom an entire family to abandonment and confusion, and yet the most common word my test readers described the story with was 'wholesome', with 'romantic' coming in second. Perhaps I failed in setting the scene and suggesting the true nature of what Hank was doing, or perhaps most people just think differently than I do of these matters. I will readily admit that I still feel the story doesn't quite conform to the theme. I just saw the words "Local Legend" and my mind went to some kind of sports start that is, and will be, remembered and known by all in some small community. Someone who did something special. Whether it's Samara or Hank in this story was purposefully left up to the reader. The kick and the impact I tried to convey was the combined effect of the mundane description of the very first part, and the revelation of the finality of what Hank was about to do, and what that meant to those who unconditionally loved him and called him family.

[close]

I know I'll be voting my own story at a 0/10 for sake of fairness. Feels wrong to give any points to myself, but if others do differently then I might be about to shoot myself in the foot. Not really an issue, though, I'm more interested in hearing any open comments after the voting than in the actual score. It's nice to have some critique and feedback.

[The Black Blaze of Legend]

Heck, I'm still not sure if this story quite matches the theme, but the phrase 'local legend' sparked an idea and I had to run with it.

The Black Blaze of Legend

The bed in the master bedroom hadn’t been made. The blanket had been kicked to the floor in a haze of feverish dreams and left there. The door was left ajar, as was the underwear drawer. A single sock had fallen onto the carpet.

The pages of the morning paper, Hillcrest Daily, were spread across the kitchen table. The center opening was stained with a brown ring left by the bottom of a coffee cup, which now sat in the top shelf of the dishwasher. It listed advertisements for local businesses alongside various small stories. The local Starbucks was closing down. A family of nine welcomed a new baby called Emma-Amber-Chamilla, born over the weekend. A daredevil roadshow featuring the mysterious ‘Black Blaze of Zanzibar’ was to perform in a nearby town as part of a tour. A new plumbing business had opened up on Prince street and offered 25% discounts on inspections.

Beside the paper sat a pair of cereal bowls, one of which still held a sliver of milk and a handful of milk-soaked, brightly coloured grains. A third grade history textbook with important homework tucked between its pages sat beside one, while a butterfly-shaped hairpin covered in bright plastic gem lay forgotten beside the milk-stained spoon of the other. A yellow sticky note on the fridge door read: “Hank, food for you and kids in the fridge. Reheat 150c for 30 min. Love you!”

Two hooks for keys hung above a side table near the front door, labelled 'hers' and 'his'. Hers was vacant, while on 'his' hung a set of keys. The house key. A bicycle key. A key for the shed. The metal loop for the car key was empty.

-

Hank folded his sunglasses and tucked them behind the sun visor of the dull silver Toyota Camry, then rubbed his eyes, strained from driving toward the slowly setting sun. A loud voice, echoing in the distance, filtered in through the windows. He smiled and shook his head in disbelief at what he was about to do, then pushed the door open and stepped out onto the coarse gravel so that it crunched underneath his leather shoes. The echoing voice, too indistinct to make the words out, faded and was replaced by the booming sounds of rock guitar music. Despite having been here before, in this exact same field, to see this exact same show, Hank still felt out of place. It was his thirteenth time, though, so he brushed the thought aside just as his hands brushed over the front of his casual button down shirt. The sleeve displayed the company logo of his employer: Hillcrest Financial Services. He’d taken a day off. The car let out a beep to confirm it was locked up, and Hank walked up to the gates that led him into the fenced off area filled with carnival air. Colorful posters, small rides, cheerful families, junk food. The lights were starting to come on as the sun sank lower in the horizon, turning the sky a brilliant orange hue overhead. A group of kids rushed past him, shouting about wanting to see the main stage. A visibly winded man with a puffy brown beard, the father, ran after them but had to stop to pick up his dropped sunglasses. As Hank ordered an orange soda from a stall selling snacks and beverages, the young man serving him, a boy with a face covered in freckles, eyes glimmering with a kind of genuine cheer that was rare in customer service jobs, smiled and nodded in greeting.

“Evenin’ mister Bennet! Good to see you again!”

Hank smiled back and returned the nod, paying in cash. It was still a strange thought that people here recognized him, but it made him feel welcome. Like being part of a family.

“Big show at seven, right?” -he asked the boy, even though he knew the answer very well.

“That’s right, mister Bennet! Plenty of time left ‘fore the big one! Might want to take a look at the stalls back there, we got a new guy who makes these real nice meat pie -thingies. I think ‘e’s polish or somethin’!”

“Yeah? Maybe I will. No rush, eh?” -Hank affirmed as he turned and began to make his way to the main stage area without even considering the other stalls and distractions. He walked past a carousel which had been decorated so that the kids were riding on plastic hot-rod motorcycles painted in black with red and yellow flame decals. A band of bearded men was playing rock music on a side stage, surrounded by a small crowd cheering them on, singing along.

When Hank made his way to the stands that made up the main viewing area, only the janitor was there before him, sweeping away trash and fallen leaves with an old broom. As he walked up to the sturdy chain link fence that would eventually separate the crowd from the show, all Hank saw was the sand pits, the ramps, the hoops and the large tent off in the distance. All ready, the marks of previous practice runs swept away. The sound of an idling engine sent a tingle up his spine, and the ice in his drink rattled with the shake of his hand.

-

It was an hour later when the crowds gathered, finding their places all around Hank until the press of bodies pinned his chest to the fence. He was right at the front, just like he’d wanted. The half-empty soda cup, diluted by the melted ice, sat in the dirt next to his foot. A set of loudspeaker blasted music with the event organizer welcoming the crowd and building up tension for the coming show.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” -he roared, stretching out the words, putting on his best showman voice. “Welcome to the Redcliff Roaming Roadshow’s ultimate event! The fastest, the most dangerous, the most epic and entertaining show you’ve seen this side of the big pond, or the other!”

The voice and the words were the same as every time, serving only to bring back memories of his past visits to this show. Hank had driven out a number of times to catch them as they toured the country, but this time they were closer than usual, one town over, just like they had been the first time he’d come to see the show.

“Seven of the finest riders known to man will entertain you tonight! Seven of the fiercest daredevils will put their machines through hell and fire to show you something you’ll recount to the grandkids one day! Don’t lean too close, you might lose an eyebrow!”

With that last boast a number of flame jets burst out across the showgrounds ahead, bathing many of the ramps and decorations in a bright orange light that left bright spots in Hank’s vision. The three great hoops set near reinforced ramps caught fire and remained lit.

The music intensified. The crowd cheered. Hank cheered, holding a fist up at the darkened sky. The front wall of the tent ahead parted and a set of six motorcycles roared to life, surging out into the caged field with incredible speed. With perfect choreography they ran around one another, weaving and swooping close enough to the crowd to send dirt, sand and smoke flying up into the stands, while the leather-clad riders pumped their fists and goaded the crowd into cheering and clapping ever louder. As they roared up the ramps the pyrotechnics bathed their leather jackets in flame as they became airborne, and smoke bombs and sparks detonated as they landed on prepared platforms. It was a wild show filled with impressive feats of skill and daring. Hank lowered his arm and clutched the chain link fence before him, feeling it’s cold metal on his fingers and palms, feeling it shake and rattle as the crowd jumped around him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve had a taste, but are you ready for the main course!?” -screamed the man on the loudspeakers. The crowd screamed back in the affirmative.

“You know her! You love her! It’s The Black Blaze of Zanzibar, and she is here to blow your mind with feats no man could pull off!”

The tent flaps parted again and a sleek black motorcycle emerged, rolling out onto the dirt. A black, shiny machine with a rider clad in an equally black outfit complete with a helmet. A shadow in the form of a rider. Only a few narrow stripes of white, and the reflections of the bright lights made the shape of the seventh rider distinct.

Hank felt himself smile.

With the music changing to a menacing, thrilling track of heavy drums and electronic sounds, the rider raised the front wheel of her bike into the air and surged out into the field, where she was met by screams of adoration and applause. Hank wasn’t the only fan to come see the show more than once. He knew some of the regulars by name.

Almost two years ago, when Hank first came to see the show, he hadn’t been all that impressed. He’d been dragged out by colleagues from work, agreed to go only because the company was paying for it, and all he really wanted was to go home. After the show they’d gone to a local dive bar for drinks, but as his friends got their party on Hank had stayed back, deciding to take the bus home later. He couldn’t even remember why he’d been so down and out that day.

Hank watched intently now, as the other riders formed up obstacles, and The Black Blaze charged up the ramps to fly over her friends, who all turned after her as she passed. The show turned into a high-speed chase past the mounds of dirt, over the ramps, through the flaming loops which exploded with light as the riders passed through them. Faster and faster they went, at dizzying speeds. The stench of exhaust intoxicated the audience.

She’d introduced herself to Hank after he’d nearly spilled her drink in that dive bar. A stupid mistake, but he bought her a new one just in case, so as not to be the out-of-towner causing trouble. Somehow they’d wound up sitting together, talking over their drinks. As the minutes went on and the two had got to know one another, Hank had to admit he had no idea who she was, other than the name she’d given: Samara Nyoni. When he’d asked her where she was from, she’d recounted the atle of how her family migrated from a faraway land called Zanzibar when she was a small girl, and how she had come to live in a nearby town. A quaint little place called Hillcrest.

It had been her face, front and center in the advert on the coffee-stained newspaper this morning. She was smiling a mysterious smile, surrounded by flames and sparks, her eyes filled with promise of thrill and adventure. The Black Blaze. A daredevil. A local legend known to all down at the bar. And in their first meeting Hank had been oblivious. Back then she’d laughed when she figured out he hadn’t even recognized her, hadn’t realized she was the one he’d just watched perform. She’d made sure to jab him about it all night without mercy.

Now, two years later, Hank knew full well what he was seeing. He felt tension building in his gut as the chase intensified, with two of the chasing motorcycle riders crashing in a spectacular, if well rehearsed manner. The crewmen of the show rushing in to pour white foam on the bikes was done to cover up the cushioning hidden in the dirt rather than to put out the pyrotechnics.

Hank had gone home after that night in the bar, but he hadn’t forgotten. Samara had explained to him bits of how it all worked, how much effort and precision went into it all. To hear her words, and the passion of her voice, had been mesmerizing. To think that someone could find such excitement in a job was, to Hank, alien.

He’d booked a ticket a few months later to go see the show again, even if it meant having to plead with his boss to let him handle a business trip that just happened to lead him to the right city. That second time had been a wholly different experience for Hank, and after the show he’d sought out Samara again, so he could tell her how impressed he was now that he understood.

A large man bumped into Hank, spilling a warm, fizzy beverage down the back of his shirt. The burly passer-by tried to apologize, but another man shoved him forward and the apology was lost in laughter. Hank, having been snapped back to the moment, strained his eyes to see more. Only three riders chased The Black Blaze across the scene now. They were riding around in a shallow pit, going around and around in a tight circle, their bodies pressed down into their machines as the engines screamed louder and louder. The riders were dizzy, but to push themselves for just one more loop was a matter of pride. Samara had told Hank they always pushed past the agreed number of laps. The one who couldn’t take it any more and gave up first was the one buying a round of beers for the crew. This time, like every time, it was one of the chasers: a man with a bright-red helmet and a black visor. Samara was too good, or too crazy, to give up. As the final chaser roared his bike out of the pit, so did The Black Blaze, thought as she landed in the narrow space between the other two bikes her ride wobbled dangerously from side to side, giving the audience a clear idea of just how dizzying the ride had been so far.

But it was far from over.

Hank watched as the speed began to build again, with fresh bikes joining the chase as those knocked out earlier returned into the picture. The main ramp, only used once before this moment, was the destination of the wide arc the riders took just past the audience stands. The chasers gave up at the base of the ramp, one veering off, another sputtering to a halt halfway up. At the tip of the ramp Samara leapt into the air, with the greatest gouts of flame seen so far that night accompanying her into the air, the heat of the flames washing over the faces of even those in the audience.

A woman screamed. A man shouted in surprise.

As The Black Blaze landed with a great slam of wheels on dirt the riders jacket was on fire, flames streaking back behind her as she revved the engine. The music halted with a screech, so that the roar of engines overlapped only with the sound of the shocked crowd. The rider turned, wobbled dangerously, and could be seen hastily reaching for her chest with one hand while the other struggled to maintain control of the beastly machine she rode. A strap came loose. Then another. The bike turned, seemingly out of control, and was headed right for the audience stands as the flames grew more intense. A woman standing beside Hank covered her eyes.

It was all about the thrill, Samara had told Hank during one of their many secret meetings. All about pushing yourself and feeling like you’d done something nobody else could do. About following your dreams and proving you can.

The last strap came off and the rider swung the jacket off her, sending out an arc of flame. It turned into a smoldering flag in her gloved hand, trailing after her as she revved the engine and yanked the front wheel up into the air again to celebrate. As she turned from the audience at the last second, her body tensed up over the rumbling motorcycle, her white undershirt soaked with sweat as its fabric clung to her body. The audience screams turned into cheers again as their heroine was safe and sound. She tossed the scorched leather jacket into the dirt and braked hard, bringing her bike to a stop amid a cloud of smoke and dust.

Hank watched her every move. The way she pressed her knees into the bike. The way her legs moved and her feet manipulated the weight of the bike. The way her body was bent over the machine as she rode, and the way she arched her body back as she stopped and raised her muscular arms up to the crowd. The black helmet came off, revealing a head of curly black hair, and Hank could see her eyes, filled with the kind of intensity only a true adrenaline junkie could display. She smiled at the crowd, threw her helmet off so that it rolled in the dirt, then began to ride her bike in shallow arcs before the audience, showing off. The show was winding down, the music returned for the encore, the chase was over, and the other riders joined her in celebration.

As they rode, Hank had his eyes on Samara, and eventually she found him as well, one pale face somehow standing out to her in that crowd. Her smile widened and she winked at him. Hank forgot to breathe, and a moment later gasped as his head began to feel faint.

He blinked...

-

And opened his eyes to see hers. Bright, caramel brown irises locked onto his own dull green pair. That smile on those wickedly twisted lips. The scent of her sweat and her breath hot on his face. A bead of sweat on her brow, a smear of saliva on her lower lip. The weight of her body on top of his own, and the softness of her skin under his fingertips as they trailed down her spine from the back of her neck. She sighed and let her head fall slowly forward, her cheek coming to rest against the coarse stubble that had manifested on Hank’s own. Her fingers felt hot to the touch as they slid in between Hank’s white digits, intertwining. He could almost imagine feeling the flames on her, still.

“You were amazing.” -Hank whispered in a shuddering voice, then turned his head to press his lips to Samara’s cheek.

“I always am.” -she replied, her voice sly and fiendish, and yet far more delicate than one might have anticipated from such a daredevil. Discarded clothes were strewn across the floor. A single car key sat on a desk below the TV bolted to the wall. Barely any light filtered in through the curtains. The cheap motel bed creaked beneath them as she pushed herself up, one hand on the pillow, the other pinning Hank’s into the mattress. She arched her back, finally bringing her face over Hank’s so she could look him in the eye again. Her soft lips parted to speak, but Hank replied before she could voice the question.

“I am. I’m sure of this.”

She paused, snapped her lips shut, then giggled and shook her head, the black curls that framed her face swaying with the motion. The smell of smoke wafted from them.

“We’ll see in the morning. The plane leaves at ten.” -she whispered as she sank back into Hank’s embrace. His arm snaked around her and pulled her close, bare chest to bare chest, stomach to stomach. He could hear their heartbeats in the darkness.

A pair of plane tickets sat on the nightstand.

Destination: Abeid Amani Karume International Airport, Zanzibar.

I realise upon writing more that my story might not quite follow the rules as written. Could something like a local sports team coach be a "local legend" and the story could revolve around finding out something about them or solving a mystery related to them?