April 26, 2017, 09:06:23 AM

Author Topic: [Apr 2017] - Scavenger Hunt - Submission Thread  (Read 291 times)

Offline xiagan

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[Apr 2017] - Scavenger Hunt - Submission Thread
« on: March 31, 2017, 10:01:48 PM »
Scavenger Hunt!



This month I want you to write about a fantastical scavenger hunt.* Can be comedic but that's not a requirement. Would be cool to see if you'd manage to write a grimdark scavenger hunt or something similar unfitting. Be creative!

Rules:

1. This must be prose or poetry.
2. The story must contain a scavenger hunt*.
3. Prose must be 500-1500 words long.
4. Poetry must be 100-750 words long.
5. One story per person or writing team (not per account).
6. You will be disqualified if you exceed the limits, full stop. That's why they're called limits.
7. Your entry can't be published somewhere else before.
8. This is a writing contest, not a "I have written something like this ten years ago" contest. So if you happen to have a story that fits one of the themes, I'd like it to have a mayor overhaul/edit. Work for it. ;)
9. Please add your story's word count and, if you have, your twitter handle.
10. Please put your story in [ spoiler ] tags to make the thread easier to handle. :) You can find them above the smileys next to the 'youtube' symbol.

If you want so submit your story anonymous you can do so by sending it in a personal message to @xiagan.

Entry will close Apr 30th/May 1st, 2017 and voting will begin somewhere around the same time too.

All members are eligible to join. If you are not a member you can join here. Sign up is free and all are welcome! :)

The winner will have their piece displayed on the main Fantasy Faction website sometime in the next months.
Submitting a story counts as published. The author retains all rights to their work.

Remember that this thread is only for entries. Discussion or questions can be posted here.


* This month's theme is (of course) NOT scavenger hunt, go to Xiagan's first post to get more details about how to find this month's contest's theme!

Edit:

The real theme for April is this:

Omens?


('Dark Soul' by wyldraven on dev'art)


Quote
An omen is a phenomenon that is believed to foretell the future, often signifying the advent of change. People in the ancient times believed that omens lie with a divine message from their gods.

These omens include natural phenomena, for example an eclipse, abnormal births of animals and humans and behavior of the sacrificial lamb on its way to the slaughter. They had specialists, the diviners, to interpret these omens. They would also use an artificial method, for example, a clay model of a sheep liver, to communicate with their gods in times of crisis. They would expect a binary answer, either yes or no answer, favorable or unfavorable. They did these to predict what would happen in the future and to take action to avoid disaster.

Though the word "omen" is usually devoid of reference to the change's nature, hence being possibly either "good" or "bad," the term is more often used in a foreboding sense, as with the word "ominous".
says wikipedia.
In a magical world, omens have a more dire significance and we think it's a neat topic for short story writing, because if you ask the question 'What could go wrong?' related to omens, diviners, foretelling and gods, the answer is usually: A lot.[/size]
« Last Edit: April 05, 2017, 03:51:05 AM by xiagan »
"Sire, I had no need of that hypothesis." (Laplace)

Offline Anonymous

Re: [Apr 2017] - Scavenger Hunt - Submission Thread
« Reply #1 on: April 04, 2017, 08:06:44 PM »
TANGLED SKEINS (1,390 words)

Spoiler for Hiden:
Mother N’koi had sucked her teeth and looked at the small, twisted body lying on the purple grass in the fading light of the afternoon sun. In most respects the baby zarl had been a fine specimen: a good size, its skin a healthy grey, with a strong neck and... well, that had been the problem, really. It had two strong necks, and a head atop each of them. The beast hadn’t survived the birth, and its mother had been pacing nearby uttering agitated bleats.

‘Well?’ Chief Zolasta had demanded. He hadn’t been able to hide his own discomfort: for such a thing to happen to the headman’s herd was troubling indeed.

‘Has anyone moved it?’ she'd asked him.

‘No one,’ Zolasta had replied. ‘It’s as I found it.’

Mother N’koi had rubbed her chin and studied the little body, taking in the curls of the twin necks and the angles of the legs, then had retrieved a pinch of dreamdust from the zarlskin pouch that hung around her neck and inhaled it deeply. She’d needed a few seconds to blink away the dancing sparks in her vision and steady herself, then had opened her eyes fully and surveyed the ground in front of her again.

The deformed zarl calf had suddenly been at the centre of throbbing, angry threads of light, tied into a much wider tapestry that stretched across the land. The calf wasn’t the source of the problem, but it was connected to it. With her newly-enhanced vision Mother N’koi had been able to read the shape of things, to see what the gods had intended when they’d caused the unnatural beast to fall in this way, with its legs and necks arranged just so, a message left for anyone with the eyes and wit to read it…

She’d shaken her head grimly, sending her greying braids swinging, and sucked her teeth again. ‘Death comes. Untimely and unlooked for.’

‘The rains are already failing,’ Zolasta had said, trying to keep despair from his voice but not completely succeeding. ‘Now you give me this ill news?’

‘You called me here,’ Mother N’Koi had replied, glancing at him reproachfully. ‘Why call your witch if you don’t want to hear her words?’

‘You know what this means I must do,’ Zolasta had declared, his lip twitching.

‘I know what this means you will do,’ Mother N’Koi had sighed, turning away from the deformed calf and stumping past the headman. ‘Do not pretend the gods have left you with no alternative.’

And that was how they’d come to this, in the cold light of the next morning, with half the village assembled next to the river and Mother N’koi nursing a bastard headache from using the dreamdust the previous day. The roaring of the water wasn’t helping her aching brain one bit, either. The river was still in spate, charged with meltwater cascading down from the mountains, but Zolasta had spoken truthfully on one issue at least: the rains here were failing, and if that continued then, once all the snow that was going to melt had melted, the river’s water would soon no longer be enough to be diverted across the village’s fields and compensate for that. Hunger threatened, along with the stark choice that would follow: to let the village starve, or to take up weapons while the fighters still had strength and seek to raid food from elsewhere, with the inevitable danger and risk of retaliation that would come with such a decision. Death untimely and unlooked for, indeed.

It was certainly a hard choice, which was presumably why Zolasta had opted for a sacrifice instead.

She was a girl named Shirai, fourteen summers old, and a virgin by all accounts save those of herself and her father, but neither of them could name the man who had lain with her and Mother N’koi could practically smell the falsehood on their lips. It was a desperate attempt to save her from Zolasta’s blade, and Mother N’Koi couldn’t blame them for it, but all they were essentially saying was kill another girl instead. She sucked her teeth and hummed tunelessly to herself as young Shirai was hauled forward with tears streaming down her cheeks and her hands bound behind her, and her parents were held back. The girl wore a plain cotton shift, to further emphasise to the waiting gods her purity and innocence.

‘You are certain of what you saw?’ Zolasta muttered to Mother N’koi.

‘The threads were clear,’ she snapped. ‘Death comes. Besides, you never questioned my sight eight summers back when I said you would be our next headman.’ Her headache wasn’t improving her temper, else she might not have added that last, but Zolasta simply scowled at her and, although he drew the long chief’s knife from its sheath, she was not its intended victim. He turned away from her and walked to the bank of the river to meet Shirai, where the two men holding her arms forced her to her knees and then stepped back.

‘My people!’ Zolasta declared, raising his voice. He had the voice of a chief, deep and powerful, and had the look of one as well, with keloids marking the wounds taken in service to the village in his youth. ‘You all know the rains are failing. Now the wise Mother N’koi–’

N’koi rolled her eyes and began stuffing leaf into her pipe.

‘–has declared that death is coming, untimely and unlooked for. I will not let this happen. We will give a life to the waters, so the gods will send us water to give us life.’

There was a general murmuring amongst the assembled villagers. Mother N’koi couldn’t have said if it was agreement, or general relief that it wasn’t them kneeling before Zolasta’s blade. She checked no one was looking at her, then hurriedly sparked an ember into the bowl of her pipe with her thumb.

Threads flashed into view for a moment as she did so, and she blinked in sudden confusion as she took her first puff. That had almost looked like…

Zolasta looked down at Shirai. ‘I am sorry, child. This will be over in a moment.’

He raised his knife.

Shirai jerked her head forward and butted him in the crotch as hard as she could.

Zolasta let out a strangled yelp and bent double, the knife dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Shirai, unrestricted in her movements by the simple shift, rolled onto her back and drew her bound wrists past her ankles with the suppleness of youth, then snatched up the knife from where it had fallen and plunged it into Zolasta’s chest with a scream of rage and fear. The chief sank to his knees as his eyes bulged, then bright red fluid gouted from the wound left behind as Shirai snatched the knife back out in what looked like apparent terror at what she’d just done.

Mother N’koi raised her eyebrows and took a long draw on her pipe, and everyone else started shouting.

The two men who’d been holding Shirai lunged forwards, far too late to be of any use to their chief. Shirai took one look at them and clearly didn’t like what she saw as she turned and threw herself into the roaring water, still clutching Zolasta’s knife. She went under, but after a few seconds Mother N’koi saw the girl’s head break the surface again, further downstream and being swept away faster than a man could run. It looked like she’d transferred the blade to her mouth, and was now trying to rub the cords that bound her hands on its keen edge, but she was borne out of sight before Mother N’koi could see if Shirai succeeded in freeing herself. She certainly stood little chance of avoiding drowning otherwise.

Zolasta tried to rise, but his legs buckled beneath him and he too fell into the river. When he surfaced again he was facedown and motionless, a life given to the waters.

‘The gods showed me death, untimely and unlooked for,’ Mother N’koi observed to no one in particular, and blew a smoke ring. ‘They did not show me who, or how.’

She sucked her teeth.

‘They tend to leave such details to us…’
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Anonymous

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Re: [Apr 2017] - Scavenger Hunt - Submission Thread
« Reply #2 on: April 18, 2017, 09:58:53 PM »
A Tale of Omens
(1488 words)
Spoiler for Hiden:
“Coryl, dearer than daughter,” the bedridden old woman wheezed, “have I told you how I won the Battle of Presswolde?”

“No, mistress Verna,” Coryl lied, dipping the cloth in mint-water again. It was a good tale, and the old witch’s deathwatch was nearly at its end. She dabbed the pale forehead, heard the others milling around beyond the door. Birds sang in the meadow outside. Afternoon sunshine shone through the window, casting the braids Coryl had woven into Verna’s silver hair in a warm and golden light.

“Caraskander the Elder was king then, and accounted wise.” Verna grinned her knowing, crooked smile that was also a frown. “But I knew his caution was both a strength and a weakness.”

“Oh?” Coryl smoothed the wisps at Verna’s temples. So soft, the skin of the old.

“His caution was well-founded. Gregor the Black had the backing of sixteen warlords. Lesser chieftains, perhaps. But sixteen!”

Coryl smiled and dipped the cloth again.

“He wanted signs.” Verna’s voice slid into wet coughs, and Coryl held her hand, fragile like a baby bird. The spasm passed. “Omens,” Verna gasped. “Confounded things. You’ll want to manage them, Coryl. Signs that do not help you, hurt you.”

Coryl nodded. “Yes, mistress.”

“I had Caraskander send his bravest scout on a perilous mission – I needed something Gregor had touched, or better, some piece of him: hair, toenail, a turd. Whatever.”

“Who was sent?” Coryl ran the cloth over her mistress’s feeble arms, as she would later, before she wrapped Verna in her funeral shroud.

“Trevrah, the hill woman, eldest of the Cunning Folk in those days, and lover to my master, in the old days, as we thought them then. Now, that was a woman. Tall, fierce, and fearless. Gregor’s encampment sprawled across the western valley like a plague. But she went, Trevrah did, without hesitation.”

“But mistress,” Coryl said as she soothed Verna’s cheeks with the cloth, “isn’t the Presswolde a mountain?” She knew her mistress’s favorite points in all her stories.

“Ah,” Verna smiled, her cloudy gray eyes sliding closed. “Indeed. But … the Battle of Presswolde would not … not be decided there. No, I knew …” Verna’s head sagged, and a chilling fear ran through Coryl. Verna’s mouth went slack, but her eyes fluttered open again. “… I knew … wherever the battle happened, it would be won or lost long before, not in the lands of any realm, but in the hearts of people.”

“Did Trevrah succeed?”

Verna’s thin fingers patted Coryl’s, weightless and soft, like the soft strokes of a starling’s wings. “Of course. The Cunning Folk do not fail.” Her eyes slid up to Coryl’s. For the last time? “Remember that when I am gone.”

Coryl nodded and lowered her lips to her mistress’s palsied hands. She kissed them, remembering their steady strength over the years. “I will.”

“With nothing but a waterskin and a shirt that showed much cleavage, Trevrah walked right into the fiercest invading army this land has ever known. She watered Gregor’s men, slit three throats in the night, and brought back Gregor’s comb a day later. Ah, what a woman. The balls of her!” Verna’s eyes rounded and her voice fell to a whisper. “If you would rule this coven, girl, you must learn to see the steel beneath the skin, as I did. You will need to find your Trevrah.”

Coryl nodded wanly and dampened the cloth once more. “What good did the comb do?”

Verna smiled and closed her eyes. “That pissant Caraskander was tighter than a tick, so I set into him. Kicked his ass out of his own great hall for a day and a night! I sent his servants to fetch me twine and pins from virgins. I sent his soldiers to gather water in the helms of fallen men by moonlight in every river within twenty miles, and gather it in a trough I made them drag into the hall. I made the smiths grind bones of long-dead knights and pour the dust into their forges, and strike every piece of armor and every weapon in Caraskander’s army. What a racket they made!” Verna’s giggle tumbled into a coughing fit that left her lips blue.

Coryl dabbed the spittle from her mistress’s chin. “And the comb?”

“When Caraskander returned, he found the web I wove with the twine and pins across the floor of his hall, in patterns that echoed the stars. From the comb, I drew seven silver hairs and laid them across the threads of the web, carefully, so they did not touch the ground.”

“And then?”

Verna blinked, her smile fading. “I told him the hairs showed that Gregor was doomed. The seven gray hairs matched Gregor’s seven rivals: two sons, two cousins, two uncles, and one brother. They revealed that Gregor was fearful. His hair was falling out from worry: worry that his hold of the warlords was slipping, worry that his children, cousins, and uncles would move against him. But more than anything, he feared facing Caraskander’s army in the open if he did not have advantage.”

Verna panted quietly, her collarbone seeming to stick out as she worked for her breath. Coryl missed the passion Verna used to have for the climax of her cleverness, but drawing breath was as clever as Verna could muster.

“Caraskander,” Verna said, eyes clenched, thin fists balling in the sheet, “led his army out and around the enemy, stormed … stormed Gregor’s encampment. Dead of night … from the west, at the foot of the Presswolde as Gregor approached. His great victory.” Verna shifted as her spirit sped. Her fists settled against the bed.

“No, mistress,” Coryl whispered. The first tear, hot and swift, sped down her cheek. She rose and smoothed Verna’s hair, caressed the tension from Verna’s brow. Gently, Coryl opened Verna’s fists and laid them across her mistress’s chest. “Your victory.”

She faced the door. “Come.”

Calling on her mistress’s wisdom, Coryl watched as her coven-sisters came in, one by one. Sweet Skellia came first, sniffling, her eyes red and swollen, followed by hard-hearted Gruina, who would challenge Coryl to the death and win, if Coryl did not manage this moment well. The sisters Haleth and Junis filed in, hands clasped as always. And finally Kabraella, bold and impatient as ever, strode into the room and stood over Verna, her strong hands futilely eager for something worth doing.

Gruina cleared her throat, swept her dark eyes from Verna’s repose Coryl’s downcast face. “Tomorrow, we-” she began.

“Silence, sister,” Kabraella spat. “What signs, Coryl? What omens did you see?”

Coryl set her jaw askew and shook her head, even as Vendra often had in anxious moments. “She told a tale of omens, sisters.”

“Did she finish?” Gruina asked, fists on her hips.

“She didn’t die mid-sentence, did she?” gasped Skellia. As one, all the sisters’ fingers made signs of warding.

Coryl shook her head. “No ill-omens today. She finished her tale with her final breath.”

They sighed with relief.

Coryl looked at each of them in turn as she chose her words. “The signs are clear that we must summon the omen we would read.” She faced the two sisters. “You two, fetch me the quilt Verna made for me, and draw from it five lengths of thread. Skellia, dear, stop crying. Run to the village, find me ten pins that have never been used – and do not touch them! Gruina, go into the woods and search for a tree that stands apart, as Verna did, in the open where the moonlight reaches the ground. You must be patient and stand vigilant tonight and see that no ill omens appear there. We will meet there at dawn, tomorrow.”

Coryl knit her brow into a knot. No one was moving. “Go! Now!”

Skellia bolted out the door, her tears already coming on again. The sisters bowed their heads and left. Gruina frowned at Coryl, pursed her lips, then stalked from the room.

“And me?” Kabraella.

Coryl reached beneath Verna’s pillow, drew out the ancient dagger with its black handle and curved blade. “This once belonged to Trevrah, eldest of the Cunning Folk. What a woman! Fearless, strong, and wise. Verna wanted you to have this and to be our Trevrah, now.”

Eyes rounded with awe, Kabraella took the weapon.

“The signs are clear: the coven must be one,” Coryl said. She gripped Kabraella by the shoulders, felt the steel beneath the skin. Coryl leaned close and kissed Kabraella’s cheek, slipped her lips to her coven-sister’s ear, and whispered. “You will either end my life, or you will follow Gruina and end hers. One of us must be cut from the coven. Only you have the strength, Trevrah.”

Coryl turned away, held her breath, and closed her eyes.

A long and silent moment passed. Kabraella closed the door when she left.

Coryl sighed and closed the window.

Offline Grac3

The Wild Rover
« Reply #3 on: April 21, 2017, 02:50:28 PM »
Shing. Shing. Shing.

Spoiler for Hiden:
A hand landed on Mereney’s shoulder. Mereney looked behind her, to see Lailyn standing there. Lailyn took a seat next to her on the log.

“I believe your axe is sharp enough.”

Mereney put her grindstone on the ground. “I have to be ready for tomorrow.”

Lailyn gave her a small smile. “You are as ready as you are ever going to be. We all are.” She inclined her head behind them, towards the revelling soldiers. “Now come on. Have a drink. This could be our last night alive, after all.”

Mereney chuckled. Lailyn lifted her hand away and Mereney sheathed her axes in the holster on her back.

The battle began early the next day, and by the time the sun was at its highest point in the sky, the air was filled with unsettled dust and the stench of blood. Mereney’s axes were crimson, as were her face and clothes. A single drop of blood dripped down her face; she licked it away.

She adjusted her grip on her axes, gave a bloodthirsty grin, and charged her next enemy.

The soldier she faced next was wielding a two-handed sword. His face was hidden beneath his thick steel helmet, so only his gritted and dirty teeth were visible.

He gave a roar and swung his sword to cleave Mereney in two, but Mereney jumped backwards and slammed the blade of her right axe into the blade of the sword.

The move jarred her shoulder, and the momentum carried her around in a pivot until she had her back to the soldier.

He grabbed her shoulder to hold her in place.

He thrust his sword into her back.

It protruded through her front.

Mereney choked. Her arms hung limp at her sides, and the blades of her axes dragged on the ground.

The soldier wrenched his blade from her body and let her go, running off to his next battle. Mereney fell backwards onto the ground and stared up at the sky, watching as it darkened with each passing second…

Before she had even opened her eyes, she was assaulted with the smell of ale. Mereney scrunched her eyes, then opened them, then blinked away the blurriness.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, and found herself on a tavern bench. The tavern was bustling and noisy. Men with swords and women with bows sat around tables with drinks, laughing and telling stories. Off in the far corner, a bard was playing The Wild Rover.

From somewhere to her left, a man gave a hearty chuckle. She turned her head.

The bench was on one side of a table. Another bench was on the other side, and sitting upon it with a flagon of ale was a plump man with a full beard but a receding hairline. His ale was sploshing over his grey shirt.

Mereney swivelled on the bench and put her elbows on the table. She narrowed her eyes at the man. “What am I doing here?”

The man grinned. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Mereney reached a hand up to her abdomen, where the sword had run her through. The wound was not there.

“I was dying.”

The man inclined his head. “You still are.”

Mereney snapped her head up. “What is this place?”

“What do you think this place is?”

Mereney curled her hand into a fist and brought it down on the table. “Damn it, give me a straight answer!”

The man blinked. His lips curled into a smile. “You are a fiery one. We were right to give you red hair.”

Mereney’s face fell. She sat back on the bench and sank into it. Her fist loosened.

“Who are you?”

The man took a long swig of his ale. He wiped the froth from his mouth. He put his flagon down on the table.

“I have had many names, and I have many names, and I will have many names. To some I am the Creator, and to others I am the Warrior. Some believe I purged the Chaos from the world, others think that there was no Chaos for me to purge. Yet all look to me in their final hours.”

The man met Mereney’s eyes.

“Who do you say I am?”

Mereney’s eyes widened. She sat back against the back of the bench. She licked her lips.

“You are the Aa.”

The man’s eyes twinkled. “And what does that mean to you?”

“That I will see Vohana.”

“When?”

“When I have been judged.”

“Do you wish to be judged?”

Mereney sneered. “Does anyone?”

The man gave a hearty laugh.

“You have wit. I have always admired that in you. Now, tell me, do you believe in judgement?”

Mereney paused. “Yes.”

Aa nodded. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a playing card: the Ace of Hearts. “Have you ever played Pilgrimage?”

Mereney looked at the Ace, and nodded.

“Do you understand what I am asking you to do?”

“Yes.”

Aa slotted the Ace of Hearts back into his pocket. “Have fun.”

Mereney got to her feet and began searching the tavern for the four Aces.

She asked each person there if they had seen any of them, or if they had any of them, but she had no luck until she spoke to the bard.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked at her, but did not stop playing.

“Do you have the card?” she asked him, her voice loud to be heard over the music.

The bard smiled and nodded. He lifted his lute to show its underside to her. The Ace of Clubs was stuck to the back of the lute. She plucked it free, nodded her thanks, and went off in search of the others.

No one else seemed to know where they were. She went for the bartender, and waited to be served.

“I’ll have an Ace.”

The bartender nodded and disappeared for a couple of minutes. She returned with a drink, and placed it in front of Mereney.

Mereney quirked her brow, and made to question the bartender, but she had skulked off and was nowhere to be seen.

Mereney lifted the flagon and downed the drink, then checked the bottom for an Ace. There was nothing there.

She checked inside; again, nothing.

She sighed, and slammed the flagon down onto the counter.

She sat there for a moment, or two, then slid the flagon out of her way and leant over the counter.

“Ha!”

The Ace of Diamonds was stuck to the nearest keg.

Next, she checked the walls. They were adorned with mounted animal heads, but even once she had lifted them off the walls, there was no Ace to be found.

It was only when she got to the front door that she noticed there was a rug just in front of it: a strange addition to a common tavern.

She lifted it, and there was the Ace of Spades.

Yet her joy was short-lived; she had nowhere else to look. The Ace of Hearts was nowhere to be found.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she turned to see Aa standing behind her.

“How goes your hunt?”

Mereney held up the three Aces she had found.

“Oh, dear. Only three?”

Mereney bowed her head. “I admit I cannot find the fourth. I accept my judgement.”

Aa lifted his hand away. “Now, let us not be overly hasty. Where might it be?”

Mereney shook her head. “I have searched everywhere. There is nowhere else.”

Aa put a finger under her chin and raised her head. “Are you sure?”

Mereney furrowed her brow, and Aa gave a mischievous smile. He reached back into his pocket, and pulled out the Ace of Hearts.

He handed it to Mereney.

“Go, Mereney. Your fight is over.”

Mereney eyed the Ace for a long while. “I…”

Aa squeezed her shoulder. “You have done what you must, Mereney. You need worry no longer. Take the Ace, and enjoy your rest. Lailyn is waiting for you.”

Mereney licked her lips. She held out her hand, and hovered her thumb and forefinger half an inch either side of the Ace.

She looked up at Aa.

“Thank you.”

Aa smiled and inclined his head.

Mereney closed her fingers around the Ace, and the world whited out around her.
« Last Edit: April 21, 2017, 08:52:26 PM by xiagan »

Offline Jmack

  • Hircum Magna Rex of the Fabled Atku Temple, and writing context regular
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Re: [Apr 2017] - Scavenger Hunt - Submission Thread
« Reply #4 on: Today at 02:44:11 AM »
A poem. Would you believe it?
What is this, my 31st month doing this?
And you get a poem. Luck you.  ;)

219 words.

Magic

Spoiler for Hiden:

Magic.

A man walks across the street, and a car misses him by an inch.
A Slurpee cup sails from the car window, and misses him by an inch.
It smacks the pavement, spraying red ice across black tar.
It could have been him.
It could have been blood.

An omen.
He knows it.
It shivers down his spine.
He will not die today.

The man walks into a bank, finger pointed inside his pocket.
Steals away with a thousand dollars.
The ink pack is a dud.
He laughs, and skips a little skip.

The man swims across another man's pool
to drink from his glass and smoke his cigar.
He winks at the man's wife, and escapes, giggling.
A gun shot, a ripple of air, and nothing more.

The man flies a plane, dances a tango,
races a train, dodges a mango
thrown by a dude in a pool hall
down on Durango.

And, finally, stops, and wonders.

He climbs a mountain,
reaching the top as the sun declines,
and the magical day
ends.

Why? he asks the sky.
Why me, and why today?

A rock falls from the stars,
striking the cliffs,
missing him by a mile.

An omen.
He knows it.
It drops the bottom from his heart.
He could die today.

Like any day.
Like any other magical day.
« Last Edit: Today at 02:48:54 AM by Jmack »
Change, when it comes, will step lightly before it kicks like thunder. (GRMatthews)
You are being naive if you think that any sweet and light theme cannot be strangled and force fed it's own flesh. (Nora)

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by m3mnoch
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Last post April 04, 2017, 12:02:15 PM
by Jmack