# Kiln-Fired Ceramic DM



## mythago (Jan 15, 2004)

A place to post stories inspired by, or from, previous Ceramic DM competitions.

1. Please do not post stories using pictures from any currently undecided round of Ceramic DM. Once the judges have picked a winner, it's fair game, but it's not nice to the current competitors to jump in before their round is done.

2. Feel free to mix, match, bring in your own pictures, or do whatever you want for illos. This is just for fun. If you want to do a "fantasy round" using a particular set, that's fine too.

3. Please link to the thread with the original competition, if you are doing a set used in an official Ceramic DM. (Not mandatory, but helpful.)

4. Comments and suggestions generally welcome.

5. There is no Rule 5.


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## mythago (Mar 30, 2004)

*She Waits*

From Sialia's art gallery.


     "Another cigarette?" she asked. He nodded, and she fished one out of the half-empty pack for him. She watched with interest to see if he could get it between his lips and operate the lighter one-handed without dropping either. It was awkward, but he got it lit and took a long draw.

     "Want one?" he asked her. "I think there'll still be enough to last me."

        She shook her head. "They don't like smoke," she said, and pointed to the plain mud-colored scarf that covered her hair, or rather, the snakes that made up what would have been hair on a normal woman. Right now they were quiet, sleeping, maybe, so the scarf just looked like she had a big hairdo underneath. She didn't need to hide them from him, so he guessed it was just habit for her, to hide what she was. 

        In silence they watched the thin curls of smoke rise in the flickering light of the oil lamps. Her house was built into a cave on a rocky hillside, cool and protected from the blazing Aegean sun, not to mention from the residents of the other islands in this archipelago, especially those who knew the oldest stories about the woman who lived here.

        He tried to push himself up from the cushions to reach the ashtray. His left leg was almost entirely stone now and he had trouble dragging himself sideways. Without a word, she picked the ashtray up and put it a foot closer to the bed. It was an ochre and black clay bowl about the size of half a grapefruit, probably two thousand years old. He wondered what an archaeologist would make of the bowl, if it were ever found: priceless ancient pottery marred with the remains of American cigarettes.

        He crushed out the butt. He felt as though he should spend his last moments doing something important or profound, but with the petrifaction slowly creeping over his body like a cold sunset, he didn't think he would be capable of much, and he was totally unable to think of anything witty as an epigraph. Not that anyone would hear his last words, other than her, and he doubted she would remember them in a few centuries.

        "Will you put me in the garden, afterward?" he asked. "With the others."

        She hesitated. "If you like?I can. But those are there as a, a warning? They were not friendly when they came here." He thought her English was pretty good, considering she knew it only from the hand-cranked short-wave radio, left behind decades ago by a man who now stood in the olive groves, gathering bird poop. 

        "All of them?"

        "All."

        He reached across to touch the gray stone of his left shoulder, where he had been bitten. It felt smooth and cold under his hand, like marble, and he searched in vain for the puncture marks. She leaned in and caught his hand in hers, pulling him away from touching the dead place. Her hands were so small that he could have wrapped his fist entirely around them. But they were warm and alive.

        "I'm sorry," she said again. He nodded: he knew she was sorry, and so was he, but it wasn't her fault. It wasn't the snakes' fault, really, when he thought about it. They were part of her, but they were still animals, dumb and aggressive when threatened. In the ecstasy of their lovemaking he had forgotten his own strength, pulling her down to him, and he had crushed one of the snakes. Dying, it struck.

        "People think it was meeting your eyes. At least, in the way the stories are told now."

        "No. It was always the poison."

        "How did you get that close to them?" He regretted saying it immediately; he was afraid she might take it as a suggestion that she routinely slept with and then murdered total strangers. 

        She pointed toward the antechamber to her cave. "Wine," she explained. "If I see their boat coming, I put out wine, and roast lamb, and I hide. They are hot, and tired, and thirsty from the long trip. They sit and eat and get sleepy. They do not hear me come back."

        "But you didn't do that to me."

        "You were different."

        "How could you possibly have known that?"

        She shrugged. "I have seen many people in many years. I knew."

        She had told him, when he arrived three weeks ago, that he was the first who had come here seeking to do something other than cut off her head and hunt for whatever treasure she might have hoarded over the centuries. All he'd wanted was a working vacation and a travel piece, and then he'd gone off-course and found her island. And her. 

        Even knowing what she was, he still loved her. 

        The stone had reached the left side of his chest now. He knew he had only a short time before his heart turned gray. He gently removed his hand from hers and reached for the knot of her scarf. Before she could protest, he pulled it off. The snakes stirred, their beautiful green scales glittering in the lamplight.

        "Your real jewels," he slurred. His left lung seemed to have stopped working.

        She gave him a last, sweet kiss, her snakes brushing against his skin as though they would miss him too.


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## barsoomcore (Mar 31, 2004)

Ka-POW!


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## mythago (Mar 31, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Ka-POW!



 Please tell me that wasn't the sound of a stewardess exploding


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## Zhaneel (Mar 31, 2004)

Very nice... but I couldn't help wanting more.  It is a vingette, but I would prefer it to be a story.

Zhaneel


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## barsoomcore (Mar 31, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Please tell me that wasn't the sound of a stewardess exploding



When a stewardess explodes, rest assured, I'll tell you.


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## BSF (Apr 7, 2004)

Ooh!  I didn't notice that you posted Mythago!  I found this one by accident while I was searching for the Ceramic DM tourney in which you trounced Piratecat so a friend of mine could read it.    I think I will wait on this one until I see if I move from alternate to competitor in the current contest.  

Looking forward to reading it though.


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## mythago (Apr 14, 2004)

I wouldn't say I trounced Piratecat. It was more like the fight scene in _They Live_.


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## barsoomcore (Apr 14, 2004)

Were you all out of bubblegum, then?

Is this going to turn into one of those story hour threads where the discussion about the thread is five times the length of the actual story material? That happened to the Stewardesses story hour thread -- the entire story (the first adventure, anyway) is in the first page of the thread. The rest is just the usual yahoos malingering and causing trouble.

Not that I'm a yahoo. Usual or otherwise.


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## mythago (Apr 14, 2004)

I think I had one piece left, but it was way in the bottom of my purse, and it got kinda linty, and...well...you know.

 (I was referring to the ten-minute fistfight, in case that wasn't clear.)

  Anyone who wants to improve the content-to-peanut-gallery ratio is certainly welcome to post their own darn story.


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## barsoomcore (Apr 14, 2004)

_I'll bite. Here's a story I wrote for Round Four of Ceramic DM, and am still inordinately proud of. It makes me laugh. I know the very fight you speak of, but I couldn't recall any classic lines from it, so I went with the standard quote._

*The REAL Story*

I know what you're thinking, but I'm here to tell you that I wasn't shoved headfirst down a hole by a crazed samurai because I beheaded his brother the Imperial Beekeeper who then turned into a walking corpse and terrorized the province. That's not what happened.

I know, that's what everyone says happened. But who are you going to believe, Haro the pig farmer or me, _the guy who's currently headfirst down a hole_?

Look, let's cut a deal here. I tell you what _really_ happened, and if you believe me, you pull me out of this hole. If you don't, off with you and a thousand curses on your head for making me waste my time telling you the truth. Though I have to admit I don't actually have anything else to do, being currently upside-down in a hole. Never mind. Fine. Here goes.

First off, don't think I wanted to be High Lord Imperial Executioner Flibberty-Gibbet. No, sir. Who would? It's not like I'm some all-serious, mystically inclined chap looking to perfect my technique, walk the road of demons or anything like that. I cut people's heads off. It's not pretty, it's not sophisticated. It sucks.

Seriously, this is like the worst job in the world. I only got stuck with it because I was late to the meeting and all the other samurai had already decided. Bastards. So here I am, Lord High Cutting-Off-Heads-Guy. I don't even get to be on Iron Chef. The _other_ samurai get the cool jobs. When they're done work they can gather around the samurai water cooler and swap stories about duels they've fought or fair maidens they've rescued.

I've met 73 single women in the last two months. Single. Ha. Each of them is now in two pieces.

"Hey, Executioner! Learn some jokes, they'll laugh their heads off! Har har har."

Hilarious. I hate those guys.

Okay, so Grand Executy Poobah versus the Imperial Beekeeper. Here's where everyone's story is all mixed up. I didn't cut the guy's head off.

Well, I did, but only after he was dead. Look, I don't know if you knew the guy, but the Imperial Beekeeper wasn't exactly the sharpest blade in the saya, if you know what I mean. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the guy was a schmuck. A dope. A doofus. I mean, he was the Imperial Beekeeper, for crying out loud. What kind of a dork gets himself saddled with a title like that? He's the biggest moron in the whole empire.

Okay, he got three golden tael a week and a house to keep all the wine, women and song he could buy. The Imperial Grand Executioner sleeps on the stairs behind the palace. So perhaps he was the second-biggest moron in the whole empire. Let's not get into it, okay?

So this putz, who of course in the five years he's been Imperial Beekeeper has never so much as seen a bee, decides one day he's going to play with the bees.

Just take a moment and think about that. Play with bees. You want to argue the moron bit any further?

Reason I know what he was up to is because he stepped on me on the way to the gardens. After resisting the urge to punch him, I followed the great oaf down the stairs to see what he was up to.

You know, I could probably tell this story a lot better if I were right-side up.

Just saying.

Anyway, Beekeeper To The Shogun strolls into the garden and starts looking for bees. Under a bush. He starts calling them.

"Here, bees, bees, bees..."

I sit on the steps because obviously this is going to take a while. I'm actually worried I might die of thirst before El Keeper Du Bees finds a single honey-producing insect.

But no, turns out if you want to find bees, you call them. In a couple of seconds I hear Bee-Head give a little yelp and there he is, standing in the middle of the garden, with a bee perched on his eyebrow. At first I think he's going to smack it, and he nearly does, but something holds him back and he stands there motionless, the fuzzy little thing crawling about above his eye.

Then there's two. Then three.

Look, I can't explain it. Well, actually, I can, but I'm not going to tell you yet. Sense of mystery, pal, you never had a story told to you? Hey, if you're not even going to pull me out of here, I'm going to tell my story any way I like, alright?

Pretty soon this clown is covered in bees. I mean covered. He looks like he's wearing a fuzzy black and yellow hat, one of those winter hats what you tie down around your ears. Bees all over his head.

I can't help it. It's creeping me out big time. I stand up and call out to him.

"Dude, that's not right!"

He jerks, and I guess he startled one of his wee pals, because he suddenly yells and smacks at his own cheek.

Important safety tip: if you ever have your head covered in bees, and one of them stings you, take it like a man. Cause bees, they hate it when somebody smacks one of their sisters.

He screams and starts dancing a frenetic jig, eventually dropping to his knees and trying to, I guess, beat his head against the ground and knock the angry bees off. Unfortunately, he beat his head into a rock and keeled over right there. I took off then, not because I was freaked out (seen a lot of people becoming dead, thanks awfully), but because by then those bees were like fuzzy drunk sailors just looking for trouble.

But I figured that was the end of it. Guy stung to death, cracks head on rock, end of story. Hire a new Imperial Beekeeper. I was polishing up my resume for the vacancy when Samurai Fred came to me. He posed in front of a useless stone lantern. I hated him right off.

"Imperial Lord High Executioner."

"Yo."

"I crave a boon, my lord."

Note: they only call me "my lord" when they need a favour. Which is usually, "Could you pretend not to notice that the adulterous countess you've been ordered to decapitate looks like a frightened servant girl with a gag?" You can say what you like about adulterous countesses, but they're always popular.

"Uh-huh. Adulterous countess?"

"No, my lord. It concerns the most shameful death of my brother, Yagumakihagagubi."

"Yagu-what?"

"The Imperial Beekeeper. He has suffered a most shameful end and brought grief upon our family."

"Right, with the getting stung to death by the little suckers he's supposed to be so good with. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to cut off his head."

"Isn't it a little late for that?"

"Please, my lord, I implore you."

"You do? How do you do that, exactly? I've always wondered."

"As yet, nobody knows of his death. I wish for the land to believe he has been executed."

"Getting decapitated as a common criminal would be less shameful than being stung to death?"

He just looked at me.

"Right. Okay. But you're asking me to desecrate a corpse. The gods forbid such an act with the strongest of taboos. I would be damned for all eternity if I were to perform such a heinous deed."

"Here are ten golden taels."

"I've never been a religious man."

"Well."

"On the other hand, I have one heck of a mortgage."

"Fifteen golden taels."

"And I've had my eye on this nice bungalow for the last couple of weeks..."

"Twenty taels."

"Which needs a lot of renovations..."

"Thirty. Will you do it?"

I weighed the solid mass of gold in my hand, and considered the righteous anger of the gods.

I don't think I'm a bad man. I don't think, certainly, that I deserve to get stuffed headfirst into a hole. Okay, so I cut the head off a dead guy. He was dead. He didn't have any use for his head. Not that he'd used it much when he was alive.

Thirty taels, one whack with the sword, and that was the end of it. That should have been the end of it, by all that's holy.

You can probably fill in most of the details of the night after I got paid. All I can say is, there's no such thing as too many beautiful girls in one room, especially if they're all pouring you wine and dancing on the table.

There is, however, such a thing as too many undead horrors crashing through the window, scattering beautiful girls in all directions, and knocking over perfectly good bottles of wine. It turns out that ONE is in fact too many.

"Executioner."

"You forget how to knock? What, undead beekeepers don't use doors?"

"You desecrated my corpse."

"Yeah, I cut your... uh... head off."

"Yes. You will pay."

"How'd you get your head back on?"

"You will pay."

"Fine. Here's a tael, have your own party. How'd you get your head back on?"

"The power of vengeance."

"Aren't those stitches?"

"And haberdashery."

"Nice work. You get Suniko the silk merchant's daughter to do that?"

"No. It's not-- Never mind. I am here for vengeance. Vengeance!"

The creepy, loathesome thing lurched forward, hands outstretched. It was totally the grossest thing I'd ever seen. And this is coming from a guy who cuts people's heads off for a living, remember.

But you can get used to anything, I guess. A few bottles of wine and the late Yagu-what-the-heck and I were singing together like old friends. Laughing about those crazy bees.

Which brings me to the sense of mystery I so carefully developed earlier. You see, while we were boozing it up, telling jokes and slapping shoulders (never slap the shoulder of a corpse when you're wearing your brand-new fancy kimono. Ew.), it came out that the former Master of Bee-Fu had actually had a plan when he went down into that garden, looking for bees. His loving brother (and I'm using the word "loving" in what's called the _ironic_ sense, where what I actually mean is "deceitful, murderous, foul-minded freakazoid") had given him what he claimed was a magic lotion which, if he could get a bee to touch it, would render him irresistible to the opposite sex. Of course, said magic lotion was in fact some sort of bee perfume calculated to drive bee ladies wild. Loving brother obviously hoped that Bee-Buddy would get himself stung to death. Which he did.

Uh-huh. I told you, not the tallest stalk in the rice paddy.

See why I didn't tell you before? Now who's the expert storyteller, you or me? Huh? You going to pull me out of here now or what?

Fine.

So really, that's the story. The late Imperial Bee-Doofus, once he realised he'd been set up, went off and killed his brother the samurai. Apparently they had a big fight in the family garden, with the posing in front of those useless stone lanterns, I'm sure. Samurai Fred dies, horrible undead corpse gets a job parking palanquins over at Mama Sapporo's Groovy Geisha House, and I get stuffed down a hole.

Oh, yeah. The hole. Well, that party I had? You see, I don't normally spend that kind of money, so I wasn't really very good at judging what my tab had run up to. Beautiful girls dancing on tables don't come cheap, you know. And the manager charged me for the broken windows, and the "emotional stress" to her girls when Yagu-mumble-mumble stormed in, and that undead son-of-a-domesticated-canine pinched my wallet on his way to wreak vengeance on his brother. So she COMPLETELY over-reacted and stuffed me down here.

So what do you think? What did I do to deserve to get treated like this? How come I'm stuffed down a hole, and a horrible undead corpse is picking up tips and making time with the working girls over at Mama Sapporo's? Does that seem fair to you? Come on, now, I told you the story, you gotta pull me out of here. I'm going crazy down here, I tell you.

Come back here. Hey, we had a deal. Come back here, I'm warning you.

...

Hey, you. Yeah, you. Come here. Look I'll make you deal. I'll tell you a story and if you like it, you pull me out of this hole. Deal?


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## mythago (Apr 14, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> All I can say is, there's no such thing as too many beautiful girls in one room, especially if they're all pouring you wine and dancing on the table.



 Can I get an amen.

 I think I remember the bee pic. Hilarious.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 15, 2004)

It made me laugh too, Bandeeto.

Mythago, very cool vignette.  I don't know that i'd want much more.  This will sound strange, but it's almost like a prose-poem.  Maybe it's the length.

Since I've now found my way here, I suppose it's time to start with the writing, eh?


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## mythago (Apr 15, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> Since I've now found my way here, I suppose it's time to start with the writing, eh?



 Yes. No word count or deadline though


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## Gray Sage (Apr 15, 2004)

Wow mythago, that short piece was awesome. Please tell me that you have a Story Hour somewhere around here too. I want to go read it.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 16, 2004)

So, as usual, as soon as I decide I want to write something.... stumped!

Anyway, I wonder if anyone is interested in a little technical discussion?  I'm curious as to how people put together their stories for Ceramic DM.  

To see the story I'm referring to here, check the link.  Also on that page, Mythago's most excellent round-winning story.
http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=82959&page=9&pp=25

When I got the pics, I didn't rush to start.  I was working on a floorcloth, and just pulled out a notebook and would jot down whatever ideas came into my head from the pictures.  I went through several different plot ideas over the next day and a half.  It took a light bulb moment to really get it started.

After that I looked at what needed to happen, and decided to write each as a scene.  Scene:  Introduce protagonist, introduce problem, give background.  Scene:  Introduce eventual victim, build sympathy.  No one will care if he dies if they don't know him.  Scene:  Have to get that accordian pic in, party in the common room.  Protagonist finds vicitim here.  Scene:  Confrontation.  Scene:  Conclusion, fulfullment of task.

This is seriously how I put it together.  I would sit down and write a "scene", then I'd get up and do something like wash the dishes or vaccuum before I began the next one.  I didn't think about theme or anything like that, but I did focus a lot of technical things like avoiding using the same words to often, being consistent in viewpoints, etc.

When people's comments came in, it was weird to see comments on things like theme and characterization.  I didn't think about them at all.  So I'm either intiutive or lucky there.  ^_^

So story writers, how do you do it?  Just sit down and go?  Plan, plan, plan?  Wait for the last minute and write with the pressure?  What works for you?


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## mythago (Apr 16, 2004)

Wow. That sounds like an actually _useful_ approach. 

 I usually just look through the pictures until the Muse (mine's got a mean streak) comes up and tells me what they are, and how to correlate them. For the first-round story, I looked at the set and thought "Okay, the mantis is the accordion guy's wife. Great. Now how am I supposed to work in the other two?" Then I pick at it for a while until they fit more or less, and push and prod the story around that.

 I realize that's totally unhelpful.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 16, 2004)

No, it is helpful.  That's exactly the kind of thing I want to know.  I think I was so technical about it because it was a new task to me, and breaking it down into smaller parts made it less scary.

It sounds like we both went with initial impressions of the pics though.  The more I think about it, the more I realize that I did use them almost as I first concieved them in a very raw state.  Example, I knew the mantis was a small mantis close up right away, the accordian man had information he wasn't supposed to and would die, the feminine figure in Siala's picture had a deep, lasting connection to that skull.

And part of it came from not being sure how literal our use of the pics had to be.  So I went very literal.  "Rest" was a stone carving because that's what the picture looked like to me.  The party was in a kind of common room because only an out-of-date banquet room would have curtains that ugly.


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## barsoomcore (Apr 16, 2004)

My best stories came out of snarky responses to pictures. Guy with a head covered in bees? Okay, so I start riffing in my head about whadda maroon. Silly poseur samurai + executioner? Suddenly there was this conversation in my head between poseur samurai and cranky executioner, all snarky and sarcastic and it made me laugh.

The final piece in the puzzle for that story was my determination to work EVERY picture into the FIRST sentence, and then say, "That's not what happened," and find a different way to work every picture into the story AGAIN. Because I'm contentious that way.

Dialogue is usually what gets me. If two pictures show characters I immediately stick them together to see what they say to each other. If that conversation takes off then my story is on its way.


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## mythago (Apr 16, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> The final piece in the puzzle for that story was my determination to work EVERY picture into the FIRST sentence, and then say, "That's not what happened," and find a different way to work every picture into the story AGAIN.



 It wouldn't work in every story, but here it was perfect.


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## barsoomcore (Apr 16, 2004)

Indeed, it never worked before or since for any other story I wrote. I was feeling cocky that day. Sometimes that works for me.

Other times, not so much.


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## ledded (Apr 16, 2004)

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Indeed, it never worked before or since for any other story I wrote. I was feeling cocky that day. Sometimes that works for me.
> 
> Other times, not so much.



Man, it certainly worked when you wrote that... I laughed my @ss off reading that, but I'm a bit of a samurai fan, so hearing them get all snarky with each other amused me to no end.

Oh, and Mythago, I loved your story.  Very, very unique.  My hat is off to the both of you.


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## mythago (Apr 18, 2004)

Thanks for the kind words. I do have bits and pieces for a Delta Green story hour, but haven't yet posted.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 19, 2004)

I've considered doing a story hour, and the campaign I'm playing in is certainly worth writing about.  Sadly, we've been at it for over a year now and my memory closely resembles swiss cheese.  If I can think of a way to write it without having to cover the last year in more than summary I might try it.


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## mythago (Apr 19, 2004)

Make it up. If nobody else wrote it down, who is to say your recollection is the wrong one?


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## barsoomcore (Apr 19, 2004)

Heck, orchid blossom, my Barsoom Tales story hour is about sessions that took place nearly three years ago. I don't remember much of anything, so I'm making it ALL up, pretty well.

I won't tell if you won't tell.


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## Piratecat (Apr 19, 2004)

_Here's a fifteen minute draft for a picture I'd never get a chance to use. I may well edit this later; then again, I may not.  Click on the photo first, then read the story._

-------------

*Wish upon a star*

I should have known.

In retrospect, I should have known. I'm literate, and I read horror novels; Lovecraft and Poe and King. I visit astronomy websites and read news blurbs about odd syzygies. I make jokes to my friends about the srange occurrences which happen to get picked up on the AP news wire: grumbling mountains and odd algae blooms and undersea monsters that go "bloop" on sonar. Everyone hears those rumors about dead celebrities, but it's not like anyone _believes_ them. They never actually happen to anyone you know.

And I was _right there._

The eclipse happened right in the middle of the parade, smack in the center of Main Street USA. I'd seen the parade before, of course. This time was different. Mickey and the others slipped out of line and made a beeline for the crowd. I was close enough to see what happened. He paused for a  minute, touching childrens' hands as they stared at him adoringly. I grinned myself. The actor in the giant mouse suit paused by a stroller and kneeled down to see the sleeping toddler. I think the little girl's mother almost squealed in delight. Mickey lifted his pristinely white-gloved hands and raised his head almost up to the occluded sun, as if to say "What a miracle is life! Look at this beautiful infant who sleeps before me!"  I imagine that thousands of years before, Aztec kings had taken a similar pose before an altar of stone.  The shadowy light of the eclipse reflected off of Mickey's plastic features, and I sure knew a Kodak moment when I saw one.

I took a snapshot with my disposable camera. God help me, I took a snapshot. Because that was about five seconds before I noticed the butcher knife he drew with one of those immaculate hands.

That part was over so quickly, before anyone could even move. He hadn't been the only character to have commited the unthinkable. "The blood paves the way," I heard him twitter over the screams. He had an unforgettable sing-song voice that I'd heard on a hundred cartoons. "It opens the way when the stars are right." He lifted a carmine and dripping glove to point, and I looked past running children and panicking marching bands and Donald's blood-stained beak to see what the sacrifices had done.

Walt was back.

He staggered a shuffling jig down the middle of Main Street, and tourists fell like frozen leaves as he passed. His skin still bore the icy stigma of the cryogenic freezing. And he whistled Jiminy Cricket's little song as he danced jerkily along.

"When you wish upon a star. . ."

---- o ----

_Thanks to Kidcthulhu for the appropriation of her own personal nightmares._


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## barsoomcore (Apr 19, 2004)

PC channels jonrog1.

Pandemonium, obviously, ensues.

That was evil. In every evil meaning of the word.


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## Maldur (Apr 19, 2004)

Pkitty you are a very odd person!

Lets hope the stars are never right!


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## Sialia (Apr 19, 2004)

Piratecat said:
			
		

> _Here's a fifteen minute draft for a picture I'd never get a chance to use. I may well edit this later; then again, I may not. Click on the photo first, then read the story._



-------------

_How_ much of ENworld's savings account do you want to spend on legal fees?
Amusing as this story is, I am not certain it is worth baiting The Mouse.
There are things in this world scarier than undead. The Mouse's lawyers are among them.

Barsoomcore--that was fantastic. Brilliant voice. Now I have to go catch up on your storyhour.

Orchid Blossom--I'd love to swap story writing  mechanics with you, but you have to bear in mind that the tricks I used resulted in impossibly long stories than cannot be completed within the current word limits. 

One of my techniques was based on a moment that I fell in love with in one of Mythago's earlier Ceramic competitions. She introdcued what seemed like a decription of the photo, only not quite exactly right--so the reader would pass the shot and forget about it--and then she came around and whammed us with the exact shot later when we weren't expecting it anymore.

It was extremely compelling because it both relieved us of the tedious predictability of working endlessly towards the shots, and also, it established that all of the elements of the photo were present in the world _before_ all the pieces of the photo came into play.

So I always made sure that before I used the things in the photo, I put them into the world.

As far as themes go--I think writers always reveal a bit about what is really going on in their minds, even when writing fantasy. You just can't help writing what you know, even if you are writing about things wholly imaginary. It's the way our minds put dreams together. They're never literally about what they are about, and the images that are meaningful to you are often meaningless to anyone else.

For example, I have recurring dreams about my fish swimming out of my fishtank--they fly around the room, and I keep trying to chase them back into the tank before they suffocate or dry out and die, because they haven't the sense to realize that they can't live in the air, even if they can swim in it.

These dreams always come at times when I feel like my responsibilities are getting to be more than I can handle. That seems obvious when we're awake and I'm explaining it to you, right? But not so clear before I said so, or when I'm asleep, 'cause I fall for this every single time as if I'd never had the dream before.

Good stories are like that--they are obviously about something that is important to the author, even if the author never tells the reader what the literal truth behind them is. We instinctively feel that there is something important going on, and each person reads thier own anxiety or hope into it, drawing signal from the noise. Surreal or fantastical stories are fun because they are blurry, vague, amorphous and leave lots of room for people to recognize their own issues. They also allow the author to write without recognizing what she is putting down, only to look at it later and recognize wehre it came from, what it was all about really.

The set of illustrations for a Ceramic round is like a Rorschach. You just stare at them until you see the signal in the noise. Then you try to find a way to describe what you found well enough for someone else to find it, too.

Of course, as barsoomcore points out, a good snarky narrator and well developed characters is a good place to start, too.


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## barsoomcore (Apr 19, 2004)

Actually, I wasn't saying that snarkiness is a GOOD technique. It just happens to be the one I'm stuck with.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 19, 2004)

You know it's going to be a good day when, first thing in the morning, someone tells the truth about The Mouse.

Siala, I'd love to answer right now, but I'd be late for work.  I'll have to do it this afternoon after work.  Curse the no internet policy!


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## Ao the Overkitty (Apr 19, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I've considered doing a story hour, and the campaign I'm playing in is certainly worth writing about.  Sadly, we've been at it for over a year now and my memory closely resembles swiss cheese.  If I can think of a way to write it without having to cover the last year in more than summary I might try it.






			
				mythago said:
			
		

> Make it up. If nobody else wrote it down, who is to say your recollection is the wrong one?




Oh, I've got it mostly written down.  I kept a journal for my character, starting it two months of game time after the campaign started (I think I started it after 4 months of real time).  So, there are gaps in the beginning, but it runs well for a while.  There is another large gap where his cohort died which spans five months.  But, now that his cohort is back, I've resumed writing.  Since I'm writing this as if it was his journal, summarizing things isn't hard.  He glazes over things and places and doesn't talk about things he felt weren't worthwhile.  So far, I'm at page ten of this second volume of the journal and he has yet to mention anything about his cohort's death.  All he's said so far was a quick paragraph about them bringing him back.  Perhaps in later entries I'll be able to coax more info about that particular event.

I try and immerse myself in the character when writing the journal, which isn't always a good thing.  For example, I had to write a very depressed entry last night.  I say had to becuase I would have just kept mulling over it in my mind until i got it jotted down somewhere.  I had to wait till Orchid finished Monsters Inc. and went elsewhere before I could get into the right mood to write that entry.  Guess watching a comedy wasn't helping.  

So far, the only one besides myself that has seen the journal is the DM, and even he hasn't seen the whole thing.  I intentionally didn't write it in the best manner, trying to write as the character would, so it is very much stream of consciousness.  I enjoy writing it and rereading it, but I'm not sure it would make a very good storyhour.


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## mythago (Apr 19, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> _How_ much of ENworld's savings account do you want to spend on legal fees?
> Amusing as this story is, I am not certain it is worth baiting The Mouse.
> There are things in this world scarier than undead. The Mouse's lawyers are among them.



 Oh, Sialia, you wound me. 

 Gonna be a LONG time before I can picture The Mouse without hearing the squeaky-voiced invocation to the Dark Gods...


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## orchid blossom (Apr 19, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Oh, Sialia, you wound me.
> 
> Gonna be a LONG time before I can picture The Mouse without hearing the squeaky-voiced invocation to the Dark Gods...




What, you were able to picture him without it before?


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## Sialia (Apr 19, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Oh, Sialia, you wound me.



I'm sorry. You can be scarier than undead, too, if you like.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 20, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> -------------
> 
> Good stories are like that--they are obviously about something that is important to the author, even if the author never tells the reader what the literal truth behind them is. We instinctively feel that there is something important going on, and each person reads thier own anxiety or hope into it, drawing signal from the noise. Surreal or fantastical stories are fun because they are blurry, vague, amorphous and leave lots of room for people to recognize their own issues. They also allow the author to write without recognizing what she is putting down, only to look at it later and recognize wehre it came from, what it was all about really.




Agreed.  Although very often I think even the author doesn't know what it's about.  I mean, I'm still trying to figure out why I always want to write about pregnant women or the relationships between brothers and sisters.  

More than you ever wanted to know, huh?

My creative writing prof in college always tried to get me to quit writing fantasy, she considered it "not literature."  i.e. crap.  It always made me angry, cause I've always felt fantasy was one way you could really get into issues that people will refuse to face if it's in their world.


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## BSF (Apr 20, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> So I always made sure that before I used the things in the photo, I put them into the world.
> 
> As far as themes go--I think writers always reveal a bit about what is really going on in their minds, even when writing fantasy. You just can't help writing what you know, even if you are writing about things wholly imaginary. It's the way our minds put dreams together. They're never literally about what they are about, and the images that are meaningful to you are often meaningless to anyone else.




It is fascinating to read your thoughts Sialia.  In some ways, I wish I could rebut you.  But, I have to admit that the (few) stories I write say far more about me than I like to think while I am writing them.  It's when I go back and read them that I am able to acknowledge the meanings that drift in subconsciously.



			
				Sialia said:
			
		

> For example, I have recurring dreams about my fish swimming out of my fishtank--they fly around the room, and I keep trying to chase them back into the tank before they suffocate or dry out and die, because they haven't the sense to realize that they can't live in the air, even if they can swim in it.
> 
> These dreams always come at times when I feel like my responsibilities are getting to be more than I can handle. That seems obvious when we're awake and I'm explaining it to you, right? But not so clear before I said so, or when I'm asleep, 'cause I fall for this every single time as if I'd never had the dream before.




Umm, my dreams usually scare me, when I remember them.  Sometimes, I wonder if that is part of the reason why I stay up so late, so often.  I haven't had a recurring dream that I recall in years.  Which is fortunate, since it always ended up with me dying in the same way.  Unfortunately, while that dream always made me uncomfortable, it didn't truly scare me the way some of my other dreams do.  



			
				Sialia said:
			
		

> Good stories are like that--they are obviously about something that is important to the author, even if the author never tells the reader what the literal truth behind them is. We instinctively feel that there is something important going on, and each person reads thier own anxiety or hope into it, drawing signal from the noise. Surreal or fantastical stories are fun because they are blurry, vague, amorphous and leave lots of room for people to recognize their own issues. They also allow the author to write without recognizing what she is putting down, only to look at it later and recognize wehre it came from, what it was all about really.




I definitely agree here!  One of my personal hangups is that I feel the need to try to explain everything.  I need to understand it and all too often I feel like I need to explain it.  Sometimes, it is best to write what you feel and then leave it at that.  Let the reader find meaning and don't foist your meaning onto them.  

You know, 14 years ago, I got my first computer so I could be a writer.  I found that I enjoyed figuring out the technology and I have been sidetracked ever since.  It pays the bills pretty well, but I haven't really been a writer for 13 years.  I wasn't much of a writer before then either.  But, I think I might be getting back toward the tracks I wanted to follow.  It's inspiring to read all of your stories, and all of your comments.  Thanks!


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## orchid blossom (Apr 20, 2004)

BardStephenFox said:
			
		

> I definitely agree here!  One of my personal hangups is that I feel the need to try to explain everything.  I need to understand it and all too often I feel like I need to explain it.  Sometimes, it is best to write what you feel and then leave it at that.  Let the reader find meaning and don't foist your meaning onto them.




I have the same problem.  I had to keep reminding myself that I only had 5,000 words, and there just wasn't room for it.  And the story was much, much better for it.  The story itself had to carry my thoughts and feelings, I couldn't explain them.

For some comfort, inspiration, and just handy advice, check out "Writing Down the Bones," by Natalie Goldberg.  It might seem a little new agey, but it's helped me a great deal.  Even when I have troubles that have nothing to do with writing, it's a help.  I find as I write now my mind goes back to a lot of things she mentions, and one of them is if the piece is successful, the reader will get you without need to explain.


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## Macbeth (Apr 20, 2004)

My stories almost always tend towards having a bumbling, unlucky hero. Kind oif odd, especially since my first round story was supposed to be about a hardened London gangster, but he ended up being an unlucky, humorous, bumbling guy. I'm kind of glad that i broke the mold with my second round entry.


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## mythago (Apr 21, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> I'm sorry. You can be scarier than undead, too, if you like.



  Bran....BRAAAAANNNNN.....






			
				Orchid Blossom said:
			
		

> My creative writing prof in college always tried to get me to quit writing fantasy, she considered it "not literature."



 You would have liked my prof. I spent an entire semester trying to write something so grotesque that she would have no choice but to give me a rotten grade, to no avail.


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## barsoomcore (Apr 21, 2004)

Hey, I tried that with my ninth-grade English teacher! See, he'd hand out pictures and we'd have to write stories about them, and he gave me one of those old Kliban cat cartoons (the one with the cats in the sardine tin) and so I wrote this story about this guy who hated cats and so he canned them in his sardine factory for years and years.

And one day the cats took revenge.

It was pretty revolting. My teacher gave me a good mark, I think, but he did seem a little green when he handed it back.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 21, 2004)

I have to admit, this was the same prof who asked me several times if I had anything I was ready to send for publication.  She may not have liked my choice of genre, but she still graded me fairly and was supportive of my actual work if not my style.


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## Sialia (Apr 28, 2004)

Ok, 5 pictures. No word limit. No time limit.

Show me what ya got.


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## mythago (Apr 28, 2004)

Not that I'm complaining, but #1 was in a previous round of Ceramic DM.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 28, 2004)

Thanks Sialia.  I've been wanting to write, but coming up blank for inspiration.  These should do the trick.


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## Sialia (Apr 28, 2004)

mythago said:
			
		

> Not that I'm complaining, but #1 was in a previous round of Ceramic DM.



Just thought y'all might be curious about what went with it.

I think of that first one--the collage--as a cover piece. I'm not not sure whether it's a front or back cover. I suspect back cover--not much room left for a title, but just enough to fit in a barcode and ISBN.

I think there's a third character in this piece, but I haven't figured out how to draw it yet, or what kind of a character it is.

I'm open to suggestions.


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## Zhaneel (Apr 28, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> So story writers, how do you do it?  Just sit down and go?  Plan, plan, plan?  Wait for the last minute and write with the pressure?  What works for you?




Coming late to the discussion here:

Story 1: To Cut a Deal [rejected 4 times at magazines]

This is a dragon story.  The ending came to me when I was about 14 and it was just the ending line.  I managed to eek out the rest of the story while in college.  This story showed my belief in euthanasia, though I didn't mean for that to happen.  Wrote over the course of 3 days for an assignment.

Story 2: Corporate Dryad [on the way to F&SF mag]

This is the story of a dryad who is trapped in an office tree. Came from stopping at the BofA near Lake Merritt and noticing all the trees inside the glass windows.  My environmentalist heart broke and demanded a story.  Wrote over the course of 2 three hour writing sessions.  The idea had been bubbling for about a year before being put to paper

Story 3: Better Crops [Writer's Workshop for BayCon]

This is a story about GM crops.  I wanted to write about this and to write a true SF story.  It is okay, but the clilmax doesn't work in my opinion.  This story idea germed while I was reading a story about pharmacrops about 2 years before I started writing.  Took 2 weeks of effort to get it out, and I'm still not happy with it.

As for Ceramic DM:

1st round:

I looked at the pictures at 6 AM in the morning while half asleep.  The story of the invisible girl confronting the cultists in the tower just leapt out at me.  Given some stuff I knew it was a cross-planar story.  The croc worked great for the catalyst.  After another 2 hours of sleep [I was also sick that day] it seemed cliche.  Then I heard the ending piece with the two priests talking.  Wrote the most of it in one night.  The rest over the course of the next day while traveling and upon my return home.

2nd round:

I looked at the pictures and decided I was doomed.  I thought about doing an In Nomine piece, where the weird guy was a Soldier of God.  Maybe working for Jordi [AA of Animals] to clean up the river of blood.  The river worked well for an Armageddon thing and IN works well with that.  The boar was almost coming to me, but I just couldn't get into the character.  I abandoned that idea without writing anything.

After sleeping I kinda had an Indian theme.  And I knew Kali could do river of blood stuff and decided that was more interesting than a Christian angle.  So I worked the other stuff in [though it wasn't until writing the piece that why the little boy was carrying the boar came in].  I talked it out with my husband and my carpool mate, and they seemed supportive.  My main problem was I really wanted the line "Devang had trouble with authority and that's why we liked him" in there, which made it a 1st person narrative.  Which I hate. And I didn't know why the narrator would be along for the trip or who the hell he was.  So I was struggling with that and my husband pointed out Kali and rebirth and the egg.  He wanted Devang to take the egg on his own, in that challenging authority way, but I couldn't work that in.  

This was a hard piece to write and I'm convincing writing in blood would have been eaiser.

Zhaneel


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## Zhaneel (Apr 28, 2004)

orchid blossom said:
			
		

> I have to admit, this was the same prof who asked me several times if I had anything I was ready to send for publication.  She may not have liked my choice of genre, but she still graded me fairly and was supportive of my actual work if not my style.




My first creative writing teacher was like that too.  Not fond of my choice of genre, but supportive.

My second, that required an example of good writing to get in, let me in with a fantasy story, and then told me I shouldn't write fantasy for this class. Pissed me off.  

Zhaneel


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## Ao the Overkitty (Apr 28, 2004)

Those are really nice pictures.

I may just have to see if i can do anything with them.


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## Macbeth (Apr 29, 2004)

Interesting to hear how others write, and what kind of experience you have. I've never taken a formal class on creative writing, all of my style and experience comes from reading. I have taken an AP Eglich course, and a college course on script analysis, but those courses were both much more about interpreting other's writing then writing for myself. I find that I easily slip into the style of whatever author I'm reading at the time. 

For example, my first round story for this Cermic DM was written while reading Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaimen, and I think the story reflects Pratchett's style in particular. 

The second round entry was written while readin the Endless Nights graphic novel by Neil Gaimen, part of the Sandman continuity, and I believe that influenced the surreal, almost dream-like aspect of the story. 

And now, as I write my third entry, I'm reading American Gods by Neil Gaimen (seeing a pattern?    ), and admittedly, I think an aspect of that story has slipped in to mine. I guess you could say that I'm using the same setting, but from a much different angle, with a few changes... kind of... you'll see.


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## Sialia (Apr 30, 2004)

It's a good technique, as long as you use good models and aren't too literal about copying them. Dr. Seuss is easy to mimic, but hard to get to anything out of that you can really feel like you own because no matter what you do, people will say "It's a Seuss-mock, right?"

Before I started writing last competition, I sat down and read some really disturbing short stories by LeGuin, Vonnegut, and Bradbury. (I figured, If you're going to channel, channel _strong_ stuff, right?) Then I thought for a while about what makes a story really about something and not just a sequence of events that happen. I didn't write anything nearly as powerful as theirs, but there was a lot more strength in what I did because I was trying to catch their coattails.

It's a bit like drafting in a bicycle race.


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## Macbeth (Apr 30, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> It's a good technique, as long as you use good models and aren't too literal about copying them. Dr. Seuss is easy to mimic, but hard to get to anything out of that you can really feel like you own because no matter what you do, people will say "It's a Seuss-mock, right?"



Exactly. I'm not saying it's good, but I just tend to do it. I figure as long as I'm just slipping into the style, no stealing the story, it's not a horrible thing to do.
For a little while I was worried about my story for this round being too close to some stuff I've read, but now that I've finished a draft, I think it ended up very much my own story, just with a little style, even possibly a bit of setting, from other works.


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## orchid blossom (Apr 30, 2004)

Macbeth said:
			
		

> Exactly. I'm not saying it's good, but I just tend to do it. I figure as long as I'm just slipping into the style, no stealing the story, it's not a horrible thing to do.
> For a little while I was worried about my story for this round being too close to some stuff I've read, but now that I've finished a draft, I think it ended up very much my own story, just with a little style, even possibly a bit of setting, from other works.




Writing in the style of our favorite writers is natural.  There's no better way to learn to write than to read, read, read.  We read the same books over and over, studying the style as well as the story.  It will sift through your mind, along with all the other authors you've loved, and after a while you'll patch together a style all your own made up of bits and pieces from all over.


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## Eeralai (May 1, 2004)

Zhaneel said:
			
		

> Story 2: Corporate Dryad [on the way to F&SF mag]
> 
> This is the story of a dryad who is trapped in an office tree. Came from stopping at the BofA near Lake Merritt and noticing all the trees inside the glass windows.  My environmentalist heart broke and demanded a story.  Wrote over the course of 2 three hour writing sessions.  The idea had been bubbling for about a year before being put to paper
> 
> ...




My husband, BSF, was just telling me about this discussion and your dryad story.  I would really like to read it if there is a way we could arrange that and if you don't mind some random person on ENworld reading your story.  I just finished a story about a satyr leaving the countryside of Ireland to see what a big city was all about, and I would enjoy someone elses thoughts on how the fey would fit into modern society.  Please let me know.  I am looking forward to the showdown between you and Mythago


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## Sialia (May 2, 2004)

I had a friend once who wrote--or at least often talked about writing--a story about the nymph of the Hudson River. She was living in the Village at the time, and had a very New York view of the Hudson. She described the nymph as a  . . . I probably can't use any of those words here withuot offending somebody's grandma. 

Ok--trying again--Up my area in Queens, the river used to make tinkling noises like little bells where it slapped against the concrete retaining walls. It tinkled because of the immense quantity of broken beer bottles in it. Cigarette butts and fast food wrappers and hypodermic needles float by. The image of the vast city and its lights are reflected in it. At night, it is black as oil, and shining as gold.

But the river is quite different further up, and if a river has a spirit, it must encompass both NYC and upstate.

It's a river full of majesty and beauty that has been utterly corrupted, and is still beautiful and powerful in its state of corruption.

The story would have to be both to be really great . . .


I surely would have loved to see that story.


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## Sialia (May 2, 2004)

On another note--probably an entirely different one, one of the two stories that went up this round in Ceramic GM inspried me to write today. I'm out of my mind with massive nonfiction writing assignments due in the next two weeks, so an outline and a few key paragraphs was all I could do today--enough to get the rough sketch down.

Given the spirit of the forum, if folks want to post a few interesting photos in this thread, I'll see if I can work them in when I get around to filling the outline out in a few weeks. Something interesting might come of this, but I don't want to use my own art for it. Not yet. I want to be dragged somewhere unexpected, because as it stands the story is too predictable.


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## mythago (May 2, 2004)

Here's one...


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## Macbeth (May 3, 2004)

Hmmm, if your looking for pictures, how bout this one? I won't tell you anything about the picture, so as not to cramp your ideas.


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## Macbeth (May 3, 2004)

Here's another couple, one from a website that I chanced upon that hosts a number of Ceramic Dm worthy pictures, including at least 2 that have been used in this tourny.
The 'kising' picture is from the website, 'nick Fritz" has a long story behind it.... But I don't want to tell it, because it might give the picture too much bagage. 

Edit: Ooops, wrong picture. Never mind, the one I uploaded was Photoshoped, and the original is too big. No Nick Fritz I guess.


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## Zhaneel (May 3, 2004)

Eeralai said:
			
		

> My husband, BSF, was just telling me about this discussion and your dryad story.  I would really like to read it if there is a way we could arrange that and if you don't mind some random person on ENworld reading your story.  I just finished a story about a satyr leaving the countryside of Ireland to see what a big city was all about, and I would enjoy someone elses thoughts on how the fey would fit into modern society.  Please let me know.  I am looking forward to the showdown between you and Mythago




Umm... I'm flattered.

On the one hand, I'm an author and therefore love having my ego stroked.  On the other, there is fear of someone I don't know (no offense) in that there are always stupid stories of stories stolen.

So after thinking about it, I'm pretty cool with it, providing you aren't some person who wants to steal my stuff.  Which I doubt, but hey, can't be too careful.

Toss me an e-mail.  It is this username at Gmail.com

I may edit this later to make this e-mail addie go away, 'cause I'm not sure how public I want it.

Zhaneel


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## mythago (May 6, 2004)

Sialia said:
			
		

> Given the spirit of the forum, if folks want to post a few interesting photos in this thread, I'll see if I can work them in when I get around to filling the outline out in a few weeks.



Weeks?!

BTW, I do think the first part of your saga is publishable. (Not that there's anything wrong with the other two, just that they're not as stand-alone.)


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## Zhaneel (May 6, 2004)

On the publishing note:
Most magazines tend to prefer shorter works (5k or less) so the first story fits well there too.  I would second the recommendation of editing/polishing the first entry to be sent off for publicaton.


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## Sialia (May 7, 2004)

Thanks. 

In truth, I haven't been able to bear to look at them since the competition ended. 

I know there were some problems _and_ some good parts--but the whole experience was so intense, all I can think about are the problems. 

And I secretly fear the excuse "it was the best I could do in 72 hours" --which was fine for the competition-- is actually an inability to go back and do the thing properly, given worlds enough and time. I know it's not inability--it's unwillingness--but the fear is there all the same, and fear is not a rational thing. 

There are a lot of things I've done that were powerful as rough sketches, but die under polish. It's hard to know where to quit--it's hard to know which rough jagged edges actually contribute to the texture of the piece and are, as they say, not to be considered a flaw or defect.

I decided to let it lie fallow for a while. I'm hoping I will be able to open it with fresh eyes again at some point and see what is really there, as opposed to all of that iceberg invisible below the surface. I have to be able to see it without the rules of the competition holding the frame in place, and without all the little subtle hidden conversasitons I tucked in to it with specific board members. I have to see it without remembering what was going on in my life that made certain things want to be written about.

Given all that, for a while I thought I would never go there again, but BSF's story showed me a twinkling of light that leads in that direction.
If only real life would let up on my just long enough to breathe for a round . . .

Mind you, without real life beating on me, there would be nothing to write about.


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## Zhaneel (May 7, 2004)

Siala, I can relate.  Having written the dryad piece back in August, it wasn't until recently that I was able to fully edit it, and that's without the competition rules in place.

But I know I'm going to work on "The One" and even maybe "It's Elemental"  I think there is a salable story in each.  And I'm always looking for those.

Zhaneel


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## BSF (Aug 7, 2004)

_Casting Raise Thread_

Alrighty!  (Yes, I realize that alright really is not a word.)

I am gaining enough distance to look back on my stories and find ways to rip them apart and put them back together.  I'm not sure I am quite ready to revisit Cleansing.  I want to, bit is a story about a psychotic and I don't want to go there mentally right now.  If I rewrite a story right now, it will be something else instead.

Eeralai and I were talking about writing this morning.  She got up to go check on our son and make sure he wasn't quietly summoning in dark things from beyond space.  Something slapped me in the face about Delusional.  Mythago's comments in the story judgement include the excellent point that a demon like Lou should have been able to mess around with a booking record and keep Darren out of jail.  Duh!  In retrospect it seemed silly and was enough to relegate the story to an interesting background piece in my head.  But there aer aspects of the story I enjoy and I keep thinking that if I could fix some of the flaws, maybe it would be worthy of a rewrite.

How well would a correction work?  How do I fix the fundamental flaw of Lou's power not springing Darren from jail?  What if I had Dr. Clayton pass off Mythago's critique as a reason why Darren is clearly full of dung?  What if I had Lou then tell Darren that he, as a demon, can't touch legal documents.  Maybe Lou has a cousin on the devil side of the fallen angel tree that handles documents.  Maybe Lou can go chat with somebody in Hell for a bit and call in a couple of favors.  Would that work?  Would it be too contrived?

I know there are secondary issues that would need to change after that.  I'm good with that.  Heck, I would probably need to go through and revise my informal "style guide" for that storyverse.  It is a subtle thing, but the demons in *Rainmaker* and *Delusional* have names that phonetically begin with "Lu".  That was a conscious decision and one I would need to change around since Lucifer works much better for a devil than for a demon.  If I am going to differentiate between the two, perhaps I should have a different style for each?  Alternately, perhaps Lou can't touch legal documents because Lucifer is the one that has powers over legal documents?  

I'm thinking as I type.  Gee, is it that noticable?  The point is that I might be able to get away with Lou not springing Darren from jail because he can't touch legal documents. That's a different demon/devil schtick and he won't go there.  Would that work?  Could I make the story better by doing that?

Then I just need to figure out how a real psychiatrist would go about declaring somebody legally sane to stand trial.  

Does anybody have any thoughts?  How about advice?  Is the story worth correcting?  Would it be interesting to read a tightened up version?  Or am I better off leaving it as background material for the *Rainmaker* storyverse that keeps grabbing me by the shoulders and telling me stories?


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## barsoomcore (Aug 8, 2004)

Number one: I would research criminal psychological investigation. How is it conducted? What kinds of decisions get made? Is it the psychiatrist who declares the suspect unfit for trial? Or do they just provide evidence and the DA makes the call? Or what? Does it vary from state to state?

Find out.

The story's DEFINITELY worth working on.

And the simplest explanation of why Lou doesn't spring Darren from jail is that he DOESN'T WANT TO. Give him some reason to keep Darren in jail, and you're all good.

Is what I think.


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## tadk (Jun 21, 2005)

*Story inspired by Ceramic DM images June 2005 Round 1*

"Titanium and Nets"
CW Kelson III (Tad)
Copyright © 2005 
Started 06.15.05
Finished on 06.20.05
For the 
Ceramic DM Contest round 1 
June 2005 edition Practice Run

Stone please explain
Why your silence makes more Noise than thunder
Bones, is it sane
To obey me and the flesh you're under
"Iron Flower" by K's Choice

The stones glowing as a furnace, in the heat of destruction, they are testimony to fear and greed. The swath across the meadow backed down into the rocks slowly cooling from reentry flames. The gutted remains of research facilities and housing complexes targeted from beyond their sight bore the witness of no survivors. Mop up crews circled, crows in black and gunmetal, waiting for the temperature to descend to life sustaining levels.
Brick, mortar, steel, glass and asphalt all mixed and scattered across landscape made desolate with multiple Kinetic Kill impacts. Iron missiles, medieval in construction, dropped from high enough causing One Hundred Percent Fatality among the researchers, families and bio-constructs in the target zone. 

The local government officials were playing it safe. By their taking the road of least confrontation, minimal risk to their own personnel, and using artillery to wipe out the illegal, by their rule books, facility. Once the bombardment was over, a matter of milliseconds for the simultaneous arrival of the projectiles, and the area cooled sufficient to preclude the necessity of life support gear. Then and only then did the armed and armored troops move in to ensure total eradication of the threat to the status quo.

Across the continent, on a last minute junket, the brains behind the now smoldering ruins sat in a coffin hotel, watching the activity as it unfolded. Alerted when all the mainframes went off line, her Loa Ochosi Vee, informed her of the attack as it was unfolding. Brought into the linkage as the projectiles unfolded in the troposphere heading for her home and life dream she watched it happen. Taking in the action and noting the encrypted signals from the circling aerial forces, if it were not for this emergency meeting to arrange additional funding avenues she would be watching her own death fall towards her at murderous velocities. The scant minutes it took for the attack to occur was over and shock set in. Everything and everyone at her facility was obliterated. All of them turned into vapor along with the reinforced buildings. Now there was only her, Ochosi Vee and the few others on the trip with her. 
With a sigh, and a request for mild sedation to hold the tears at bay for the death of her lovers, friends and colleagues, she gets back to her business at hand. It is even more important to arrange for positive equity flow with the physical research gone. Were it not for the protective aegis of Ochosi Vee all would be lost. But in the time it took the attack to unfold he had stripped all the systems of data, wiping them more surely than the attack could have. As well as transferring them into off site alternate holding platforms. With that action they were set back, not devastated in an total information loss.

Leaving details to Ochosi Vee to pass along to the others in the local retinue, she climbed out of the tube, straightening the dress outfit as well as her hair. Long, straight, black as night so unlike the trends for wintry pale in complexion and hair tone, then again the sheer height a factor in standing apart of masses. As well as being taller than the majority of city dwellers. That coupled with singular intelligence and will to drive made her an enigma in these time. But now she has no time to waste in sentimentality. Trusting to her Loa to track her moods and adjust her hormones as necessary via the implants she headed back to the venue where the meetings were taking place. It was time to get a move on and make things happen to ensure her survival from this point on.

-----
The distant lights from the port shone meekly on the overhanging clouds. Reflections from spots, clubs, entertainment and establishment districts adding their neon and argon energized contributions.
The Box, four cornered parasail inflated with ground emplaced gas lasers, started to lift off. The acid like hiss and ache of oxygen vaporizing under the heat and glare of the lift off lasers that are filling the air around the pad area covers the ambient nose levels. The Box, a squat and ugly conveyance, grumbled its way up into space while terawatts of energy were used to boost the payload of a grand of souls up towards the distantly geosynchronous station where their trips would truly begin.

The near space craft had lifted away from the flat pad it had been loaded on. Residual heat devils danced in the dust and trash swirled around with convection. Two figures scurried across the inner edge of the walls enclosing the space. Ducking into recessed doors, the laden shapes shed outer clothing and moved deeper into the complex. Making their entry after illicitly disembarking from the Box, they had a window of opportunity to which they intended mischief. They were there striking at the heart of the local regime responsible for the destruction of habitats as well as the death of innocents, guilty of only being born in the blighted nation. 

One male, one female, flit from corridor to corridor, their guardians watching over them, diverting attention from monitors, spoofing electronics and confounding potential observers. They went so far as to start adjusting the orbits of surveillance satellites when they would come to long halls with open glass and expanses. 

Long minutes pass during this imminent structure hit that time seemed to stand still. Only soft padding tabi accentuate the severity of the situation. If found out death or worse was the only good result they could hope for. With many things much worse than death being the most likely outcomes, still risk was worth it to bait the lion's within their dens. 

Far past where people tread, down into the labyrinth that the upper floors all supported, they came upon the magnetically safe and sealed vacuum locks. With quick looks around them, and at the far limits of their protectors reach of influence, they placed the specially designed explosives along the door frame. Once in place they moved around the nearest corner and waited for the timer to count down. The blast shocks through the enclosed concrete halls. When the two infiltrators looked around and saw the massive metallic door swinging out and open. 

Dashing inside they see the wreckage caused by the explosion. Still by timing it for a slack period only a few people had been inside and luck had it, none had died. Obvious concussions and disorientation visible in the staggering technical experts

Inside the two got to work, liberating data that longed, in their worldview, to be free. Linking freestanding cellular connections, the mainframes were opened wide to all the peoples of the world who were able to get a connection. Once in place, the entire series of storage mediums was ripe to being plundered by the still sovereign peoples of the world while the technicians could do nothing about it in their dazed state. Once it was in progress the two saboteurs made a hasty retreat delving deeper into the structure to outrun the certain to arrive enforcement arms of the government.

-----
So quiet here, she thought, peaceful and placid. It is just the place to raise a new clutch of Ent-Tigres. As she looked around, slowly walking, her eyes noticed that there was plenty of room to hunt. There was more than enough space for them to fight, to breed and to have obstacles to aid the training in the purpose. There is time enough to raise a clutch or three before they would be needed on the front lines. 

Dr. PorTashia Wagonner, PHD, took her time surveying where she and her precious cats would relocate. Since the agencies opposed to them had located her previous facility and ensured no one survived that had been there. She was on the run, loose in the world at large and hunted for her views on biology and on evolution. Free to think any thoughts not caught up and rounded for evidence, the land was not free in spirit, or in body in the least. Tight controls back in the homeland had taken deeper and deeper root. 

 Eventually the intelligentsia and ecologically motivated had moved out. Some headed north, most went south and became the de facto economies of the many small islands. Some like her retreated to the depths of the woods, the few untouched places left since the melt down of boundaries in the years preceding her birth. 
Others like her had set up shop in foreign countries, or in disassociated portions of the mainland, or in small islands down in the sea to the south. But even being off the mainland did not guarantee their safety. 

Still the few like her fighting for her own life and to retain the ability to help others, rather than to be focused on the eternal here and now. Looking towards the future, since her past, and the past of her old comrades, was cut short by death undeserved. This was the hope she had deep inside her hearth as she looked out over the placid waters.

------
Heel
Sit
Stay
Good Lass
Good One
Now
Search mode
Acquisition
Target, upload in progress
Waiting, complete
Hunt Seek Intitiate
Bounding away the big she Ent-Tigres took off, hard wired and soft coded processes running in parallel to instinctual reactions. PorTashia riding along within the LoaNet linked to Comm. Nodes scattered through out the pseudo-feline's form. 

The target fled not knowing what form the pursuit would take. Armed and armored against most of the current SOTA attack forms, offline now to prevent worms and Trojans from getting a lock on his location. He was pleased with how the hit went off. No unexpected surprises, the target was soft compared to most that he had to infiltrate, simple in and out smash the lives and grab the bundles designated as Priority. That done in minutes, more muscled used that his usual. Once inside his Ablative armors; while reacting to incoming fire, easily took the low caliber retaliations from manned and unmanned sentry. Once he was inside the target location it was pathetically soft, no internals to speak of. Almost like taking on civilians in their native habitats of diners, stores and shopping complexes. No challenges at all.

The large hunting female eventually started running the prey to ground. It had been a long chase for her. Mostly designed for static defense, her breed was best in close along with indoor situations. Pursuit over long distances is not a forte of large tigers, which were the stock from which the Ent-Tigres was evolved from. Still being able to run at Sixty KPH for hours at a time tends to suffice in short wet work actions. The time between infiltration and the target making it out of the complex and when she was on the trail was under ten minutes. While this was plenty of time for him to get several miles into the surrounding wilderness, but not near enough time to get out of her reach. 
Staggering along the waters edge, Desperation sending the hunted into the water. Hoping the giant thing after him could not swim.

Down below the surface, titanium reinforced Teflon grown claws flickered in and out. As steel laced body weight carried the eager killing bio-machine to the now almost drowning victim. The last bubbles explode in atavistic fear and reaction as the giant cat opened wide and displayed nearly four inch long ripping and tearing incisors all the way back in the jaw. 

Oh love
Forgotten
Long time past
Hunted Drifts
Into the Iron
Flowering
Under the pick
Of greed

The lyrics come from the speakers inset into the accessories. Fully accoutered in black and gold, like some prehistoric bumblebee given legs and made waif-emaciated with arms, legs and waist. The young lady made her way down the highway etched into the store fronts. Always the one encroaching on the other, in a constant struggle for domination and so far the streets are winning the war. 

She takes her time, searching for the exact location mentioned in the texts she had located. The directions, and signals, are not helpful. Interference exists even in this age and day as a factor. Still a touch of time spent, a moment of connectivity and she finds the entrance to her destination.

A moment of checking, an overview look from her Loa, and into the entrance she goes. Massive stairs lead downward into the bowels of the cityscape complex. At least a dozen flights worth of rusted steel to navigate. Only one way to find out for certain the voice in her implants reminds her, only way to make sure is to go down there. Thankful for the company she has, her sure feet make their ways down the endless stairs, around the landings, and down still more stairs.  Until finally she had reached her destination. Located miles below the surface of the world, hidden from human and electronic surveillance.

Here, farther underground than in any other place on Earth, save perhaps the oldest of mines, Dr. PorTashia Wagonner, PHD, looked at the handiwork of her people. A self-sufficient community, hidden from sight. The future of humanity, guarded with the mantle of Mother Earth.


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## Berandor (Jun 26, 2005)

Kiln-fired Ceramic DM story
Pics used: Ceramic DM Spring 2005 (Late Bloomer), Round 1 Match 1

*Indian Summer*
by Patrick “Berandor” Pricken

WARNING! This Story Contains Adult Material And Language! Proceed At Your Own Risk!

_In the summer dusk, Lake Chattawanooga was a sight to behold. The water glistened golden in the sun’s dying rays. Small waves rippled in concert with the trees, dancing to an unfelt breeze. A romantic watcher would have declared the sight to be of otherworldly beauty, but someone versed in these things would have disagreed. The lake had an unnatural air about it, all right, but it was not one of beauty. To such a person, the lake would have appeared to be watching, waiting…_

»Come on, Debbie. It’ll be fun!« Chad repeated for the sixth time about as many minutes. There was desperation in his plea, even though he tried to hide it. Lyle sympathized with his buddy; fortunately, Annie had taken the news much better.

»All right,« Debbie finally said with little enthusiasm. »I guess I’m in.«

»You guess?« Lyle said, ignoring the angry look Chad sent his way.

»I’m in,« she declared. Chad gave her a supportive kiss on the cheek, and then stowed her belongings next to the camping gear on the bed of his pickup truck. A few moments later, they were on their way to a weekend of camping, swimming and roasting marshmallows – or if it went the way the boys hoped it would, a weekend full of skinny-dipping, consuming alcohol and joints, and sex. To achieve this end, they had told the girls that Chad’s uncle Norman would accompany the four when in fact, Norman’s only participation consisted of two bottles of vodka hidden in Chad’s backpack.

-

As soon as Billy Mulligan had told them of the lake, Chad and Lyle had known they had to take the girls there. 

»It’s Cherry Central,« Billy had told them in a confidential whisper. »You get the girls out there, give them a little something to drink, and let nature do its work.«

Chad and Debbie had been together for three months now, while Lyle and Annie were approaching their half-year anniversary. The boys agreed it was time for the girls to put up or shut up. It wasn’t any religious reason that held them back, or either of them would have respected that and moved on to a different girl. In fact, both girls enjoyed kissing, and Lyle had even touched Annie’s breasts, but that was as far as they would go. And it had to change. 

Lake Chattawanooga was a wildlife resort about three hundred miles away from Nowhere, Indiana.  The ride took almost five hours, and by the time they got there all four were tired.

»I have to pee,« Annie said when the four-wheeler approached a gas station.

»It’s not far anymore,« Chad interjected.

»But I have to pee now.«

The gas station was of the kind you only see in horror movies. Dirty, rundown, a place where being abducted and killed was part of the service. Annie dashed into the store and came out with the bathroom key even before the boys entered. Debbie had stayed in the car.

»Look at that, man.« Chad pointed at the store. »This place is so… small. I wonder if they got beer?«

»You can’t buy beer«, Lyle whispered back. »And besides, we’ve got the vodka.«

»Man, relax. A little beer will soften the chicks up. Then we go for the hard stuff.« Chad took a six-pack and strode to the counter in his quarterback swagger. An old Indian said behind the desk, watching them solemnly. The man took a look at the beer.

»One-eighty,« he said.

»Aren’t you gonna look at our ID?« Lyle asked while Chad shook his head resignedly.

»Why should I?« The Indian replied. His voice was old and rusty from too many campfire stories and perhaps too much pipe weed. »I can see you underage. But if you wanna kill youself with firewater, then be my guest.« Turning to Chad, »Where you headin’, son?«

»Over to the lake, just a weekend of camping with the girls«, Chad replied with his quarterback smile. It was moments like these Lyle envied his buddy. Despite being in the swim team, he had never experienced the fame and confidence that came naturally to someone like Chad.

»Well, son, whatever you do, don’t head into the Indian reserve along the way.«

»Are there bears, or why? I’ve got a rifle with me.«

»Spirits,« the man said. »Evil spirits out there this time of the year. It’s Indian Summer.«

»Indian Summer?«

The man hunched forward, staring at the boys for a moment, before he whispered, »The month when they rounded up the Indians living here and killed them all. Listen to me, son. Stay away from the reserve, and you won’t get youself killed.«

»Where are you guys?« Annie asked from the door. Chad flashed his smile again.

»Just getting a little something to drink.« He held up the beer. Annie gasped, but said nothing.

-

The road led them through the woods. The cool shadows were a welcome respite after hours of driving in the sun, and the kids opened their windows to let in some fresh air. After a few minutes, they passed a warning sign. A dirt road led away from the road next to it. Chad backed the car up. The sign read, ‘Indian Reserve. Do not Trespass.’

»You know, the old man in the gas station told us of this reserve. He said it was the most romantic spot of the whole lake.«

»But-« Lyle began. Chad interrupted him. 

»Yeah, I know, Lyle. We promised not to tell anybody what he said. But Debbie and Annie can keep a secret. Right?« The girls nodded.

»Still,« Debbie said. »It says, ‘Do not Trespass.’«

»U-huh. And you aren’t allowed to drink at seventeen.« Debbie looked at the beer can she held in her hand, and blushed.

»Well, now that’s settled…« Chad started to drive down the dirt road.

»Are you sure-« Lyle began.

»I’m sure, fish boy. This will be a night to remember.«

-

At first, the dirt track led through the woods, but then all of a sudden the trees gave way to a magnificent view over the lake. They stopped for a moment and got out of the car. They were at the edge of a cliff; the lake was roughly a hundred feet below. The road lead down to the lakeshore with only a few trees separating it from the cliff. The kids got back into the car.

»Chad,« Lyle said, «please drive carefully.« Chad only laughed in response, while the girls seemed a little perturbed.

They got down in one piece, though, and Lyle immediately forgot the Indian man’s warnings. The place was beautiful. Even the girls agreed. The road ended in a small clearing, just big enough for two tents and a fireplace between them. A wooden landing stage lay at the end of a small trail, reaching out into the water. The girls gathered firewood while the boys set up the tents. Chad postured with his rifle, and then they all stripped down to their swimsuits and headed for the water. The boys were the first to jump in.

»It’s cold!« Chad cried.

»Pussy. It’s wonderful.« Lyle felt the cool water around him, carrying him. As insecure as he sometimes felt on land, he was in his element now. »Come in!« he shouted to the girls, who were walking along the wooden planks rather than running like the boys had done.

»No, wait!« Chad said. »Before you get in, you’ll have to do a routine.«

Annie and Debbie looked at each other for a moment, and then they started a small cheerleading routine, spelling Chad’s name. The boys were mesmerized by the juggling flesh. Chad punched Lyle in the ribs.

»Tonight is gonna be so cool!«

-

It was a clear night. Stars shone down upon the kids, twinkling with glee at the happy couples. The first vodka bottle was half empty, and Chad was passing around a joint, as they all sat huddled around the campfire.

»If the stars could speak, I wonder what they’d say,« Annie said, looking up. She strained her neck, and then fell backwards to the ground, laughing. Lyle lay down beside her.

»They’d speak of your beauty.« He could see Annie swallow, and he was gripped with the sudden knowledge that tonight, he would have sex with her. »I love you,« he whispered, and then he kissed her.

»Look at that fire,« Debbie said.

»Yeah. So?« Chad was bored. He laid his arm around Debbie’s shoulders, only to have her shake it off for the third time. He started to think she was gay, or asexual. He was quarterback, dammit. And worse, he could see Lyle was fast approaching second base.

»No, I mean, look at it.« Debbie hunched forward, her dark tresses falling in front of her face. Suddenly, Chad knew he would not have sex with her tonight. Again. »Look at that piece of coal. It almost looks like a tiny man, or a pupp-«

A sudden gust blew sparks into the air, dancing, falling, landing on Debbie’s hair. In between breaths, the hair went up in flames. Debbie shrieked and batted at her head, which seemed to only incite the flames.

»Oh s**t! S**t! S**t, man!« Chad cursed. Lyle sprang up and watched in horror as Debbie’s hair was burned to a crisp. Debbie was running left and right, screeching all the time.

»Do something, man!« Lyle shouted. Chad grabbed Debbie and pinned her arms down, while Lyle beat a towel at her head. Together, they managed to douse the flames, and soon after, Debbie stopped struggling. They laid her down on a blanket. She was trembling vehemently, howling in pain. Her face and head was blackened and blistered, and puss leaked from the burns.

»Oh God. Oh God, oh Godohgod.« Chad paced around the fire like a caged tiger. Lyle held Annie in a tight embrace, catching her tears on his breast, while looking down at Debbie’s twitching body.

»We have to get help,« he said. »Chad!« Chad looked up. »We have to get help.«

»Yeah, you’re right.« Chad pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911, before he looked at the display. »No connection. No goddamn freaking connection. This piece of s**t modern technology has no freaking connection!«

»We’ll have to get her to the gas station. There has to be a phone.«

»The gas station. Right. Yes. Good idea. Let’s get her there.«

Carefully, they lifted the blanket beneath Debbie. Her moans grew louder. Quickly, they laid her on the truck bed.

»I’m staying with her in the back.« Lyle climbed the ramp.

»Me, too,« Annie said, and joined him.

-

The pickup sped along the track, veering dangerously close to the cliffside. Debbie’s howls were getting weaker. Annie held her hand and told her to hold on, help was underway.

Suddenly, something hit the windshield. Chad tore at the steering wheel, and for a moment the truck moved sideways along the track. Then, the car sped forward again and crashed into the woods. Lyle was thrown off the car, whereas Annie smashed against the back of the diver’s cab. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and Debbie stopped howling.

»Chad?« Lyle stumbled to his feet. His head hurt, and his vision was blurred. From where he stood, he could see the quarterback sitting upright in his seat. A tree branch the size of Lyle’s leg had punched through the windshield and into his breast. He was very dead.

»Lyle? What happened?«

»Annie? Are you okay?« Lyle reached the truck just as Annie managed to stand up. She seemed unhurt. 

»I suppose. Did you see what happened?«

»I don’t know. There was a white shape-«

With a loud thunking noise, the white shape landed in the back of the truck. It was a huge white tiger, and it looked right at Lyle, who felt himself frozen to the spot. Annie shrieked and stepped back, coming up against the cab. The tiger turned around and took a slow step towards her. 

That’s when Debbie started howling and twitching again. The tiger jumped. Annie shrieked again. The tiger landed right next to Debbie’s head. Lyle shook out of his fear. The tiger opened its maw and bit down.

»Annie,« Lyle said with forced calm. »Come here.« Annie shook her head no. Tears were running down her face. Rending flesh and breaking bones mingled with Debbie’s howls. »Come here!«

Annie took a step forward. The tiger did not react. Another step, and another, and then Lyle pulled her from the bed. The tiger looked up, its white fur crimsoned with blood.

»Run!« Lyle took Annie’s hand and pulled her away. They stumbled onto the dirt track. Lyle hesitated before running downwards, Annie in tow, towards the shore. Towards the campsite. Towards Chad’s rifle.

Leaves rustled. Lyle turned his head, and he saw a white shape darting through the woods.

»S**t.«

»What is it?« Annie asked in between breaths. »It’s here, isn’t it? Oh God, we’re gonna die.« She began to cry. Her steps faltered. Lyle pulled at her arm. She stumbled and flew against him, toppling them both over. Lyle felt his leg scraping open, he heard Annie cry out, and he saw the tiger come out of the woods.

He forced himself to stand. Annie lay on the ground, crying. Her left ankle was broken; the bone was visible through the skin. The tiger advanced almost languidly, its tongue cleaning bits of blood from its snowy fur.

»I love you, Annie.« Lyle bent down and picked up a stone. It lay heavy in his hand. The tiger watched him cautiously. Lyle took a step backwards, and another, until he stood at the edge of the cliff. It was twenty feet to the lake below. 

»Hey, Garfield! Yes, you, the fat cat in the lousy fur! What’s it gonna be? Are you gonna attack or what? You yellow bastard!« Lyle gestured wildly. The tiger watched him, and then turned towards Annie.

»Oh, no, you don’t!« Lyle threw the rock. The tiger dodged, and Lyle picked up another one. The tiger growled and hunched low.

»Yeah, that’s right, pussycat. Come and get me.« Lyle could feel his heart racing. »Annie, get the rifle. All right? Get the rifle, Annie.« He lifted the rock to throw. The tiger jumped. It crashed into Lyle with the force of a sledgehammer. Lyle was pushed back. His right arm was slashed by razor-sharp claws. His left grabbed the tiger. Lyle fell over the cliff’s edge, desperately holding on to the tiger. Something pulled at his arm, and then he only held a handful of fur.

»Annie!« Lyle shouted. Then he hit the water. His vision blacked out for a second. As the cold water numbed his pain, he could see the cliff above him. A shadow was coming towards him. Jumping. Falling. Diving. Bursting through the water’s surface. It was the tiger. It swam towards Lyle, malevolence in its eyes. 

Lyle dodged a claw and dove under the cat, coming out behind it. Before the tiger could turn around, Lyle was above it. He slung his arms around the animal’s throat, wincing at the pain, and then tightened his grip. The tiger bucked, it turned this way and that, but Lyle held on. His lungs were on fire, but he held on. Finally, the struggle ceased, and the tiger lay still in the water. Lyle let go and swam upwards. He broke the surface gasping for air. With his last amount of strength, he swam to the rocky shore, pulled himself onto a flat rock, and lay panting.

»F**k you, pussycat,« he said, coughing up water. »I’m in the f**king swim team.«

-

The night was almost over when he reached the campsite. The fire was burning low, but at least it was still burning. His clothes hung cold and wet to his body, and Lyle was aching for some warmth.

»Stop, or I’ll… Lyle?« Annie stood behind the fire, the rifle in her hand. »Oh my God, Lyle. You’re alive!« She let the rifle fall down in the grass and hobbled towards him, wincing each time she stepped on her ankle. Lyle met her on the way and slung her into his arms. Her skin was warm, almost feverish so, and smooth. So warm and smooth.

»I thought you were dead,« they said in unison, and then laughed.

»Oh, Annie.« Lyle held her tight, caressed her hair. He could feel her hands on his back, her heartbeat close to his, her body pressed against him. So smooth and warm.

He kissed her. She kissed him. Their tongues met and danced from mouth to mouth. His wet shirt was pulled over his head, her blouse followed. He stepped out of his jeans, she stepped out of hers. They were alive!

They fell to the ground, never leaving their embrace. Hands roamed, lips spent kisses everywhere. Soon, the fire was but a candle to their heat, and lust took control. When Lyle penetrated her, she bent her body to accommodate his, and they shared another kiss.

»I love you, Annie.«

»I love you, too.« Annie moved her back sideways, grimacing a little.

»Something wrong?«

»No. It’s just… my back itches. It’s all right. Don’t stop.«

»I won’t.« And he didn’t. After a while, Annie’s breathing accelerated, and he quickened his pace. She began to tremble. He closed his eyes, trying to extend the moment. She started to moan. To spasm.

»Oh, Annie!« He looked down at her, and then jumped up in shock. Almost her whole body was covered in black ants. They were everywhere. On her arms, her legs. On her breasts. Just now they were running all over her face. He looked into her eyes, hoping beyond hope that she was dead. She wasn’t.

Lyle stumbled away, unable to look, unable to look away. Her back had itched. And he had… he had – he fell on his knees and threw up.

He heard twigs break, leaves rustle. He looked up, and saw green eyes stare back. Out of the black woods stepped a white shape. The rifle lay ten feet away from him on the ground. He’d have to get past Annie to get it. Lyle looked at the rifle, and then he looked at Annie.

»Well, f**k!«

The tiger jumped.

-

_In the summer dusk, Lake Chattawanooga was a sight to behold. The water glistened golden in the sun’s dying rays. Small waves rippled in concert with the trees, dancing to an unfelt breeze. A romantic watcher would have declared the sight to be of otherworldly beauty, but someone versed in these things would have disagreed. The lake had an unnatural air about it, all right, but it was not one of beauty. To such a person, the lake would have appeared to be watching, waiting…_


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## BigTom (Jun 27, 2005)

Ok, now that judging is over, here is the full version of my story, not hacked down in a desperate attempt to get it under the 5000 word limit.

	“Enough of your riddles, witch!  I came here for answers, not questions!”
	Andor was angry with the witch.  Not because she asked him riddles he could not solve, and not because she was slow in answering the questions he brought.  He knew from his lessons that magic moved at its own pace.  What angered Andor was the disrespect the witch showed him.  Andor did not have the crown, but he was the rightful heir.  Instead of speaking to him with respect, the witch mocked and chided him.  She taunted him as one would taunt a child.  Andor was only six months past the tests of manhood, but he had passed them.  His hair was cut to hold a warrior’s helmet, and his muscles had begun to take on the hardness of manhood, if not yet the full bulk.  He had already proven his sword was capable of cutting through armor when he was tested, although that had been metal tied to a beef shank, and not a true foe.  Still, Andor had both the training and body of a warrior and he knew he was deadly.  He would have her respect, or he would have her head.  In the heat of the moment, he had stopped caring which it was.

	The witch smiled at him.  She had the look of one who kept a nasty secret and was about to delight in the pain its sharing caused.  Then she spoke, her ragged voice cracking from age.  “Youngling, if you come with foolish questions, I will give you foolish answers.  You deserve no more.  You have neither throne nor crown, and if you had prospects of gaining either you would not have come to me.”  The witch cackled in a low voice, then continued, pointing at him with the withered claw that was her hand.  “You want to know how to gain your father’s throne.  The answer is simple.  Kill your uncle and take it.  Except your Uncle is a man who has earned the respect and loyalty of many good fighting men, while you are a boy whose friends are unblooded.  So we both know the real answer to your question.  You can’t take your father’s crown or throne.  It is now beyond you.”

	Andor gritted his teeth and held his rage.  The throne and crown were rightfully his.  On the day of his father’s death, his Uncle had arrived with many men and spoken many lies to the elders.  In the end, they had given the crown and throne to his Uncle because they feared to do otherwise.  Andor thought bitterly about his situation.  He had been robbed, and could see the thief, yet he could not bring him to justice.  Andor breathed deeply, slowly gaining control of the rage.  He knew the witch spoke true.  Yet he could not give up so easily.  He would not be his father’s son if he abandoned his birthright so easily.  Finally, he composed himself enough to speak.  

	“You speak truly, witch.  I cannot fight my uncle and win.  If I could I would.  You know I come here to seek another way.  I am barely a man now, and my friends are unblooded.  But that will change in time.  Witch, I ask you, can you guide me so that my future will hold victory over my uncle?  Can you look into the future and tell me how I may defeat him and claim my birthright?”

	The witch stared at him for a long time, the look on her weathered face less amused.  He could tell she was studying him, but he could not tell what she might be looking for.  He felt uncomfortable under her ancient gaze, like a schoolboy caught doodling instead of writing.  Finally she broke the silence.  This time her voice was serious, if not respectful.
	“Mayhap there is a glimmer of hope in you, child.  You have at least started to find wisdom.  You have half a man’s body, but you may have more than half a wit.  You talk of the future instead of the present.  Good.  Thinking of the future is the first step to finding answers.”  As the witch spoke, she casually picked up a glass sphere and began playing with it.  It seemed to dance across her fingers and along her hand.  Andor could not help but wonder if it moved by magic or simple dexterity.  He found it strangely distracting but struggled to continue to hear the witch’s words as she continued to talk.
	“Our futures are not set things, child.  The future is ever fluid and flows where it will.  All we can hope to do is read how the riverbeds lay and try to steer ourselves through the rapids.  One misstep and you surely drown.  Ride them out and you may have a long smooth journey.  The question now isn’t how to sink your Uncle’s boat, but where the rocks are.”

	Andor heard her words, but they were becoming faint things.  They seemed to echo at him from a distance.  What he saw was the sphere, dancing on her hand.  He saw nothing else.  Then he didn’t see the hand.  All he saw was the sphere dancing its hypnotic dance and the void.  Slowly his mind realized what had happened.  While she spoke, the witch had used her magic on him.  Without taking his eye off the sphere, he called out to the witch.  “What should I do here?  Where have you sent me?”  The reply seemed to echo at him from a thousand different places.  “Watch and learn boy.”  So Andor continued to watch the sphere dance.  Slowly, he began to see his reflection in the sphere.  He got a strange sense of himself staring at himself.  He saw himself, and then he saw himself seeing himself.  Slowly, the sphere began to reflect itself as it reflected him, and he saw more spheres, forming into a large, roiling sea of dancing orbs, each reflecting him in a slightly different way.  Then in each orb, he saw himself acting.  In some he fought his uncle, and he saw how he died.  In one his head was removed from his shoulders.  In another he lay on the ground, his guts hanging from his belly and crows picking his flesh before life left him.  Then he looked at the other spheres.  In some he fled.  In some he stayed and bowed to his uncle.  He kept looking until he saw one where he was old.  He lay on his deathbed as an old man, surrounded by men and women who loved him, with rings on his fingers and silk sheets.  He thought to himself that that was a fine thing.  He focused his entire mind on that one orb as it danced in the jumble, seeing how he might get to that place.  He couldn’t get everything, as the orb moved and changed too fast.  He did see enough to realize what he needed to do.  The witch had been right about the rapids.  Yet now he would need to steer at a bigger rock than any his Uncle would lay before him, and get around it.  If he could surmount that one great obstacle, he could have smooth sailing for an entire life.  With this realization, the spheres seemed to fall away and suddenly everything was light.

	Andor’s people lived a precarious existence.  They lived in a great village in a fertile valley.  Yet danger lurked, for beyond the valley were the mountains, and within the mountains dwelled many evil things.  Some a sword would kill.  Others laughed at the weapons of his people.  The people of the valley avoided the mountains as much as possible, and relied on the king and his men when something came down from the mountains to threaten them.  Thus it had been for as long as the people of the valley could remember.  Sometimes their kings won great victories and there was peace.  Sometimes the kings lost and a great price would be paid to the invaders, be it gold, food or children, and life would go on.  The one thing that was known of the enemy was that just as the valley had a king, so too did the mountain.  No one in the valley had seen this king, or knew what it was, but the creatures that invaded talked of their king and laid down their lives for him willingly.  The king of the mountain had never attacked the valley himself, and those who went to the mountains to destroy him did not return.  Yet Andor knew that he could destroy the king of the mountain.  For he had seen the future where he did.  If that future existed, then the chance of victory must also exist.  So he would follow that path and die or live well.

	Andor spoke of his vision and his plan to the witch, and she listened intently.  She did not interrupt him, and she showed neither approval nor scorn.  In the end, she offered him counsel.
	“Young Andor, son of Gilean, blood heir to the crown and throne, hear me well.  I would have you live and I would have you succeed, although neither is likely.  If you would succeed, know this.  The king of the mountain dwells in a cave in a great canyon.  If you would find this canyon, seek the echoes, for all voices on the mountain make their way to the king.  Once there, you will have to overcome his guardian and enter his cave.  There, you may confront the king of the mountain and if the fates favor you vanquish him.  Carry with you an extra days worth of food and water, for where you must go that which may seem fair to eat may prove most foul, and the water may be more deadly than a blade at your throat.  Hold forth your father’s blade that I may offer you my meager assistance.”  Andor held out the blade, and the witch began to chant.  Her hands began to glow with white fire, and the fire slowly spread from her hands to the blade.  In time the chanting ceased and the fire dissipated.  The witch looked at Andor, and he saw weariness in those old, shrunken eyes.  “Hear me one more time, boy.  My magic has gifted your blade with the ability to strike both men and monsters.  Even spirits will feel its sting.  But know that his gift can only last for three days.  After that, your blade will be naught to the spirits of the mountain and you will surely die at their hands.  If you would go, go now and do not look back.  Go with my blessings, and may the spirits of the fathers watch over you.”

	Andor left immediately.  Along the way was the homestead of his friend Gerd.  Gerd would take the tests of manhood after the harvest.  Until then he worked as a farmhand for his father and studied the lessons the elders taught.  Andor and Gerd had learned many lessons together.  He stopped long enough to grab the supplies he needed and let Gerd know what he intended to do.  If he did not return, he wanted his friends to know his fate.  Armed with an extra skin of fresh water, an extra axe, and his father’s sword, Andor hugged his friend goodbye and continued towards the mountain.

	Andor walked all day and half of the night until he reached the base of the mountain.  He located a small cave at the base of the mountain and hid himself as best he could.  There he rested.  He awoke with the light of dawn.  Andor’s plan was simple.  He hoped to locate the canyon before night fell.  He would find a place to hide and rest, and assault it by the light of dawn.  His father had always told him that the creatures of the mountain scorned sunlight, and he hoped that was true.  He doubted that it would help him with the king, but it might give him an edge on whatever guarded the king.

	For most of the day, Andor climbed.  The high ground would offer the best vantage point for finding where he must go.  The climb was treacherous, for the mountain had many steep, rocky places.  Andor was young and agile, and he kept his footing.  At the end of the day he stood atop the mountain.  He looked over the valley as the sun set, its golden rays lighting up the cloudy sky with an incandescent display of gorgeous red and gold.  He could see the village and the land around it.  The sight filled him with a strange sense of sadness.  He knew this might be the last he would see of his home.  He looked all around, and although he could see much of the mountain, he did not see a canyon.  Tired and frustrated, he lay down beneath a boulder, hoping to remain hidden through the night.  With light fading, he thought all hope for finding the canyon and the cave today were gone.  He would have to hope to find it tomorrow before the magic in his blade faded.

	Andor hid until nightfall.  The light of the sun made it impossible to sleep, so he lay awake thinking of many things.  He thought most of his father.  His father had been strong and proud.  Andor had spent his life trying to live up to that image.  Now, in a strange way, he had both abandoned and vindicated it.  To give up the crown and throne would have made his father ashamed of him.  Yet to pursue the mountain king and remove that threat to the village was the noblest of all quests, and he was sure his father would have been proud of his bravery.  His father had been a good horseman, but when the colt panicked and rolled, his father could not get out of the saddle in time.  No man could have.  His father had been dead before anyone could reach him, his chest crushed and his heart broken.  That single moment had completely changed Andor’s life, and now very well might lead to his death as well.  As the last light slipped from the sky, Andor tried to sleep beneath the boulder, hoping to awake with fresh inspiration.

	Two hours after the light was gone from the sky, Andor was still unable to sleep.  He lay on his back, looking at the stars and praying to any god that would hear his plea.  The night was deathly quiet except for the occasional call of an owl, and the rare call of the wolves.  As Andor lay thinking, he heard another of the calls of father owl.  Then he realized he was hearing something else.  An echo.  The words of the witch came back to him then.  Follow the echo.  He waited.  The next time the owl called, he listed for the echo, and he could faintly hear where it came from.  After two more calls from father owl, he had a direction.  It was dark, and this was the dangerous time to travel in the mountains, but Andor knew time was against him.  The mountain was dark, but the moon and stars did shed some light.  Enough, he hoped, to guide his feet towards the echo.  Slowly, measuring each step, Andor began the long climb down towards the returning call of father owl.  It was painful to move this way.  Many times his ankle tried to twist away from him as soft gravel slid beneath his feet.  Sometimes, the ground sloped in an unexpected way, and Andor had to fight to keep his balance lest he tumble down the rock face of the mountain.  Yet, he persevered step after step, minute after minute, hour after hour.  Finally, he reached out with his foot and found nothing but air beneath it.  Taking time to let his eyes adjust under the pale moonlight, he saw that before him was a vast canyon.  Andor knew he could go no farther this night.  He covered himself in a thin blanket and covered the blanket with gravel to hide himself.  He knew it wouldn’t keep the hunters that tracked by smell away, but it was the best he could do.  Then he lay on the hard earth and slept a deep sleep.

	The light of dawn brought Andor awake, feeling strangely refreshed despite the night’s travails.  Now he could see what lay in front on him.  The canyon was deep, but not impossibly so.  Far below, the early rays of the sun glinted off of a small river that ran the length of the canyon.  The side was made of solid stone, rough in its surface and full of holes.  With caution and effort he worked his way down the cliff to the bottom of the canyon.  Andor followed the river, thinking that the king was likely to live farther along it.  It was Andor’s experience that rivers grew as they traveled, and he was sure the king would live near somewhere with a better waterway than the stream he saw.

	Andor walked until the mid day sun beat down on him.  He took a small lunch by the side of the river.  He desperately wanted to cool himself in the river, but caution prevailed.  Instead, he took time to observe the river.  Soon, he realized that no fish swam in the river.  The few things he saw move did not look like fish.  They did not look like anything he had seen, and did not look like things he wanted to see.  So Andor remained hot and uncomfortable, but stayed alive.  So it was for another hour until Andor came to a bend in the canyon and, beyond, heard a low growl.  He pressed himself against the wall of the canyon and slowly crept forward until he could see around the bend.  What he saw nearly made his heart stop.  For he was sure he had found the king’s guardian.

	What Andor saw could only have risen from the deepest pits of hell.  The creature was enormous, larger than the largest ox.  At least a dozen appendages seemed to hang from the grotesque, bloated body.  Several of these ended in heads, while others seemed to end in claws and a few in hands.  The heads seemed to writhe around, watching in all directions.  As Andor continued to watch, he could hear the creature talking to itself.  Each head had a unique voice, but none were pleasant and none quite human.  Some growled deeply, while others squeaked and piped like a poorly tuned flute.  Andor knew he could not simply charge such a creature and slay it.  He realized his only hope lay in trickery.  Quickly forming a plan, Andor took a deep breath, puffed up his chest, and boldly strode towards the creature.
	“Hail the court of the mountain king!  I am Andor, a wizard, and I come to offer my services!”

	All heads turned for a moment to observe Andor as he walked towards the creature.  Some watched him intently.  Others quickly went back to their routine, watching in all directions.  One that looked much like a wolf seemed to watch him the most intently, and Andor realized it also smelled his scent.  The wolf growled out “I smell only manling.  I scent no sorcery.”  A second head, this one looking like a mountain cat, purred in reply “Maybe not, but I don’t trust such decisions to your nose.  The king should make the decision.” A third head, that of a dragon, surged forward, roaring out “men are food unless the king says otherwise.  I am hungry and I would feast!”  The cat replied, “Your hunger is greater than your sense.  Be still!”  The cat and dragon growled and hissed at each other for a moment, then a small, serpentine head wound its way forward through the writhing mass. It hissed a command “Silence all of you.  I shall judge this one.  Speak to me manling, and speak well, or you will surely make excellent dining for my friends.”

	Andor quickly began talking.  “I am a wizard from the valley folk, recently come into my power.  The old witch saw me as a threat to her position and turned the villagers against me.  So I come here to this court, seeking revenge against those who wronged me.”

	“A likely story” hissed the snake head, “but we want proof.  Show us some sorcery and we will present you to the king.  Otherwise, dragon will slowly tear away your muscle while wolf savors your guts.  Show me something manling, if you would pass.”

	Andor spoke.  “Demon, I know you come from the deepest hells, so I know you have their power.  If you choose, you can be impervious to the touch of mortals.  Only a wizard could touch you then.  Make yourself so.  I will come forward and grab the wolf’s snout.  If I fail to hold it, you can strike me down.  If I grip it, my claim is true.  What say you?”

	The snake hissed back with what seemed to almost be a chuckle in its voice.  “Very well, manling.  But know this.  We can come from our world to yours in but a second.  If you fail, you will not be able to run from us before we can strike you true.  If your plan is to charge through us while we cannot be touched, let me assure you all you will offer us is a short game and a quick meal.  Come forward, manling, and show us your sorcery.”

	Andor walked forward with a quick, deliberate step.  He desperately hoped he was not betraying the fear that coursed through his body.  If he showed this thing fear, he had no doubt it would strike him down.  His only hope was for the thing to believe him enough to keep its word about being incorporeal.  So Andor strode directly to the wolves head.  As he expected, the dragon head looped behind him, ready for the snack it anticipated.  Andor reached out with his left hand towards the toothy snout of the wolf.  He hoped the creature didn’t notice his other hand quietly gripping the hilt of his sword. As his hand passed through the snout, his other hand drew the sword.  Leaning forward and falling through the wolf’s head, he brought the enchanted sword down with all of the force he could muster.  He felt the sword strike bone and the wolf’s eyes suddenly went blank.  The force of the blow cracked the thing's skull and it hung loosely from the body, blood pouring from the mouth.  Andor let himself fall to the ground and rolled to the side.  As he expected, the dragon head had rushed to strike and had grabbed at where he had been.  Andor drove his sword straight up, slicing open the long neck of the dragon.  A strange black ichor erupted from the wound, covering Andor.  Andor twisted the blade, then rolled away hard, pulling the sword with him.  The dragon head collapsed to the ground and he narrowly avoided being crushed by it.  Andor rose to one knee, sword ready, as the serpent head swept down on him.  Down, and then through him.  Andor had guessed correctly. The wolf and dragon had been ready to attack, the serpent had not.  Andor swung the blade hard against the neck of the serpent and cut through it, severing the head completely from the body. Andor retreated as the thing lurched around.  With the strongest heads slain, the rest could not control and guide the body.  Andor retreated, warding the remaining heads with his sword, and waited.  Soon the creature began to weaken from the blood loss.  Realizing its plight at last, the remaining heads joined together for the only action that made sense, and the creature fled down the cavern with a dozen different howls of pain and defiance.  Andor stood alone at the base of the cliff.  A single ladder led up the side of the cliff to a small opening.  Beyond was the hall of the mountain king.  Andor climbed.

	Andor expected to find many things beyond the door.  Guardians and beasts.  Great halls with massive thrones.  Strange dungeons full of the awfulness of hell.
	He found none of those things.  Instead, he found himself standing alone in a forest.  The cave mouth disappeared as soon as he entered it, and he stood alone in a great wood.  The sun seemed to be blotted out and it was almost too dark to see.  Yet when Andor drew his sword, it glowed with the magic on it.  Andor quietly raised the sword in a traditional salute and offered a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god had guided him here.  

	Andor took a moment to get his bearings, and in that moment, he realized something.  There was no wind in the forest.  There was no rustle of leaves, and there was no call of animals.  Instinctively, Andor knew this was a sorcerous place.  Again he had to trust his intuition, and his intuition said this was a magical trap that would spring soon.  Andor thought back to the village elders teaching on ensorcellments. The thought that stood out was how one defeated an illusion.  The elder had said a magical illusion would stand up to any visual test, but it could not truly defy the laws of nature.  So, Andor pulled his axe and hurled it at the nearest tree.  It stuck into the tree with a satisfying thunk.  Then Andor carefully stepped over to the tree to retrieve the axe. As he had thought, there had been no tree for the real axe to stick in, and his hand passed through the illusion.  As it did so, Andor could feel a tingling in his mind, and the forest simply faded away.  Andor turned just in time to see the thing that stalked him.  It was a huge, hulking brute, seven feet tall and vaguely human.  Yet its features seemed to be melted and twisted.  It wielded a huge, spiked club that it swung with great force.  Andor barely dodged the blow.  However, Andor also could tell that for all the creature’s strength, it was slow.  Andor was fast and Andor had steel.  He stalked the creature.  The creature continued to swing wildly, but Andor was able to dodge its massive, clumsy blows.  Finally, the creature overextended itself trying to reach Andor and Andor struck back, cutting a deep wound in the creature’s arm.  As the creature reared back in pain, Andor charged forward and stabbed with all of his might.  The blade cut deep into the thing’s ribs, and it fell back with a piteous howl and expired.

	Beyond the cave was another room, and Andor charged in.  This room was carved from the rock.  Several cushions lined the walls, and the floor was covered with exquisite tiling.  Sitting in the center of the room was a boy.  He looked to be about ten, and his face was a mask of fear and confusion.  
“Sir, have you slain the king?”  
Andor looked at the boy.  “Do you mean that thing in the other room?”  
“Yes sir.  That was the strongest of the men of the mountain, so they named it their king.  It made a compact with hell to gain power.” 
 “Yes, I have slain it.  Who are you?”  
“I am Arthuk.  We were captured by the mountain men some time ago.  The rest of my family is behind that door.  Please, sir knight, would you rescue them?”
  “Certainly, lad.  Take my hand now.  I don’t want you getting lost.”

	As Andor reached for the boy, the boy shrank away from him.  Andor took another, cautious step towards the boy, and the boy again slid back from him.  Quickly the boy jumped to his feet.  “Quickly sir, I beg of you.” Cried the boy as he ran towards the door.  Andor bolted after him, hearing the loud footfalls of his boots on the hard stone floor.  Andor reached the second door and saw the boy half way across another room, this one barren of anything but stone floor and walls.  “Please, hurry!” shouted the boy as he began running again.  Andor was about to follow when something in the back of his mind made him stop.  He quickly realized what it was.  The boy did not make a sound as he ran on the stone floor.  Andor slowly drew his sword and pushed it into the ground in front of him.  The sword easily pushed through, and the floor that had appeared there a moment before was gone, replaced with a great chasm that appeared to have no bottom.  The boy stood in mid air over the chasm.  The child stared at Andor, and Andor stared back.  A smile slowly crept across the boys face, but it was not a child’s smile.  This smile held the anger and malice of the old in it.  “Clever, mortal” was all the boy said as he raised his hand and pointed at Andor.  Flame shot from his hands, and Andor threw himself back through the door into the first room.  Andor hid by the door, sword at the ready, waiting for the demon.  When the demon rushed through, Andor swung his sword with all his might, seeking to catch the creature in the door.  The demon was fast and dodged the blow.  It rolled away from Andor and came to its feet.  When it spoke again, it was no longer the voice of a child, but the deep roaring of a mighty conflagration.  “Impudent mortal, you dare come to my hall to slay me!  You have been clever and you have been lucky, but neither of those things will avail you now.  I am hell, and hell will have you.”  With that, the child seemed to erupt into flame.  Its hair changed from curly blonde to curls of fire.  Its eyes glowed with the heat of a furnace. Bits of flame seemed to float from different parts of its body randomly.  Then, the creature rose into the air, floating above the ground in all its demonic splendor.  Soon, it was too high for Andor to reach with his sword, and Andor knew he was in deep trouble.  The creature laughed with a deep rumbling.  “Fool, your blade is nothing to me.  I am the fire of hell and now you will roast.”  The demon pointed at Andor and a gout of flame shot from his hand.  Andor threw himself to the side and narrowly avoided being engulfed, but he did feel the skin on his back singe from the heat.  There was no doubt in his mind that a direct strike would burn him alive.  Andor hurled his magical blade at the demon, hoping to run it through since he could not reach it.  The demon easily moved from the path of the blade, continuing its mocking laughter.  The blade clattered harmlessly to the ground behind the demon.  Again the demon pointed and again flame leapt at Andor.  Again he dodged and again he felt the sting of the heat.  He knew he could not keep this up much longer.  The heat was already taking its toll on him.  Desperate, he pulled his extra axe and hurled it at the demon.  Instead of dodging, the demon grabbed the axe in mid flight.  For a moment, the handle flashed red, and then was burned away.  The fire seemed to flow into the creature and it seemed somehow to enjoy the feeling.  The head of the axe clattered to the floor smoking from where the handle had been attached.  “Tasty, boy, but not as tasty as man flesh”.  For a third time the creature hurled its fire and Andor dodged.  This time, he rolled forward, towards the demon and towards his sword.  In a final effort, he pulled his spare waterskin and hurled it at the demon.  The demon caught it and it was engulfed in flame.  Then the skin broke open and water struck the demon.  The water exploded into steam and the creature screamed. The light in the room noticeable dimmed as the demon’s fire momentarily faltered.  The demon plunged to the floor.  Andor did not take time to look, as he was already running for the sword.  He swiped it up in one hand and turned, using the turn to both propel himself forward and bring the blade around fast.  The blade struck true and the demon was cut in two.  The awful thing seemed to simply melt into the rock, leaving a scorch mark to show its passing.  Andor had done what no warrior of the valley had been able to do, he had slain the mountain king.  

Andor knew knowledge of his heroism would be sung about for generations to come, and his place among the villagers would be assured.  Then he thought a little more.  Andor realized that his victory over the Mountain King would make him a direct threat to his Uncle.  He might win and he might lose in the battle that would inevitably follow, but it would certainly mean that he would not have the peaceful life he had seen in the orbs.  So, Andor realized that his victory would have to be a secret.  He would have to hope the spirit of his Father would know of his deed without it being sung in the hall of the ancestors.  Andor would always know he had proved himself worthy of his father, and that would be enough.
Slowly, Andor began the long trip home.

	In time, Andor became a successful farmer and merchant and grew wealthy.  His friends followed his example, applying themselves to the arts of commerce instead of the arts of war.  In time, it became clear that the mountain would no longer attack the valley.  Without a foe to fight, the kings men slowly began to leave, seeking their employment elsewhere.  Without his men, the king lost his power.  Before his death, he was forced to sign over all power to a new council made up of the leading men from the village.  Andor was chosen to lead that council, which took place in the old throne room.  Andor sat on the throne and debated with the men how to bring prosperity to the village.  The taxes once used to pay fighting men now paid widows pensions.  Eventually, Andor and the council approved the sale of the old crown to pay for a new granary.  Andor grew old with the respect and admiration of the peaceful people of the valley, and died an old man in his plush bed, surrounded by his family.  With his passing, thus passed the last of the warriors and the age that had spawned them.


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## Aus_Snow (Jul 13, 2005)

So let's say I got bold all of a sudden and posted a story based on some pictures from Ceramic DM (post-judgement) - then what about copyright and all that stuff?

I'm sorely tempted, but I really need to know the legalese first.


Also, this thread is not exactly kicking with the vigour thing. Is it actually dead, and I'm therefore just scrawling on the corpse? If so, I'm sorry, and absolutely no offence to the deceased is intended.


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## Berandor (Aug 1, 2005)

Yes, this thread seems to be very corpsey.

I don't think copyright is a problem unless you're going to sell your story alongside the pictures.

So write away and maybe give us a heads-up in General when you're done, so at least I can come visit and read.


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## mythago (Aug 2, 2005)

Aus_Snow, no copyright problems on your end--there's nothing that says you are violating somebody's copyright if you are inspired by their work of art. You can't reprint the art without their permission, natch, but the story is all yours.

There are many examples of corpses coming back to life


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## Eeralai (Sep 2, 2005)

*Spirit Dance*

Last month, I asked BSF to pick some pictures for my critique group to write about.  We had about five days to finish them, but I think all of us waited until the last minute    I was thinking about the story today and thought that I would clean it up a little and post it here.  Perhaps BSF could post the pictures at some point because I don't know where the files are.  I'll give a brief description here.  1 is a picture of the moon at nightime with bats or owls flying in front of it.  2 is a picture of a street dancer with people around him taking pictures.  3 is a picture of a man and woman pressing their hands against glass.  They don't have shirts on and there are signs of Strip Tease reflected on the glass.  The last one is a large sundial on cement.  I hope you enjoy the story and feel free to post comments or suggestions if you are moved to.


Warning:  Adult themes, but not graphic.


     Roidon's knees hit the ground and his chest smacked the round stone.  He glanced around for ogres lurking in the ruined temple. Seeing no one, he let his head drop.  The scent of his blood and sweat would probably be carried by the breeze to them, and then he would finally die by their hand, too fatigued from his battles and travels to stop it.  “Maybe in the next life, I'll make it here quicker,” he thought to himself.  “Now that I know where it is, I can spend the next life finding out its secret.”  But, moments pressed their way through time without the sound of footsteps scurrying to their quarry.  The heaving of his chest evened out, and his eyelids slowly closed.  

A camera clicked quickly as a model danced in the face of a giant fan blowing her hair about.  

“No!” Roidon yelled and sat upright with his sword dragging across the dirt as his body shifted.  He just wanted one night without that other life intruding itself into his dreams.  And one night without yearning for completion.

Standing up, his body felt as heavy as a dead horse, but his mind pulsed with energy.  He had reached his goal: the place where he had been split.  Moonlight shone on old blood that stained the stone he had been laying on.  Underneath the blood were carvings depicting different seasons.  Was it his blood?  How many lives ago had it been?  Two?  No, three.  Shadows tripped through his mind with murmurs of screams and chants.  Then they vanished, leaving his mind empty.

     This was the first life he had an inkling of where it had begun.  His other lives had been spent searching for something he knew was out of reach.  Priests were useless without a god around to pray to, and sorcerers never were good seeing beyond the present.  His youth had always been the best part; always rough protecting the families from the ogres, but at least dreamless.  Still, he never felt attached to his families.  Never was drawn by a love that he thought he should've had.  His hollow heart gave him disinterest in company as he grew older.  He had never married in any of his lives or found friendship among the ranks of armies he had joined.

      The dreams always began around sixteen, and he always left his family then, trying to find where that other life was.  He was good at killing, which was key to survival in his land.  Not many soldiers would try the journey he had just taken, even if they had been promised a land of fruitful fields empty of monsters.  He had begun the journey with promises of nothing, just a wild hope that he would be able to make himself whole again.

     Roidon looked around the desecrated temple.  Walls and ceilings crumbled on the ground together.  Statues lay without limbs.  The rubble was more than just attrition over time.  The god had only been gone a century and a half, and the destruction had been done by the one who had destroyed him.  A glimmer of remembrance whipped around the corner of Roidon's mind.  He frantically searched through the ages of his memory.  Tales had renamed the one who had destroyed the god, but he knew his real name.  He had known him.  Eric.

     A screech tore through the sky, and Roidon looked up.  The moon glowed below the clouds like a fiery sun at sunset. (1) Owls swooped in front of it, searching for their breakfast.  One owl seemed to depart from the others and fly directly at Roidon.  It grew bigger and blacker until it nearly illumined with the void of light. Suddenly, the immense winged figure changed into a streak of black that flew through the sky and shone strangely on the blood covered stone at Roidon's feet.  Blinded momentarily, when he looked up, black eyes without even a distinction for the pupil stared back at him.

     The man stood dressed in dark clothes with silver jewelry wrapping around his arms and legs.  Each hand had one silver ring and his feet wore slick, black boots.  His hair and beard were black like everything else, and his expression was unreadable.  He exuded power that Roidon could nearly smell.  

     Before Roidon could ask who he was, the man raised a hand, and dirt began to swirl around the stone.  The moon shone brighter as the dirt formed figures playing out a scene.  They were two dimensional like the figures he would watch in his other life on a television.  Roidon recognized himself in a past life tied up and lying helplessly.  Eric was also recognizable.  Bile rose to Roidon's throat when he realized what Eric was doing to the squirming, screaming figure next to his tied up image.  Tossing the woman aside, Eric began chanting.  Silver light crackled around them.  Roidon's image was alternately trying to soothe the woman and spitting curses at Eric. Without warning, Eric plunged a knife into the woman.  Her spirit rose out of her body into a hole formed in the dirt.  The dirt figure of Roidon cried out and part of his spirit began to leave through the hole too.  “No!” roared Eric, forcing the hole to close.  He plunged the knife deep into Roidon's image, and the dirt fell to the ground.

     Before Roidon had time to think about what had just happened, dirt blew over the blood stained stone and formed the words, “Bring her back.”  The stone opened, and Roidon's spirit hurtled through it.


***

     Roy clicked his camera rapidly at the street dancer.  He would make the perfect cover for YES! for their article about the new Dance America competition. The dancer would, of course, receive an invitation to be on the show, and he could have an extra day on the weekend since he had found a dancer so fast.  Satisfied with the shots, he bent down to pick up his lunch. (2)  Before he touched the Styrofoam container, though, something entered his body with a jolt, and his mind began to expand twofold with snatches of dreams becoming vivid memories.  He wretched all over his lunch and a jacket lying on the cement in front of him.

     “Yo, man.  Use this.  That jacket cost me fitty bucks!”  A large man turned around and shoved a bucket under Roy who wretched again.  “Where'd you get your lunch?  I wouldn't eat there again if I was you.  Uh, uh.  You gonna still put my brother on the cover of your magazine?”

     Roy tried to nod yes while holding tightly to the camera.

     “Then don't worry about no jacket.  Let me call you a taxi.”  The man gingerly picked up his jacket and threw it across a circular stone that Roy had been standing close to. 

     Too dizzy and sick to say anything, Roy allowed himself to be shoved into a taxi along 
with the bucket.  He murmured an address and puked again as the driver peeled away.

     “Oh man,” said the taxi driver.  “What's up with this?  It's gonna be extra if you get any of that in the car.”

     Roy leaned back and closed his eyes.  Roidon stood before him.  They both sighed feeling the pressure that was pulling them to completion.  The missing half was finally there.  There was no struggle to remain independent.  There was no fear of losing individuality.  Each needed the other to be whole and had felt it for lifetimes.  The memories weaved together answering long asked questions.  Roy had escaped to follow the woman's spirit, Therese, but Eric had closed the door to the world before Roidon could get through.  Roy had taken with him all love and compassion, but left behind strength, agility and daring.  Roy had never been able to find Therese and doubted he could now.  Roidon insisted she must be near if he had been sent by a higher power.  Neither one knew who the man was.  They guessed the god had feigned his own death and must have returned.  Their memories neared completing the weaving into one.  What name to go by?  Roy seemed best due to the world he was in.  

     “Hey buddy!  We're here!” yelled the taxi driver.  Roy opened his eyes, barely cognizant of his surroundings.  He gave the taxi driver all the cash in his wallet and stumbled out and into his apartment.  He barely made it to the couch before falling into a sound sleep.

     Waking, he stretched and yawned and pushed further into the cushions of the couch.  It had been the perfect dreamless sleep.  One that he was ready to do again.  He rolled over to return to sleep, but the words “Bring her back” swam before his eyes.  Bolting upright, he reviewed the night with the strange man flying down from the sky.  The man wanted her soul returned to that other world, and Roy only wanted to be with her again.  How could he return anyway?  He had never been a sorcerer.  He pondered and then decided he would work out the return after he had found her.  But finding her?  Maybe it was a task for his whole life here.  But, no, he sensed she was close.  He didn't know why he felt she was near, but he had to act on it.  

     Trying to figure out what day and time it was, he glanced around his room.  His message box was blinking, and he noted that it said it was the next day.  He had slept about 24 hours.  Pressing the button, his machine launched into a slew of messages about where were the pictures?  Sighing, he decided he had better keep his job for the time.  He downloaded all the pictures, quickly touched up the best ones, and emailed them to his office.  Once he had showered, shaved and eaten, he emerged from his apartment ready for the impossible task before him. 

     At first he looked at every person he past.  Maybe she was a man in this life.  But, eventually he decided she had remained a woman since he had managed to remain a man through all his lives.  He was not 100% sure, but at least that eliminated 50% of the people he was seeing.  Las Vegas was blazing that day.  The part of him who had been living so long in Vegas thought the chill of the other world would be welcome today, but that thought was quickly quelled when he remembered all of the monsters that were back there.  As he compared and contrasted the two worlds, he lost track of where he was going, and found himself a couple of hours later in the strip section off the Strip.  Roy groaned.  This was no place for Therese.  Why had he come here?  “Strip Tease” signs decorated the street like a main street for an adult Disneyland.  Roy began to turn back, but a woman dancing in the window of the Hustler tavern caught his eye and drew him towards her.

     It was late afternoon, and the sun reflected off of her window a torn down building behind him.  The torn down temple flashed in his mind and he heard the screams of Therese as her soul was ripped out of her body.  A quizzical expression flashed across the woman's face, and then it became once more disinterested.  She was dressed in leather as if she had just stepped off of a motorcycle.  Other men walked by her, smiling appreciatively, but they didn't stop.  They knew if they wanted to see some real skin, they would have to enter the bar. 

     The woman's body moved like water running across glass.  Roy thought the song by Train blaring through the window must've been written just for her, “She acts like summer and walks like rain, reminds me that there’s time to change, hey, hey.” Her hips swayed easily as her hands roamed across her body.  It seemed the woman danced only for him.  Her gaze never moved from his eyes no matter what her body was doing.  He unbuttoned his shirt hoping to relieve the heat as she unbuttoned her leather vest.  He seemed part of the dance now, removing his shirt as he walked closer to the window.  Her vest vanished and they pressed their hands against the window as the song sang, “Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star, One without a permanent scar, And did you miss me while you were looking at yourself out there.”  (3)

     The woman shouted as she was ripped away from the window by a large man yelling at her.  Roy shook his head and grabbed his shirt laying on the ground next to him.  He bolted past two big body guards while throwing his shirt back on.

 “No nudity in the window!” boomed the man who had pulled the woman away.  “If they see you nude out there, why should they pay to come in here?”

“Look, I'm sorry,” said the woman, also putting her vest back on.  “It won't happen again.”

     “You're right it won't, cause you're fired.”

     “It's my fault, sir,” said Roy.  “I'm a photographer from Yes!  We're doing an expose on strippers and I was scouting out places for pictures.  You're window would be good in a different light.  Right now it's too reflective.”  Roy had pulled his wallet out of his pocket and shoved his Yes! ID at the man.

     “Where's you're camera?”

     “I'm not taking pictures today, just looking for spots.  Naturally I was going to ask your permission before I did the shoot.”

     “That doesn't explain why Terry was taking off her clothes.”

     “I just got excited, all right,” said Terry, looking defiant.  “I thought if I showed him some skin he might be more inclined to use me in the shoot.”

     “I'm sure he's ready to use you for more than that, you slut.”

     “Hey, now,” said Roy.  “No need to get ugly.  I want to take Terry out for dinner now to talk about the shoot.  Can  we use your window and do an interview with you as well for the article?”

     “Front page?”

     “Of course.”

     “All right.  Get outta here, but be back for your 8:30 show.”

     “Gotta change,” said Terry without looking at Roy.  She went through the bar and up some stairs.  The manager shouted for a drink for Roy and sat and told him all the woes of owning a strip club.

     “That's very interesting,” said Roy, seeing Terry emerge.  “I'll let the interviewer know, and he'll call you soon.”  Roy sprinted through the bar in time to catch up to Terry leaving through the door.

     Outside, she turned to Roy and said, “Look, I appreciate what you did, but I don't want to go back to your 'studio' for a 'photo shoot,'” she held up her hands in quotation marks as she spoke.

     “I don't want to do a photo shoot with you; I just want to take you out to dinner.”  Terry looked at him with furry and he quickly added, “I mean, I would love to take your picture because you're beautiful, but really, I just want dinner with you right now.”

     Suddenly red, Terry burst out, “Look, I don't know why I started taking off my clothes for you back there.  I'm a stripper, but I don't sleep around.  It was like I was momentarily in the Twilight Zone.”

     Roy clenched his fists.  He didn't want to scare her away with an explanation about past lives and being sucked into a world they didn't belong in.  Instead he said, “I, in no way regret what happened, nor do I expect anything because of it.  I just want to take you out to dinner.”

     Terry stared at him a full minute before saying, “Okay.”

     Roy stopped at an ATM and then called a taxi to take them to the other part of town.    At first, Terry was stiff and sat sullenly looking out the window.  Roy attempted a joke about a billboard advertising a fortune teller, but Terry didn't laugh.  “I think some of them know what they're talking about.”

     Startled, Roy asked, “Why?”

     “When I was a teenager, I went to one with a friend of mine.  She told me all about my abusive stepfathers.  At the time, it amazed me that she knew that about me.  Now I realize I was pretty much the poster child for domestic violence.  But when she was done with that, she told me I didn't belong to this world.  That my soul was from somewhere else and that I'd never be happy here.  I've felt that way since I was a little girl.  I always thought it was just wishful thinking on my part.  That somehow I would be swept away to that other place like in a fairy tale or somethin'.”  Roy sat silently, and she continued.  “Back at the window, there was something about you that seemed from the other world, too.”    Silence stretched between them.  “I'm sorry.  You must think I'm a nut.”

     “Not at all,” said Roy, daring to stroke the back of her head.  “Perhaps a vortex will open up while we have dinner and take us to this other world.  But it will probably only be the affects of White Russians in the hot evening.”

     “That's my favorite drink,” said Terry.

     “Mine too.”  Roy smiled and the taxi pulled up to the Harley Davidson Cafe.  They sat  under chains hanging from the ceiling and talked like old friends who had separated at college only to realize nothing could end their friendship.  Terry called to get another woman to cover her 8:30 show, and they ended the evening on the floor of his apartment, too overcome with passion to make it to his bed.

     The week passed in a haze between work and sex.  Roy managed to get Yes! to agree to the stripper article, so he was able to visit Terry frequently.  At first, it was bliss.  But the closer they became, the more frequent the words “Bring her back” swam before his eyes.  Terry also seemed to be changing from elated to desperate.  At the end of the week, Terry's body quivered in sobs as she cuddled closer to Roy.

     “What's wrong?” he whispered.

     “It's no good,” she cried.  “The closer I get to you, the more that other world calls to me.  It's like I need to end my life, but I'm so happy with you.”

     Roy held her tighter and finally said, “I will help you.  Try not to think of it now.”  Terry turned to face him with a confused look on her face.  He silenced her questions with kisses until she lay sleeping peacefully.

     He didn't want to return.  That other world with its hordes of monsters held nothing for him.  Here he had everything, everything but inner peace and a happy Terry that is.  He felt the pull to it grow stronger everyday, and always ignored it.  But Terry was falling apart.  How could he return, though?  That man or god, whatever he was hadn't given him any instructions.  He hadn't even spoken.  It probably was that old god.  Typically difficult as the stories had said.  The god of struggle and strife.  Roy closed his eyes and thought of his arrival to this world.  The first time had been through a stone.  So had the second time.  The street dancer spun through his head.  He smelled vomit and watched a jacket being thrown over a stone to dry.  “That's it!” Roy cried out loud.  Terry turned in her sleep, and Roy kissed her gently.  “Still, it doesn't seem likely that we can just walk through it,” he thought to himself.  The unfortunate answer intruded itself onto his brain.  They would have to die on the stone.

     Roy spent the next few days alternating between trying to figure out how to kill Terry and himself and refusing to believe death was how to get back to the other world.  The words “Bring her back,” were always in his mind now, and his dreams always showed Eric killing Terry, and her soul leaving through the stone.  Terry quit eating and began calling in sick to work frequently.  She only seemed happy in Roy's arms but also loathe to go to him for comfort. In the end, Terry's health pushed him to procure the poison for his plan.

     On a bright, sunny day he talked Terry into a picnic at a plaza.  He packed the lunches and walked her to a stone that looked like an old sundial.  (4)  There were more street dancers performing, but Roy took no notice of them.  He spread the blanket on the cement and leaned against the sun dial with his arm around Terry.  Not knowing what he would be able to convince Terry to eat, he had poisoned everything.  She picked at her food, but the sun drove her to take a big gulp out of the thermos.  He quickly did the same, and in minutes the world was spinning away from him as his soul hurtled through space.  He slammed into the body of Roidon and stood up slowly.

The man in black grinned at him as Terry's soul soared to the heaven's.  “Well done,” were words that formed in the dirt.

     “No!” roared Roy.  “I brought her back!  I want to stay with her!”

     The man in black grinned and then streaked through the sky as a black light and then a black winged figure flying to the moon.

     “Terry!” screamed Roy, so loudly that he did not hear the footsteps of the ogre behind him or see the ax coming to slice off his neck.


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