Warm Up: Flash Fiction Marathon

[Toa of Dancing]

I would go off the fact that it doesn't look like he has arms, but he couldn't exactly be a doctor that way. =PAnyways, nice theme, it'll be fun to write this one.

[Xanthorp]

Name: XanthorpTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 460Story: The Oncologist“Doctor Livingstone, I presume?”[/font]“You presume correctly, Mr.” the doctor checked his charts, “Wagner. And I’m assuming that you think you have cancer?”[/font]“Yes. It feels like something is bulging against my stomach. Can you help me?”[/font]“Of course I can, but it may take awhile,” the doctor looked at his watch, revealing part of a crown-esque tattoo. “It’s 2:45 sir. Do you have about forty-five minutes?”[/font]“I’ve got time. Tell me, doctor,” Mr. Wagner started.[/font]“Yes?”[/font]“I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on your wrist. If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly is it of?”[/font]“It’s a wolf wearing the Crown of Her Majesty the Queen, Natasha.”[/font]“I’m also detecting an accent. Are you from Russia?”[/font]“The Ukraine. But very good, sir. My parents were born there while I was born here. The Lupum Coróna is a good luck tattoo for prosperity, fertility, and happiness. Now let’s get you into the MRI.”[/font]--[/font]The last few months had been rough for Doctor Jay Livingstone. One of his clients, Madame Weller, had passed because of a hepatocellular carcinoma, or liver cancer. The grieving process was hard, they were close, practically best friends-[/font]A man bumped into the barstool next to him and knocked his fedora down.[/font]Because he didn’t have any other close friends, besides William, Madame Weller’s attorney, who was out of town, he couldn’t bring it up to many people. So he decided to drown out his misery with a double-shot of bourbon.[/font]How does a thirty-seven-year-old become an eighty-nine-year-old’s oncologist?[/font] He thought. [/font]I’m not all-English, either. Yet I’m rumored to be the best in the land. But best what? Best looking? Most concerned? Most congenial?[/font]“You a doctor?” The drunk asked, a bit of vomit running down his lip.[/font]“Yeah, and...?”[/font]“I don’ feel so good.”[/font]“Why don’t you go to the bathroom and puke. Your drink will still be here.”[/font]“Thanks,” said the drunk man.[/font]Livingstone ran out the door, having left a twenty pound note on the counter.[/font]--[/font]Jay’s pale skin glistened in the moonlight, his dark lips standing out on his face. His black overcoat covering his suit, he walked to another building and knocked three times.[/font]“Password.”[/font]“Hérok.” His mother’s maiden name.[/font]The panel slid closed and the door opened, revealing his hideaway.[/font]His cache of computers was well-hidden. The rest of his family would never suspect that [/font]he[/font], of all people, was the one blackmailing them.[/font]--[/font]“Well, Mr. Wagner, it’s not cancer.”[/font]“That’s good news. Thank you, Doc!”[/font]“But I have a favor to ask of you, something important. I’ve seen your... record. I need you to break into something for me.”[/font]“Sure, anything. What’ll it be, boss?”[/font]Livingstone adjusted his fedora, showing a bloodred feather.[/font]“The Federal Archives building.”[/font]

[Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa]

Well, this is an unusual theme. I certainly didn't see that one coming. But I knew immediately where I wanted to run with it. This was probably the most fun theme yet. Name: Nuile: Lunatic WordsmithTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 599Story: Doctor Who?He was the doctor you knew when you were a kid. You remember the one with the strange tattoo and that even stranger hat? Whenever he rolled up his sleeves you could see the crowned canis lupus on his arm, and he never removed the incongruous beret, ever. He had an incomprehensible recipe for alphabet soup hanging from the waiting room wall. There was something artificial to his smile, and beneath that superficial film covering his eyes which he claimed helped him to see you knew their lay deep waters. And the only explanation to his hands was the bucket of ice he surmisably kept in that back room.At first you thought he was an alien, and that beneath that beret you knew he concealed his disguise zipper. Clearly the mask didn't fit right, with that ripply forehead and those sagging jowls. He was here on Earth, you reasoned, to abduct humans for his fellow Zogwarg biologists to study, and you always insisted your mother enter first.You soon dispensed that theory as folly. That wolf tattoo was something no alien would think of. Indeed, it was too incredible. He must have been an ex-cop, that doctor, discharged for brutality and illegal interrogation tactics.After that he had turned to the dark side of the city and joined a gang. That was where he got his tattoo; it was the mark of the Wolf Pack. The crown meant he was their king. He had probably killed a few people and stolen a lot of money. That's why he could afford such expensive suits and all those paintings that old people who cleary haven't the slightest idea what they're talking about call art.But he played violin and read books. No gangster worth his salt cared for music or literature. That was sissy stuff. Which could only mean he was one of one of those weird foreigners from artistic, refined countries. And though you couldn't place his accent, you had seen berets upon the heads of French people in pictures, and the prison-stripe shirts they wore could be no coincidence. There he could only have been part of one of those secret cults where they study and play music and practice black magic. He had fled to America to be safe from rival cultists and witch hunters.But then there was that smile. It was artificial, but also vain and dignified. He was obviously hiding something. Now you knew what it was. He must have gotten all those fascinating gadgets somewhere. He was a secret agent for the government, and you were more excited than ever to see him for him to question you and exploit your knowledge for the good of Uncle Sam.But when he didn't, you were convinced he was a terrorist, and spent some few hours trying to figure out what the equivalent was, in a doctor's case, of convincing your mother you were sick to get out of school. But no matter how much energy you displayed coming down the stairs, no matter how many times you flexed your muscles, even when you ate that dreaded asparagus, it was all to no avail.As you got older you realized he was just a doctor, a person like anyone else, only he got payed a lot more. You decided you wanted to be a doctor, too, because they were rich and never got sick.But still that artificial smile and those superficial eyes haunted you. Even now you wonder . . . just what kinds of deep, arcane secrets was he hiding all those years?

[Toa of Dancing]

I hope that this coding won't be taken out, as it is part of the story. Sorry if you'll have to do so, Velox.Member Name: Ballistic Jello Pickles (Toa of Dancing)Theme: Character StoryWord Count: 471Story: Mad Science•••••

New York News Journal

A Death to Be Mourned

Written by Janet Grouping, May 12, 2013Most scientists would agree that tossing random chemicals into a vat, stirring them up, and seeing the results isn’t science. Well, to Doctor Rex Canis, it was. This stage name has become widely known recently, along with the symbolic tattoo and hat that go with it. In his own words, “A wolf with a crown describes my name, and fedoras enhance any appearance worth any bit of decency. Especially a lab coat, they go excellently together.”Curtis Spice, as was his real name, liked to entertain. Kids, teens, adults, all flocked to see his shows across the world. He kept them humorous, somewhat informative about science and the like, and generally fun for himself. Doctor Rex was known for randomly tossing bottle of soda into which he had just dropped a package of Mentos into the audience. He howled at random moments, just for the heck of it.Everyone especially enjoyed his shows on the nights of the full moon, as he always had a special surprise. The only thing common to all of them was his superb display of effects and the fact that he “transformed” into a werewolf. These were especially fun nights, as his antics were doubled. Whether he ripped a hamburger to shreds while eating it, flew across the stage in a massive jump, or tossed water balloons into the front row, these shows sold out moments after tickets went on sale.What most people don’t realize is that there was truth behind his shows. Doctor Rex was the victim of experimentation by a terrorist group. The tattoo was a symbol of him surviving their horrid torture, and in the end he became a real, live werewolf. After being kept in captivity by the U.S. Military for years after the terrorists had been disbanded, for the safety of all. However, after proving that he could live a normal life, Curtis was set free, and he immediately put his persistent cheerfulness and bright mind to work in show business.Two days before a full moon show, he was shot in his bus in the dead of night. Police have no clue as to who the murderer might have been, aside from possibly one of the former terrorists. The only clue was a note left beside Doctor Rex’s body, containing content inappropriate for print. In essence, it said, “The blood moon would have killed everybody.” As the full moon of his show was a “blood moon,” multiple theories have been formed regarding this message.Regardless of 37 year old Curtis Spice’s death, his entertaining shows are sure to live on in the hearts of people around the world, and his example of overcoming strife has inspired many more people than could be imagined.

[Danska: Shadow Master]

Member Name: Danska: Shadow MasterTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 600Story: College FriendsSo I was just sitting there, minding my own business as usual, when I see Jake enter the bar. I pull the brim of my hat lower and turn away, praying he doesn't see me. Well, when was the last time that worked?“Hey, Wolf! Long time no see! How ya been?” Jake said in that grating, high-pitched tone he always uses.“You saw me last week,” I growled. “And don't call me that.”“You gotta crazy tattoo of a wolf on your chest. Whadda you expect me to call you? Doc? Ooh, I know. King!” Jake smiled. I'm sure he would have ruffled my hair if he could.“Edward. Call me Edward. It's my name,” I replied, exasperated.“Sure, but thought you liked being called King,” Jake sneered.“That was twenty years ago!” I shouted. People around us had started to stare, so I lowered my voice. “I was seventeen. I grew out of it. Now will you kindly leave me in peace?”Jake laughed. “So you can mope around by yourself? No way! You need to meet people, have fun, and drink something other than- what is that, orange juice? C'mon. Let's get you a real drink. And while we're at it, I know this couple of reeaally nice girls. Wouldn't wanna pass that up, would ya?”“You know I'm married!”Jake never changed. He'd been a good laugh back at college. He'd known all the best places to hang out, all the best people (or so it seemed at the time). But while the rest of us had moved on, he was still stuck in his ways.Jake shrugged. “You were always boring. Took me ages to convince you to get that tattoo – with a crown and everything! How cool's that? Think how much duller your life'd be without it!”I glared at him. “Yeah. I could go to the swimming pool without everyone staring at me. How terrible my life would be. How I would hate it!”“Oh come on. Bet you have some interesting stories to tell the ladies,” he winked, the immature schoolboy as ever.I'd had enough. I rose from my chair, fist clenched so tightly around my glass I feared it would shatter. The stare I was giving him should have been warning enough, but he just stood there, clueless grin fixed on his gormless face. That was too bad. I began to raise my arm, my intent visible to everyone but him.“Hey, is your pocket meant to be beeping?” Jake observed, still not realising how angry I was.I quickly drank the rest of my orange juice and placed the glass heavily on the table, still glaring at Jake. “You're lucky.”“Yeah, I am pretty marvellous, aren't I?” he admitted, still grinning away. “Say, where you going? Night's still young! Don't tell me you've got a date or something?”“I've got a job!” I shouted. “Just because you can't scrape together the willpower to do a single day's work doesn't mean the rest of us have to be as useless! I am a doctor in a respectable hospital and people need me! Now if you don't mind, I have better places to be than hanging around with a half-wit like you!”“So, same time next week?” he said jovially.“Whatever,” I grunted, straightening my hat as I left. Perhaps I would be there next week, as I had been for many weeks past. But for now, duty calls.

[Thunder on the Mountain]

Member Name: Thunder on the MountainTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 597Story: BuriedJuly 23^rdI’m on my own now.The others are leaving at dawn. They still just want to escape. They don’t quite have the determination to take down these animals that I do. Maybe it’s just that they didn’t quite love Ashleigh the way I did. Maybe it’s because they don’t have ‘you can have my girl, but don’t touch my hat’ stuck in my head, which I can guarantee you has only made the situation much, much worse.I’m writing this to give to them before they leave. It’s the final entry, obviously. Once I finish with this, I’m setting off with my rifle to try and hunt down the killers that took Ashleigh away from us. All I have is enough ration to last me a few days, some ammunition, the gun, the clothes on my back, and my Stetson. Really, that’s enough to do what I want to.I’ve spent my entire life studying these things. It’s ridiculous to start doing heartfelt reflections at a time like this but I don’t really care. There are only a few things running through my head at the moment. First, the cruel irony of how I always yearned to understand these things better, and now my only real goal is to kill one. At least one.Second, never before have I missed the big Alaskan husky that’s (somewhat unsatisfactorily) tattooed on my bicep this much. King would have loved doing hunts like this. Considering all the deer he’d helped me bag, and all the bones he’d sniffed around with me, a combination like this could have been the time of his life, had it not been cut short.Third and finally, I can’t get the image of Ashleigh being pounced on by a Tyrannosaurus out of my mind.I’m thirty seven. She was twenty-nine. She was divorced, I never married. I spend my life digging in the dirt, looking for bones, she spent hers recording and filming wildlife. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, and I’ve held a resentment of everything and everyone since King died.It was just infatuation really. I mean, I’d known her for a week, I wasn’t exactly planning how to drop to a knee. It doesn’t matter though. Watching her get torn to pieces by a creature I’ve admired and studied my entire life could have been enough to turn this gun on myself. Eventually, I got a better idea......turn my gun on the monster.It started in my childhood, and I never really let it go. Dinosaurs. Dinosaurs were my life. I didn’t really need anything else. Bones in the ground...and my dog. I never cared much about my family, and even in my last few hours I don’t really regret that. I never had a woman, or much in the way of friends.That I do regret, in hindsight. With a single person to care, I might not have come. I might have stayed in the real world, with a new family to care for.But there’s no changing the truth now. I had no one to hold me back, King was dead via truck, and when they told me of my chance to see a live ******* dinosaur, I pounced on that chance without a second thought. So here I am, writing in the darkness, waiting for my chance to kill the second most fascinating thing I’ve seen in my life. Second of course, only to Ashleigh.“You can have my girl...don’t touch my hat.”*The journals of Doctor Dawson L. Barson, Paleontologist.

Edited June 5, 2012 by Thunder on the Mountain

[ZippyWharrgarbl]

Member Name: ZippyWharrgarblTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 490Story: Odo, the Surgeon Extraordinare

ODO, THE SURGEON EXTRAORDINAIRE

~~~Doctor Spencer had not planned for this.He had planned for a successful operation on the young Miss Jamie, but that had not gone to plan at all. Her parents were well-known in the lawyering business, and they were watching the hospital like a pair of hawks honing in on their prey. One wrong move, one pair of unwashed hands, one slip of the wrist, and they would be closed down with medical licenses revoked. So, Doctor Spencer did the one thing he could: he called in the cavalry.There was a smash and a tinkle of glass as the window on his door was shattered, and a gloved hand slithered through the shards to open the door. A shady character sidled in, dressed entirely in black and bearing the image of a wolf wearing a crown tattooed on the side of his neck. Doctor Spencer cleared his throat. “Um, the door was open.”“You got a window on your door,” the figure rasped from under his wide-brimmed hat, tilted slightly downwards to hide his eyes. “Windows’re meant for breaking.”“Oh, uh… All right.” Doctor Spencer shuffled his notes nervously. “Well, I called you in for-““The Jamie deal. Girl’s got a dangerous illness, and you got a pair of dirty stinkin’ lawyers on your back about it.”“Yes, correct. Could you-““Girl shouldn’t be no trouble to fix up, if they’re willin’ to pay.” The brim of the hat lifted to reveal eyes that sparkled like diamonds, despite the man being almost in his forties. The wolf glared at Doctor Spencer in much the same way. He gulped.“Oh, good. I’m sure if you talk to them, they’ll-““No talking.” The man lowered his brim again and scowled. “Lawyers don’t sit right with me. Always watchin’ what you say, waitin’ for a slip-up.”Doctor Spencer didn’t much like being interrupted, but there was no being uppity around Doctor Odo. He had turned up from some foreign medical school, but he would not say where, and he had soon proved himself to be a surgeon extraordinaire. The man had a slight Brooklyn accent, but he never spoke of where he came from. He was notorious for his dangerous but effective methods, and he was Doctor Spencer’s only chance to get out of this jam.“Very well, I will arrange the price.” Doctor Spencer grinned uncertainly at him. “And this price would be…?”“A hundred million dollars,” Doctor Odo rumbled from beneath his hat. “No less.”Before Doctor Spencer could cry out in disbelief, Doctor Odo had made his exit through the office window. He watched the man flee before sighing and turning to his phone.“Ah, nurse Tordo? Cancel my appointments, and arrange for Jamie’s parents to meet with me… yes, THAT Jamie… oh, and call in someone to clean up the glass in here.”It was going to be a long, fussy argument, and a long, fussy day.

[Legolover-361]

For the Character Story theme, does every detail required for the character have to be mentioned?

Edited June 5, 2012 by Legolover-361

[Padishah Mehmet II]

Member Name: Tsar DovydasTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 598Story: The Hippocratic Oath

The Hippocratic Oath

“You people aren’t serious,” the middle-aged sole surgeon of Alexanderburgh’s sole medical clinic, Mr. O’Connor, was pretty explicit in his expression of surprise intermingled with just a bit of shock and horror. With reason, too. After all, it’s not every day that three men, armed to the teeth, burst in through the front door of your clinic.George O’Connor was a typical 37-year-old man, not at all accustomed to people barging in through the door, especially not people that looked like they could shoot you with those dangerously lethal rifles in their hands any time now. He had a sturdy, but not particularly strong, build and darker skin than most of the inhabitants of Alexanderburgh, hinting to his Mexican ancestry on his mother’s side. Dark hair, cropped short just above the ears, and a dark goatee, and a complexion that was rather well suited to his just ever so slightly frightened expression at this point.Before him and rather intent on getting through the door that he was currently delicately positioned to block, stood the three aforementioned men. One was short, light-haired, grey-eyed, Caucasian, dressed in blue shorts, a white straight jacket and something of a fisherman’s hat on his head and a rather amused expression on his face. The frightening part, however, was the rifle in his hands, and the two men besides him, who weren’t half as relaxed as he was. They, like proper gangsters, wore suits of the finest Milanese make. And frowns on their faces. Rather grim ones.“Oh, come on, doctor,” said the laid-back one, a smile flickering on his face, “we only need to visit a friend -that wounded police officer that came in recently. We promise you, we’ll make sure no one thinks you had anything to do with… any mess that we may leave behind.”O’Connor was not a brave man. But this was one step too far. He forced himself to scowl.“What do you want with him?” with an ever more courageous tone, the doctor asked. “Lay your cards on the table, gentlemen. Truthfully.”Mentally, he wrote a testament, leaving all of his belongings to his wife and children… and forbidding his wife from burning his copies of all the books of A Song of Ice and Fire that he had, what she hoped for ever since that day when he decided to get a tattoo of a crowned wolf in honor of the Stark family, as was their sigil in the books. Meanwhile in reality, he slowly observed the frowns on the men’s faces growing ever tighter.“Let’s say we owe him something, Doc. I don’t think I have to pronounce every single detail of our plans regarding the good lieutenant out loud. You’re a smart man.”“Yes, I am. And frankly, gentlemen, I see no reason to let you pass. Hippocratic Oath.”Witnessing the quizzical expressions on their faces, he decided to add:“Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given to me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.”He crossed his arms. “I will not give up the life of one of my patients to save mine.”The laid-back suddenly turned as grim as his fellows.“Pity, ‘Doc.”It seemed to O’Connor that an eternity passed by as the rifles turned towards him. He wouldn’t remember which one of them shot.

[The Dark Chronicler]

Member Name: PyrrhonTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 511Story: To Save a Life"Doctor, this is serious. He's losing a lot of blood! If we don't stop the bleeding soon... we're going to lose him!" The Nurse shouted, looking down in fear at the dying person laying down upon the table in front of them. "You have to save him!"The Doctor walked quickly over, pulling a tray of medical supplies with him. "Don't worry Nurse, I'll do all that I can. But I'll need to know what happened to him so I can save his life." He started quickly pulling aside select medical tools for use."There was a crash, his motorcycle struck a tree. He was thrown to the ground. Doctor, please! You have to help him!" The Nurse replied in a panic, staring down in terror at the poor, injured biker."Why has this gotten you so terrified, Nurse?" The doctor asked, turning towards the tray. The Tattoo of a wolf with a crown could be seen on his upper shoulder, his lab coat didn't have sleeves."He's my brother! He's thirty seven, the same as you! He's too young to die!" She replied, crying.The Doctor gasped in shock, before adjusting his hat to prevent it from falling. "Don't worry, I'll do all that I can.""Thank you doctor..." She replied."Now, First we'll have to disinfect the wound." He reached around, pulling out a bottle of clearing goo. "We'll have to get this directly in the wound.""Be careful! Don't hurt him!" The Nurse shouted.Carefully, the doctor place the gel on the wound, sweat dripping from his face. "Almost.... done. Now we need to seal the wound to stop the bleeding."The nurse closed her eyes and turned away. She couldn't look, it would be far too horrible to look. All she could do was hope that the doctor could save her brother's life.---"Charley, what's taking so long?" Will grumbled, laying back on the ground with his knee up. He'd crashed his bike and scraped up his knee. It didn't hurt all that badly, but that didn't change the fact that it was taking too long. "Just put the band-aid on already!""You can't rush a doctor!" Charley remarked, carefully and slowly moving the Bandage to the other boy's knee. On his arm was a temporary tattoo. And on his head, a hat a few sizes too large for him. "Now shut up and let me work!""Brother, stay calm! He's trying to save your life!" Sarah shouted again, looking down at her older brother with a nervous face."Ugh... will you two stop playing hospital and help put that band-aid on?!" Will complained, before snatching the bandage from his friend and applying it himself. "There, done."Charley watched Will get up and walk away with a frown. "Hey Sarah, want to go cause him to wreck his bike so we can play hospital some more?""Sure!" Sarah grinned. "Only, I get to be the doctor next time!"Will looked back at the two with a startled expression, before peddling away as fast as he could.

[Velox]

For the Character Story theme, does every detail required for the character have to be mentioned?

Yes. Your story should show a guy with all of those details, but how much you feature each detail is up to you.

[fishers64]

Member Name: fishers64Theme: Character StoryWord Count: 536 wordsStory: The Car WreckFlashing lights.The world blurs out.I woke up to see a man, bending over me. I could clearly see the crowned-wolf tattoo on his arm.“Eek!” I yelled. “Get away from me!”“Relax” he said. “I’m the doctor.”“You’re the doctor! You’re this town’s excuse for a doctor!”“Lady, please calm down. I’m sorry I startled you. You’ve broken your leg, just your shin. I’m just going to check to see if it is infected, then I’ll let you go. Alright? Please stay calm.”He pulls off my sheets. I squirm uncomfortably. He kneels down to unwrap the bandages around my leg, me intensely aware of his every move.“You’re fine” he tells me. “I’ve already set it, while you were asleep so you wouldn’t feel anything.” He wraps new bandages around my leg. “We’ll take you to a real hospital soon. They’re on their way, with an ambulance. They will get you a real cast.”A cast? I’ll be out of work for weeks! I’m a reporter, and I can’t travel with a cast!“What about the accident?”“It wasn’t your fault. Some drunk. You’ll be fine, just fine.”I squirm in pain, my face contorting. “My leg, my leg, my leg!”“It’s just the pain pills wearing off. Want some more?” He holds out the bottle to me.“No…I think I’ll be fine.”“Are you sure?”“Yes.” I wince as another explosion of pain travels up my leg.“You don’t sound like it.”I hear the faint wail of sirens. Good, they’re here, and I’ll be able to get away from this creep. “Trust me, I’m fine.”“You don’t trust me.”“What’s the story behind the tattoo?” I ask, hoping to distract him from darker ambitions.The paramedics enter the room then. “Looks like this is pretty under control.”The doctor waves them off dismissively. “Car accident. Broken leg.” He then pulls the bed away from the wall, skillfully maneuvering me through the halls and up the ramp of the ambulance. The paramedics follow, talking and joking with each other. Even though I’m still wearing my clothes aside from my cut-away pant leg, I still pull the sheets back over myself.The ambulance doors close behind me. I’m going to be just fine. “You asked me a question.” I looked behind me to see an imposing figure, wearing a leather jacket and hat, stand next to my bed.“You see, when I was younger I had a group of friends. We rode motorcycles, and called ourselves the Wolves. I was the leader, so when we were old enough, we got a tattoo to seal the deal.” He allowed himself a sly grin. “They thought of me as the leader, so they gave me a crown on the wolf.”“That place where you got wrecked is a dangerous pass. One of my buddies, he wrecked out there. Died. After that, I decided I would never ride again. Instead, I would settle down, go through school to become a doctor. That way, I could actually help some people. I thought I was helping my buddies, my fellow Wolves. But I was only helping myself.” His face fell. “I wanted to change that.”I nodded. “Thanks.”

[Legolover-361]

Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: Character StoryWord Count: 555Story: Crown WolvesKnock-knock.I open the door and gesture the middle-aged man into the house, assisting him briefly with his plenteous luggage. A quick glance outside before I lock the door ensures no one is lying in wait.“I do hope you realize what you’re asking,” says Doctor Quinn Jong, straightening his jacket and hat. His briefcases, large enough to match his healthy girth, lie on the sofa in front of the fifty-inch TV. “Cybernetic implants are illegal in this area of China.”“Because no one can stand up to the government’s cronies without them,” I respond impatiently. “Do you have all you need?”“I am not so old as to be that forgetful” — he scoffs — “especially when payment is involved.”“How old are you?” I ask.“Thirty-seven.”“That’s old enough. Here, let me carry that for you...”The briefcase is heavier than it looks, but I carry it downstairs without much trouble; how Doctor Jong, six centimeters shorter and at least ten kilograms heavier than I am, carries his other suitcase easily escapes my mind. I run through my knowledge of Doctor Jong: He has been working underground for the past eleven years since he graduated med school; his credentials include being hired as a freelance designer by the U.S.-run Gearhead Enterprises before being fired two years after for failing to comply with China’s numerous technological laws.Normally I would be more cautious about hiring strangers. But the twenty-second century turned China from physical to almost entirely digital transactions. I have no money on me, and this house is an abandoned one in the outer limits of a nearby town, so there’s nothing of worth here. If the doctor wants payment, he needs to perform the operation well and have me alive by the end.A table and two chairs have already been placed in the center of the basement under a hanging light. Doctor Jong and I place the briefcases on the chairs. As he opens one, I clamber onto the table.“You have the blueprints?” I ask.Without speaking, he hands me a piece of paper before fiddling outside my field of vision. I examine the design closely, noting with pleasure the CPU to be connected to my brain and the metallic support spine to increase my load-bearing capacity.“Good,” I say. “Here.”He takes the paper back and places it inside the case before drawing out a pipe and a needle. “I have to place you under to perform the operation,” he says.I nod. “Continue.”The needle’s prick is barely noticeable through my adrenaline high. The rapid fading of sensation in my arms, however, quickly overwhelms me. I breathe deeply and close my eyes.Then the pain starts.My lungs strain for air, but they can’t move. The pain spreads from my chest down to my abdomen and up to my throat. My eyelids snap up and I stare in horror at Jong, whose grizzled face is split with a smile. He pulls up his right sleeve; there, prowling across his bicep, is a wolf wearing a crown hung over one ear.The image dissolves as my brain begins to shut down. “The Crown Wolves operate for no one but the government,” says Jong. His voice is distorted as if it’s traveling through water.I wonder what will become of my cash.

[WriterofReapers]

Name: DespairTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 600Story: LossI walked over to a tall, middle-aged man sitting with his head in his hands, his proud back bent in sorrow. I had seen many others like him during my life, but it was never any less heart-wrenching of a sight. There was no guaranteed way to help people when they were like that, but I had always found that simply talking to them could help ease them a bit.“Excuse me, sir, but visiting hours are over for the day. However, I’d have to be a pretty cruel person to kick you out at this point, so do you mind if I sit down?”The man I was speaking to started at the sound of my voice as if he had been unaware of my presence. Of course, that was probably exactly what had happened; it was clear he had a lot on his mind. After a silent nod from the man, I sat down in one of the chairs next to him. It was almost ten minutes before he felt the desire to speak.“She was only five.”“I’m sorry to hear it.”I was. It wasn’t the first time someone would die so young, nor would it be the last. However, I understood the man’s pain. Losing a loved one is always hard, especially when by all rights they should have the rest of their lives ahead of them.“If you don’t mind my asking, why is it you are wearing that hat of yours while indoors and at night? Does it have some sentimental value to you?”He nodded and reached up to tough it gently, his fingers gently caressing the worn edges. “Before today,” he said, “I would have told you that it didn’t. But she always loved this hat of mine, and now I'm rather reluctant to part with it, even if only for a second. Funny how your attitude towards things can change so drastically over the course of a day, isn’t it?”Now it was my turn to nod, although something I had seen when he reached up towards his hat had caught my attention. It appeared to be a tattoo, but… what it looked like seemed completely random to a person like myself who had only just met this man. However, I suspected that it also seemed random to those who knew him well. As such, I decided to ask him about it.“Sorry to bother you with yet another question, but what exactly is that on your arm? It seems kinda… odd.”At my words, the man chuckled a bit. He had probably been asked that question a hundred times before now, but for some reason that didn’t seem to bother him. Rather, it appeared that he was welcoming the chance to talk to a curious stranger, to share stories of his life with a caring soul. He must have been thinking along those lines, or otherwise why would he have tolerated my questions at such a difficult time in his life?“It’s a wolf with a crown. My wife and I – back when we were still dating – went to a bar one night and ended up completely drunk. During that time, we each got one of these, mine on my right arm and hers on her left arm.”I nodded once more, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he stood up and began to straighten out his clothes.“I know it’s a bit late for introductions, but I’m Doctor- no. I’m Steve. It was nice talking to you, I really appreciate it. Thanks a lot.”With that, he left.

[Zaxvo]

Must he be a doctor in the traditional sense? As in, healing/medicine - style doctor? Or could it perhaps be, say, an academic doctorate? Or an alias? Or the cover for a secret agent?

[Aderia]

Gah, this was the most writer's block-inducing entry theme yet. XPName: Zosia DarrTheme: COT - Character StoryWord Count: 528Story: Flowers For Your Grave"...happy birthday to me," The last notes of the tune floated out from his throat hoarsely, fluttering through the air and disappearing with a bitter aftertaste. A single cupcake with an unlit candle sat in front of him on the counter, clutter-less for once.Today was his day off from the office. Dressed in ratty kahkis and an old band tee shirt, one would never guess that the man sitting at the counter was a certified veterinarian. Dr. Leonard Stephens apathetically fumbled with the matchbook, too small in his meaty hands. Finally, he managed to get the candle lit. "Happy birthday to you too, Connor," Leo's voice was barely audible over the roar of the air conditioning unit in his apartment building.It was June 5^th, and Leo's thirty seventh birthday. But that didn't matter. Not anymore. Today was the third anniversary of Connor's passing. Besides their parents, Connor's death had weighed most heavily upon his twin. While Leo had been pursuing the veterinary field, Connor had been one of the thousands of troops overseas. And when the news that he had died while fulfilling a lifelong dream and snorkeling in the Mediterranean where he had been posted had reached home, the family was beyond devastated. Even though the official cause of death remained unknown, the doctors suspected jellyfish or stingray venom. Even though they were fraternal twins, the Stephens boys had loved the fact that they each had a birthmark, a tight cluster of freckles. Connor's had been on the outer side of his left calf, and Leo's on the back of his left elbow. Hardly identical, but it was still one more thing that they shared.And now, as Leo snuffed the candle and got up, his newer, commemorative 'birthmark' came out from hiding under the counter ledge. It was in the exact same place Connor's real birthmark had been, but instead of a cluster of freckles, it was Connor's name. Except, it wasn't exactly. There was a neat story behind Leo's tattoo, and if anyone ever asked, he was glad to tell them. When their parents had found out that they were expecting twins, they were ecstatic. And so the twin boys were named accordingly. 'Connor' was a name that meant 'dog lover', or 'wolf lover'. 'Leonard', of course, was a name for a lion. And their surname, Stephens, meant 'crown'. And so, Connor Stephens was inked into Leo's calf in the form of a crowned wolf. Leo made his way towards the door in his apartment, snatching his long coat from the peg on the wall. Fishing the keys out of his pocket, he spared a look out the window. In the light of the setting sun, obese, rolling thunderheads moved in across the sky. He quickly made his way to the two open windows, slamming them shut and locking them, lest it rain while he was away. He grabbed his favorite hat, one of Connor's old ones, actually, off another peg in hallway corridor. Placing the hat on his head, he stepped out of his apartment, pausing only to snatch a cluster of flowers for the grave on his way out the door.

[Sumiki]

Name: SumikiTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 593Story: Doctor of EverythingHe stood at the street corner, waiting for the crosswalk to let him cross, feeling the brisk wind whip around him. He was wearing a trench coat and a large black Stetson, as he nearly always did. He liked both, but he liked the hat a bit more, he mused silently.Walking across the crosswalk with a brisk stride, he outpaced the rest of the crowd that was with him.It was his 37th birthday, and he barely noticed. To him it was another day on the job.As many a thought leads inexplicably to another within the deep recesses of the neuron maze of the brain, he thought back to his 36th birthday, where he had gotten his first tattoo. It got it on his lower right ankle, and was of a wolf. He liked it because the wolf was wearing a hat. (Well, not really a hat, to be precise, since it was actually a crown. Still, a crown was a kind of hat, wasn't it?)He was a doctor, though none who met him would imagine that at their first choice for his profession. In fact, from the looks of him, he looked a little like a private investigator. A day old growth of facial hair adorned his cheeks, and his boots made very little sound as they made contact with the concrete surface of the sidewalk.At the end of the street, he met a man whose clothes were the exact same as the ones he had on, save for a silver band around his hat. He was leaning back against the brick facade of a nearby cafe, sipping a small martini."Good evening, John," the martini-sipping man said."Good evening, Andrew.""The only reason you'd have that particular hat on would be to denote a murder.""Yup." He downed the last of his drink, laying it on a table with a small tip underneath. "Mafia got another one. Just a villager.""Still random?""Yup.""Let's get this over with, then"They traveled into a dark alley, where a sheet covered a body. The dumpsters around overflowed with trash, and flies flocked to them.Peeking under the tarp, he rolled the body over and did some quick diagnostics on it. She was dead, obviously. She was female, blonde, and was in her late 20s or early 30s.He found the wound: a gunshot to the head, as well as a few other shots around the body. Taking out a few of his trusty utensils, he poked, prodded, and generally worked a bullet out. Wiping it off with a sterile handkerchief, he looked at it in the light, pulling out a magnifying glass to aid his vision. He was experienced in the field of gun fingerprinting enough to recognize the unique characteristics which were imparted on bullets by the various firearms, especially those used by the Mafia which plagued this city."If you don't mind me asking, what kind of a doctor are you?" the detective asked. "Obviously you know your way around a body, but I haven't met too many medical doctors with your variety of expertise.""I know a lot about a lot," came the reply as he pocketed the bullet. "I'm kind of a doctor of everything; a doctor of life, maybe."Andrew smiled. "And yet, you deal in death.""I do. But I try to prevent it," he said. pulling a notepad out of his pocket and scribbling a few things down."Should I round up the usual suspects?""Not necessarily." He folded the piece of paper, handing it to the detective.As the doctor walked away, Andrew unfolded the paper.It contained four words: "He's right above you."

[dotcom]

I was kind of underwhelmed by this theme, since my second-to-last COT story had already been a sad one about a male doctor. So I decided to take a more enjoyable, darker route. This was pretty fun to write.Member Name: Panty AnarchyTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 538Story: Lost Metal

Lost Metal

“Doctor Smith, please put on your shirt! We are in the middle of an operation!” “But then nobody can see my tattoo, Nurse Claire. I’m beginning to think you don’t like it.“I don’t. And that hat is in rather bad taste, too. Wait, what am I saying, this is beside the point!” “Hmph.”Dr. Smith looked down at his bare chest. The dignified image of the mighty wolf, with its beautiful crown, greeted him as always. Of course, it was upside down, for otherwise, how could he see it? He had gotten the tattoo for his daughter’s seventh birthday. He knew she liked large dogs and princesses, so when he saw the stock tattoo in the parlor’s walls, he knew it was the perfect choice. For some reason, though, she hadn’t been as happy about it at her party. Maybe she didn’t get the gesture. He’d try to amend this by bringing up a stray dog from outside the house, but then his ex-wife had yelled at him, something about the dog having some disease or other. In all the commotion, he hadn’t had the chance to ask his daughter what tattoo she would get for his thirty-seventh birthday, which had been last week. She had given him a card. He had been a little confused, but decided to spare her feelings.Sometimes he thought he was the only sane person in the world. He began to put on his shirt. “I only wanted to display how much I love my daughter, but apparently some people don’t like that.”“Take off the hat, too.”“Out of the question. The hat stays.”“Why?” “I like the hat.” He didn’t see what the big deal was. It was scientifically proven that neon green fedoras with light-up features were pleasing to the eye. A respectable medic had conducted that research. (He was that respectable medic.)“Okay, what were we doing before you so rudely interrupted me, Nurse Claire?”“This is an appendectomy.”“Of course.” He examined the patient. There were no visible tattoos anywhere on his body. “He mustn’t love his family very much,” he muttered under his breath. “What was that?”“Nevermind.”He worked for a while, and then began to stitch the patient’s incision. The operation had been a success.It was then that nurse Claire spoke up: “Wait, I don’t think he’s breathing.” “Nonsense. We would have heard if his heartbeat decreased from the electrocardiothingy.”“Doctor, the electrocardiogram is plugged off, and it’s facing away from us. What are these wires?”“Oh! Now I remember! I needed a power source for my hat. My mistake. No harm done, though, right?”“Doctor, the patient is dead.”“So…no harm done, right? The corpse isn’t hurting.”“You are insane.”

**

Later, as he was eating a hot dog outside the hospital, he realized he had made a big mistake. He had left his favorite scalpel inside the patient. Bloody shame too. That scalpel had been engraved with his ex-wife’s face for their first and only anniversary. In a show of love, he hadn’t washed the utensil once. He didn’t think the people down at the morgue would let him retrieve it.Some people were just strange like that.

[Excelsior]

Member Name: ExcelsiorTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 600Story: The Wolf CrownedAlan sat by the inn's fire, his hat over his eyes. Three men approached him."Your pardon, sir," the leader said to him. "Are you Doctor Alan?""I am," he said, standing quickly. "Have you need of me?"The other paused. "Yes," he said finally. "But not in the way you think."Alan looked curiously at him."Would you show us your right shoulder, Doctor?""Of course," Alan replied.He rolled up his sleeve. Tattooed on his shoulder was the image of a great gray wolf."As you probably know," he said, "I am Alan of the Wolf, eldest son of Peter of that name. Distant relative of the Wolf Crowned of Arkanor. Are you from my home, by chance?""We are," the other man responded. He, in his turn, rolled up his sleeve. He bore an image of a falcon, with a golden ring around it.Alan's eyes widened. He bowed."Nay, Doctor!" the man said hastily. "Do not bow to me."I should, perhaps, have announced myself earlier. My name is Henry, knight of the King's Court. I am also, as you see, head of the House of the Falcon, Hereditary Stewards to the Wolf Crowned."But your age, Doctor. Are you over thirty-five?"Alan frowned, nonplussed. "I am," he answered slowly. "Following my coming of age, at twenty-one, I practiced my chosen trade for seven years at home, and seven abroad, as is the custom. I am now thirty-seven - but surely the Crown's Steward has not come to me because I am two years late in coming home!"Henry the Steward shook his head with a sad smile. "We have come for something far more important, Sire."Before Alan's astonished gaze, he dropped on one knee before him, grasping his hand. "I hereby pledge my loyalty to thee, Alan, rightful King of Arkanor. My life and my sword are thine."Alan withdrew his hand in horror. "Are you mad, man?" he cried. "I am a doctor, not a king! What of the Wolf Crowned, Ralph? What of his sons?"Henry looked up. His face was twisted with grief. "King Ralph and all his house, save you, Sire, are dead."Alan's heart seemed to stop. "What? How came this? When?""Three months ago," Henry told him, "the Snakes -curse them! - rose up against the Crown. Ralph had grown old, and the Crown was weakened. By treachery they murdered him and every Wolf in Arkanor - including, I sorrow to tell you, your father."I, with these two knights - Robert, of the Boar, and Lawrence, of the Leopard - escaped, and discovered that you are the nearest kin to the Wolf Crowned. As such, and having reached the age of succession two years ago...you are the Wolf Crowned, now."I beg you, Sire, take up the Crown. The Snakes have murdered thy family, and now oppress thy land. Thou art the only one who can bring back hope to thy people." He looked pleadingly up at Alan.Alan was silent, bewildered and frightened by this sudden news.He was a doctor, as he had said. He came of an insignificant family. He had never expected or wanted to rule.But then other emotions came, stronger than fear - grief at the death of his father, and of his overlord; anger at the murderers; and, unexpectedly, compassion for his suffering people.His people...He bowed his head."I shall, my Steward, and my most loyal knights."That night his shoulder throbbed, as he lay in bed. There had been added to Alan's Wolf a large, golden Crown.

Edited June 6, 2012 by Excelsior

[Maganar]

By using Ctrl+F, I discovered Zosia Darr had beaten me to the veterinarian idea. Alas...Ah well, here it is. Best I could do for this one; but it works I suppose.Member Name: MaganarTheme: Character StoryWord Count: 585Story: King of DogsFrom “Veterinary Workers Monthly:”This year, our Veterinarian of the Year award goes to Adam Thomasson, age 37. We brought him in to interview him about his career as an animal doctor.VWM: So Thomasson, tell us about how you feel about being titled Veterinarian of the Year.AT: I am honored to have received the title. It’s amazing to think, there had been a time when I was unsure if I wanted to continue my career as a veterinarian.VWM: Really?AT: Yes. I felt that perhaps my skills could be put to better use saving human lives rather than animals. It was when this one husky was brought to my clinic that everything changed.VWM: What was the condition?AT: I’m sure every veterinarian knows the situation! An owner had made the innocent mistake of leaving rat poison in a place where not just rats could access it. The husky had consumed some of the warfarin rat poison. As any veterinarian knows, it’s an anticoagulant that kills rats with internal bleeding.VWM: What happened to the husky?AT: He was bad shape. He’d eaten quite a bit and pumping his stomach wasn’t going to cut it, as his body had already processed a fair amount. It was the most difficult case I’ve had up to today that still managed to end happily. The poor animal was full of IVs that were delivering some medical coagulants, but he pulled through.VWM: You said this changed your view on veterinary medicine as a career. I’m not sure we understand just how, at this point.AT: A couple months later, I got a call from the owner. He was really broken up and something was clearly wrong, but I had to get back to my duties. I almost was about to hang up when he dropped the bomb on me and explained why he was calling: a disgruntled individual had broken into his home in an attempt to kill him to settle an old grudge. The would-be murderer came face to face with an unforeseen obstacle, however. The husky I’d saved attacked him and forced him to run off, but not before the man fired a shot into the dog with the gun he’d planned to kill the owner with. The dog bled out before it could be helped, but it saved the man’s life.VWM: That’s a touching story.AT: That dog showed me just how important a companion can be. Additionally, I had saved someone’s life with my medical skills, just like I’d always wanted to. I realized the world needed people to keep our faithful companions alive and well every bit as much as the world needed people to do that for humans. When people come to my animal clinic, I tell them about that noble husky, who I call the king of dogs.VWM: Does that relate to your tattoo?AT: Absolutely. I got the tattoo of a wolf wearing a crown shortly after that episode to serve as a permanent reminder of the king of dogs and the importance of my job. Also, the hat I’m wearing today is the one I wore on the day that husky was brought in. I always wear a hat, but I reserve this one for special occasions these days.VWM: Thanks for your time today, Dr. Thomasson… and we’ll make sure all our subscribers hear about your noble king of dogs.AT: I appreciate that. It’s always a pleasure to tell people that story.

[Space: Ocean of Awe]

Yet another story that isn't clipping the word limit, this must be some sort of record.Member name: Space: Ocean of AweTheme: Character storyWord count: 484Story: The camp doctorSitting at night at the foot of his bed, sometimes staring glassily at the tattoo of the crowned wolf, other times gazing blankly at his hats, which rarely left the small trunk filled with his belongings. Each day was a struggle: awakening to dawn's persistent rays, he would coax himself out of bed, force himself to meet the hopeful expressions of his patients, cower at the sad faces of their families.He would drag himself into that tent, feel the odor of death, pain, and misery wash over him as he took that single step from freedom into a living grave, awful beyond words, something no one should ever experience; a very crime unto humanity. This was the hospital of the refugee camp at which he worked, served, as a doctor. The people being treated had fled from someplace, escaping terror and exploitation, hoping for something better; if only they had known what awaited in these camps.It was his job to keep these people alive; nothing more, nothing less, but despite his desperation to escape from this awful reality, to hide away in his room until the sun rose mercilessly the next morning, he would sit at the children's beds, keeping them company when they had no one. Pulling up his sleeve, he would tell stories about the wolf with a crown, on occasion he would even put on a show of hats for his younger patients.Every night he would pray that the injection would cure, that the surgery would not fail. Every day he would watch patients grow thinner, see those once hopeful eyes full of despair, confront the concerned families, laden with bad news.Within three of his thirty nine years on this planet, he had seen, heard, and smelled more than any man should in three lifetimes. If not a man, woman, or child died in a week, it was extraordinary. If a month went by without a death, it was a miracle. With every child who died he felt a stab of pain, yet he had developed a strange apathy toward the family as they cried over their lost kin. How would they feel in his shoes, where his very life was death? If he cried over every child lost, as he did in the beginning, there would be nobody to care for the survivors. They thought that they had lost all hope? Try facing a child's mother, father, brother, after a failed surgery.  Try confronting the hopeful families of hopeless cases, day after day, week after week, month after month.Despite the everyday horrors of his occupation, the relief felt after a successful surgery, the elation of bringing good news to a recovering refugee's family, and the hope that one day, these people would escape the bindings of this cruel reality, pushed him through each day, week, month, of the selfless existence of a refugee camp doctor.

[Velox]

Must he be a doctor in the traditional sense? As in, healing/medicine - style doctor? Or could it perhaps be, say, an academic doctorate? Or an alias? Or the cover for a secret agent?

Whatever you want. All of those are fine.

[Toa of Dancing]

I'm assuming that you're waiting to post the final theme until someone posts after you? 'Cause I need to get this written and done before we re-floor our house. =PAlso, I just want to say that this entire contest was a genius idea, Velox and Fives. It's gotten my creative juices flowing, pushed me not to procrastinate, and been generally fun.

[Click]

So this one is over? I have a half written entry I could try and finish up if not.

[55555]

THEME #12: "The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. The general who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! It is by attention to this point that I can foresee who is likely to win or lose."-Sun Tzu, the Art of WarPreparationAny interpretation valid. Remember this is a COT Theme. Entries must comply with all rules posted in the first post. Sorry for the delay.Deadline:June 8th, 3:00 PM EST- 55555

Edited June 7, 2012 by 55555

[Aderia]

Member Name: Zosia DarrTheme: COT - PreparationWord Count: 592Story: The Second Door on the LeftUp the stairs, down the hall, the second door on the left.That door has been closed for three years.She walks past it, like she does every day. But today, the things that lie behind the door call to her.It has happened before, and she has tried to ignore the curious yearning, an almost insatiable longing to find out what she already knows, that stirs up inside of her. She has learned to shun, push down, and lock away the urge that is welling up inside her like one resists the allure of just one more cigarette.The girl steps forward, resting a thoughtful hand on the painted brass handle, almost daring to lean her weight against the cool, solid, whitewashed wood. She inhales slowly, and a whisper of a familiar scent teases her.It was nothing. Only a frustratingly evanescent memory, come back to haunt her.She lets the breath out.She turns away, not wanting to tempt herself. But her hand still rests on the doorknob.She takes a deep breath one more time.In her mind’s eye, she sees the picture of her family, which sits, all but forgotten, atop the mantle this moment.Before a wispy willow tree stands a family of four. They smile in the real picture, but not in her mind. There is a mother, and a father. There are two children. The girl recognizes a younger version of herself. And the boy beside her, only two years older than herself, and bearing a striking resemblance to her. They share their father’s thoughtful, caring eyes, and their mother’s proud, strong nose. The eyes of the boy in her mind blink, and find hers. Not the little girl beside him, but her, as if he knows he’s being spied upon. He mouths her name.The girl breathes out and opens her eyes, the image of the boy still fresh in her mind.And suddenly, she can stand it no longer.She twists the door handle almost desperately, and stumbles into the room.In three years, nothing has changed. If it hadn't been for the layers of dust, it was almost as though the room had been prepared just yesterday for the brother's return. Scuffed up white walls with lyrics painted over them, a simply designed ceiling fan with a solemn collectoin of dust on the blades, a rather large bookshelf against one wall, a tall mirror next to an empty laundry hamper, and a worn out bean bag chair next to a barely used work desk.The last thing her eyes find is the lonely, undisturbed bed. The blue and white patterned bedspread looks abandoned, uninviting, and lifeless.Even so, it is all the girl can do to make it over to the forgotten bed before the memories flooding through her cause her eyes to swim and shimmer like the scales of a fish through water.As she collapses onto the bed, and as dust is stirred up and gradually begins to resettle, the image of the boy from the picture flashes through her mind again.Again, he blinks, but this time, she with him.And as she does, she lets the tears overflow.After holding herself together for three years, it was good to cry. It was okay to lie there, vulnerable and raw. It was relieving to come to terms with her loss. And it was freedom to allow herself to finally wonder about the war that had taken her brother to a distant land, and when he could be coming home.

[Sumiki]

I cannot believe that, when I post this, I will have completed all twelve of these crazy things - especially considering that I'm on a road trip.Member Name: SumikiTheme: PreparationWord Count: 578Story: The Beckoning of SpaceNo matter what any mere landlubber told you to the contrary, space was indeed the last frontier. The endless void beckoned citizens to literally reach for the stars, to solve the problem of surviving the vast journey of light-years from planet to hopefully habitable planet.Here, the views were breathtaking, even through the tiny, reinforced windows that looked upon the sheer, empty blackness of space. Of course they knew there were things out there: stars, planets, comets, asteroids, black holes, dark matter, etc. It was incredibly hard to imagine, though. The closest humanity had ever gotten was throwing out unmanned probes to take pictures of faraway places. Some cynics doubted humankind's ability to ever send people out to Mars, even, as hibernation techniques had always failed and travel faster than light was fiction.But there were still dreamers. The dreamers that held onto their dreams when they grew up became the astronauts and cosmonauts which inhabited this space station, currently circling somewhere high above India.The romanticized version of space travel was laughable to the astronauts. Gravity on ships, sound in space, and faster than light travel were all tropes that were adopted by the population of Earth as ostensible fact. Even the relatively simple task of going extravehicular involved tedious steps.He had about half the suit on right now, and his comrades were busy floating around him, assembling and checking the individual bits of the complex space armor. It was tedious beyond all imagining, but hey, at least it had air conditioning.As any human being would, he would have not been able to take the process of putting on a spacesuit if he didn't have so much to think about. That was another thing: in space, you had to think. If you didn't think, you endangered yourself and everyone else onboard. Even when immobile, he had work to do in the form of intense mental preparation.You see, this was to be his first jaunt into space, and even the veterans of extravehicular activity thought it daunting.In space, Newton's Third Law was your best friend. If you were too far away from the vehicle, you can't really get yourself back, so you have to hurl something in the opposite direction. The equal and opposite reaction generated would throw you back to the vehicle, and back to safety.In space, you had to check your oxygen constantly.In space, you had to know your limits of energy and time.In space, the sun's weather predicted activity. Solar storms could make an astronaut sick from radiation, possibly starting cancer.In space, you had to be aware of tiny meteorites that constantly pelted your suit. Just one in the right place still had the capacity to incapacitate.All of these things, and more, were running through his head, vying for attention. He slowed down, focusing on whatever happened to come to his mind first:He'd be in space.Space.That was his dream. Space.Before he was aware of it, his helmet had been locked on."You ready?" asked the earpiece in his helmet. He answered to the affirmative in a slightly wavering voice.No matter how much time he had to go through his preparation, he still felt like he was unprepared. Sweat dropped off of his eyebrows, defying the air conditioning.But he also knew that right now was as good of a time as any.Space.Stepping into the airlock, he waited, his final mental preparations sprinting through his head.Space.The air was sucked from its lock, and a second later, the doors opened soundlessly.Space.

[fishers64]

And that’s all twelve, folks. To Velox and 55555, thank you for the challenge. :)Member Name: fishers64Theme: PreparationWord Count: 495 wordsStory: Movie Night“I have a large pepperoni and a medium pinapple-and-ham pizza. Will that be all?”“Yes.”“Name for the order?”I smile and give my name.“That’ll be twenty minutes.” That’s how long it takes me to ride down to the local pizza place, anyway. I shove a new batch of cookies into the oven, and check my watch. Swipe the keys off the counter and walk out the door.It’s a short ride over the hill, past the stoplight that everyone runs on red, through the asphalt crack in the median that someone got pulled over for using not too long ago, and into the spiffy pizza parlor with comfy red booths and pizza that all my friends drool over. Me, not so much. But they’re coming over tonight, so I’ll cut them some slack.I march up to the man behind the counter. Hand him the money politely, take the pizza boxes. He’s a nice guy; his daughter goes to my school, and he’s cool about our parties.I drive off, tooting the horn for fun.It’s just a small church group, the four of us, who like to watch movies together. We don’t get to do this as often as we like, especially in the summer with us traveling and all.Beep Beep. A driver cuts in front of me, runs the red light. Impatient. I see a car coming. It’s green his way. No. Smash. The front side of the legit driver’s car is crumpled in. On the driver’s side. I recognize the car. No. I pound my fist on the steering wheel, accidently hitting the horn. To my shame.* * *“Are you all right?”“Are you kidding?”“Sorry.”“Nah, I’m all right. Just a few broken bones.” I can tell from his grimace that it’s worse than that.“I’ll sorry.”“It’s all right. I forgive you.” He chokes on the last words, and I can tell it’s more than just emotion.I sit with him for a bit, until the doctors tell me that my friend needs his rest.* * *None of us feel like eating. My three friends sit around the table, staring at the two boxes as if they are about to bite us. The smell of burned baked goods hangs in the air – I got home too late to save my merchandise.I nibbled on one of the cookies that survived. “Maybe we should all just go home” I suggest feebly, vainly trying to salvage my crashed movie night.“Well, we shouldn’t let this good food go to waste” says the bottomless pit of the group, and we all chuckle, in a bittersweet way. Because we know, at least, that this is out of our hands. Eating doesn’t really make you feel better, or change what happened. It’s just one more thing.One more thing to do, to allow you to get past a sad moment and move on. And that’s what we did.

[55555]

Here's the belated banner:And for good measure:"The general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. The general who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! It is by attention to this point that I can foresee who is likely to win or lose."-Sun Tzu, the Art of War- 55555

[Velox]

Ultimatum and The Legacy polls have been posted; sorry for the delay, guys (BricksCascade and getting my wisdom teeth taken out today are my excuses). I'll finish making the rest of the polls tomorrow. Please go vote after reading all the entries in each poll!

[Danska: Shadow Master]

Name: Danska: Shadow MasterTheme: PreparationWord Count: 556Story: FriendshipThey were coming. Those people. Those wonderful people who I had once called friends. They were coming.It was my own fault. I had tricked them. Deceived them. Taken their money and tried to run, but they had found me. They were coming.I sat in my chair, waiting. The TV was on, but I had stopped watching it some time ago. I tried to pay attention, to distract myself, but to no avail. I tried to distract myself by making a drink, picking up an old book, even looking over my tax forms one last time. But nothing could fully distract me from that one, simple fact. They were coming.I did not know what they would do. They would be angry, I knew. There would be shouting, harsh words, I expected there would be pain. But what could I do? I did not have the money to return to them. I had tried running, hiding, but still they had found me. All I could do was sit, wait and try, however uselessly, to prepare myself.There is a knock on the door. I freeze up, tense, knowing who it must be. After a few seconds it comes again, louder this time. I rise slowly from my chair. I am not ready for this. I can't face them now, I need- it doesn't matter what I need. I have no choice.I shuffle slowly to the door, trying mentally to harden myself against the fear and the shame. It doesn't work. The knocking comes again, louder again and more insistent. I open the door slowly and see them standing there, stern expressions on their faces. I am not prepared. This will not go well for me.*Thirty minutes later*They have gone, and I am left...astounded. I had tried, fruitlessly, to prepare for a number of eventualities. But the one thing I had not prepared for, the one thing I had not expected, was kindness.They had been angry, yes, but they had understood. They knew I had not taken the money out of greed or selfishness. They knew that I needed it, that I was desperate. It was not right, what I had done, but they had even agreed to help me, to support me. After all I had done to them. The promises I made, the lies I invented. How did I deserve this?The TV is still on, but I cannot see it. My eyes are clouded with tears. I sit, staring into nothing, trying to understand. How did helping me benefit them? It did not, could not, make sense.It was not until much later that I realised, and I was ashamed it had taken me so long. It was friendship. It mattered to them more than what they had lost, and they were willing to make greater sacrifices still to keep it. In my desperation, I had not understood. I saw only the problems and a way to fix them, not seeing or caring what it might cost in the long term.This understanding brought me to tears, but I was smiling as they ran down my face. I had made a terrible mistake, but life had given me a second chance. An opportunity improve. And I would embrace that opportunity with open arms. I was prepared to do better.

[ZippyWharrgarbl]

Member Name: ZippyWharrgarblTheme: PreparationWord Count: 454Story: Boy

BOY

~~~Blagir sat on the cold stone bench, shivering under his rags of clothing. The club in his hand, made of cracked wood with scraps of leather for grip, was dead and dull, offering no protection or threat. He clung to it anyway, tears falling down his cheeks.At the tender age of six, his parents were forced to choose between losing their home and selling one of their children to the slave market. Seeing as Blagir’s siblings were either too young to be put to work or already had a job, the boy was sold for a fine price. He never saw his parents again after that. He missed them, but he supposed now his siblings were safe until the rent ran out again.He was sold a year later, and went from owner to owner due to his clumsiness for four more years. Finally, the slaver, who had had enough of Blagir’s constant returns, had sold the boy to an underground slave fighting group. The owners of the group, Claude and Edda, had accepted the boy- even one as useless as Blagir had some entertainment value in the arena. So, they started him off on small tasks. He would bring food and drink to the rich masters observing the fight. He would scrub the arena floor, and make sure it was free of muck for the next battle. He did this without complaint, every day.But then, he had messed up. A valued customer of the arena had ordered a drink, and Blagir had tripped while bringing it to him. The majority of the drink fell upon Blagir, but a rogue droplet splashed onto the customer’s boot.He had watched, twitching in fear, as the boot landed upon his face, sending him tumbling down the steps to the low stone wall surrounding the arena. He had shielded himself as best he could from the blows rained upon him by the man, and watched as Edda had run over and apologised profusely to the customer. And then Blagir was sent away, locked in a cupboard for an hour until he was brought out, only to be told he would be fighting tomorrow.And that day had come, and Blagir could hear the shouts and cheers from outside. He gulped as he heard someone announce his name. Over in the other holding area of the arena was a big, nasty warrior, well-experienced in fighting. Blagir had no such training. He had no chance. He had prepared himself as best he could, but what could he do? He could only sit and steel himself for death.The doors were opened. He rose to his feet and, knees shaking, he went out into the arena.

[Toa of Dancing]

For the heck of it: The word count of this story is dedicated to the co-host of this contest, the one who posted the theme while Velox was unavailable, 55555. =P (I had to edit this with that just 'cuz. XD)Member Name: Ballistic Jello Pickles (Toa of Dancing)Theme: PreparationWord Count: 555Story: False Alarm•••••"Shh, hide everything, quickly! Timothy can't see it yet!" whispered Sarah to her sister, Keonna. The two of them had just managed to hide the streamers, confetti, and banner for the teen's birthday. He walked into the room, his eyebrow raised as his sisters giggled. Then, shaking his head, he moved on to the kitchen. Both sisters crossed their fingers, hoping he wouldn't need anything out of the cabinet in which they had hidden the food supplies, including his cake.When he walked back through the living room only holding a can of soda, they gave each other looks of relief. The house had been like this the past few days, and they knew that Tim was suspicious of them. That made sense, of course, what with them sneaking, laughing, and generally being, well, suspicious.Then the day of his birthday came. Tim carefully poked his head out of his room,glancing sneakily up and down the hallway. No doors were cracked no sounds of stifled giggling broke the dead silence. Then again, that was to be expected at six o'clock in the morning, what what with Mom declaring no school on his birthday this year. Home schooling was such a great thing at times. Smirking, he crept silently down the stairs and into the kitchen.Victoria, his mom, was standing there when he walked into the room. With a small, "Good morning," and, "Happy birthday," she handed him a plate of pancakes. Beside that, everything seemed normal. With a shrug he went into his usual routine: eat, empty the dish washer, get dressed, and start messing on the computer. Sometime around eleven Keonna got up, and Sarah followed about an hour later.His Dad, Walter, walked in the door sometime around five in the afternoon. They all sat in the living room, and Tim opened his presents after his family sang a certain song (that is, in fact, copyrighted) to him. After that, they dispersed, and it seemed like a normal day, aside from now having a fair sight more money and a new game. That night, he went to bed content, though surprised.The following morning, however, a Saturday, he was surprised even more. When he trudged out of bed at nine (which was late for him), he found the house silent again, aside from Victoria moving around downstairs, probably cleaning the bathroom. With a rather large yawn, he walked into the kitchen.The moment his face was visible around the corner, he was assaulted with a foghorn, a dozen or so voices, a few pounds of confetti, and three cans of silly string. Sputtering, he crawled out of the pile and got up with the help of one of his friends. Immediately he was handed a plate with Eggs Benedict (his favorite breakfast, oddly enough) covering it, and he was dragged into a chair at the dining room table.Still coughing from the inhalation of those likely poisonous fumes from the string, he glanced around the room, seeing most, if not all his friends from church and other activities standing around him. Yeah, that had surprised him. Looked as if his family knew him well enough to know that he would expect a surprise and they had managed to trick him anyways. With a chuckle, Tim went right to eating his breakfast.

Edited June 7, 2012 by Ballistic Jello Pickles

[Legolover-361]

Thank you, Velox and 55555, for hosting such a wonderful contest. * * *Member Name: Legolover-361Theme: PreparationWord Count: 600Story: The Soldier“...Daddy?”Hodges’s round blue eyes pored curiously into his father’s bedroom. Daddy was packing a suitcase that lay on his antique wood desk; when Hodges spoke, he turned and smiled, but his eyes didn’t twinkle like they usually did. His face seemed worn, like the old teddy bear Hodges had been gifted after his birth eight years prior. A single, dim lamp cast a halo of light across the clothes folded haphazardly in the suitcase — Mommy always said Daddy wasn’t good at being tidy.“Daddy?” repeated Hodges, stepping cautiously into the room. “Mommy says you’re going away.”Daddy sighed, letting his smile fade. “Yes, son,” he said, packing a mottled green-and-brown suit into his briefcase. “Daddy’s going far away. He has a job to do.”“But why?”Why was a magic word. Whenever Hodges asked it, Daddy’s eyes would defocus, and his mouth would form into a half-puckered frown bordered by stress lines; he wouldn’t speak for several seconds, and when he did, his voice was slower, rougher.“Come here, Hodges,” said Daddy finally, patting his lap.Hodges complied obediently. His daddy needed to help him up.“There are bad people in our solar system,” he began, his voice as coarse as his hands holding Hodges in place.Hodges nodded.“Some of these people want to... hurt us. Hurt our friends. Maybe even hurt you” — he poked Hodges with his rotund index finger in the stomach, and Hodges giggled. “So there need to be... to be people who can stop the bad guys. Understand?”Again Hodges nodded.Daddy’s smile returned, bittersweet. “I’m one of those guys.”“Really?” Hodges’s surprise was almost palpable. A new question, however, wrinkled his forehead. “When are you coming back?”“I — I don’t know,” said Daddy finally. “Maybe never.”“You’d go forever and ever and ever and—?”“I don’t want to, Hodges. You have to understand, I’m making Mars — and every other planet — a safer place. For everyone.”He looked up. Mommy stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in a bun. One-year-old Mike lay in her arms, tucked against her chest. She and Daddy stared at each other for a long time before Daddy finally lowered Hodges to the floor.“I’ll drive you to the spaceport, John,” said Mommy. Her eyes were sad. Daddy looked self-consciously to the suitcase and busied himself with tidying its contents.* * *Daddy reached the top step of the space-jet and turned with a salute. Mommy used one hand to help Hodges salute in return; her other arm still cradled Mike. Hodges looked up; her eyes were shining like the windows.“Mommy, why are you crying?” asked Hodges.Daddy disappeared into the spacecraft, and the door closed; ponderously, the space-jet taxied across the runway to the dome’s airlock.Mommy licked her lips. “Mommy’s just very sad,” she murmured. “Your daddy is a brave man, but courage is no guarantee of safety.”Hodges thought about that. “Daddy will be safe, right?”Her lips compressed. She didn’t respond.The airlock door shut. Hodges glimpsed through a window in the Martian colony’s dome the space-jet flying into the distance. It receded till it was too far for even Mommy to see. She exhaled heavily and gripped Hodges’s hand till his fingers began to tingle.“Mommy—”She lessened her grip. “Time to leave, come on...”“Mommy” — Hodges’s innocent eyes locked with his mommy’s — “someday I want to go into space and fight bad guys, just like Daddy.”Mommy didn’t look again at Hodges till they returned to the car. Her eyes were red by then, her lips white, her cheeks moist.

Edited June 7, 2012 by Legolover-361

[Velox]

Alrighty, guys, the Character Story and Music polls have been posted! Please go vote in each poll after reading all the entries. Seriously, voting is very important for this contest, so please do so!!REMEMBER: Still over 24 hours left to enter the "Preparation" theme, the last and final theme!! Just as a note, I will be extending the deadline until 11:59 PM EST (June 8th). Since it's the last theme, I'll give people a few more hours to enter. With that, get writing!! Usually I am lenient with the deadline, but unfortunately I will have to be more strict with this one as it is the last theme. However, as I said, I did extend the entry period by a few hours, so hopefully that will give everyone enough time to enter.

Edited June 7, 2012 by Velox

[Nuile the Paracosmic Tulpa]

I am prepared! It's hard to believe that it's the last day so soon. Twelve days, twelve great inspirations, twelve stories. It's been a great time. If everyone else enjoyed it as much as I--which it would seem they did--this has been a mightily successful contest. Many thanks to you both, Velox and 55555.Member Name: Nuile: Lunatic WordsmithTheme: PreparationWord Count: 600Story: To Be a WarriorI closed the monastery doors behind me, shutting out the whirling snow. Slowly I stepped forward into the empty courtyard. I felt disappointment welling up within me. I had heard rumors that the monastery was abandoned, but I had refused to believe them. But I saw no signs of life. Had I really traveled all this way for nothing more than a legend?I couldn't decide between relief, surprise and fear when I found myself suddenly surrounded by a ring of ebon-clad men. I decided fear was appropriate as they struck out simultaneously, battering me from all sides before taking my feet from beneath me.I had hiked for days through snow and sleet, for miles up steep inclines and sheer cliff faces. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was cold. And now this was the greeting I received? I refused to take it lying down, literally or otherwise.I leapt to my feet again and, before my attackers could react, kicked one back. I raised my arms to block punches from two of the others and then seized their arms. I jumped up to kick at the other two and upset the balance of those I was holding.The first regained his feet and lunged at me. He punched and kicked and chopped, and I matched him blow for blow. His foot connected with my stomach but I grabbed his knee and twisted. While he fell over I turned to his brothers who were back on their feet."Enough!"I turned to identify the speaker. A man with two short strands of beard and deep eyes stepped out of the shadows. His hands were folded behind his back and his lips were drawn in a long frown."Who are you?" he asked."Just a man like yourself, seeking to make the world a better place.""And how is it you came to find us?""A mutual friend told me."He raised an eyebrow. "And why is it you have come?""I wish to join you.""Join us! And what makes you think you are worthy? My warriors are trained to fight a hundred in battle.""And I just held my own against five of them.""My warriors are brave.""Give me a few more minutes, and they'll turn tail.""You are bold, I'll give you that. But being a warrior means much more than that. My warriors are selfless.""I didn't come all this way in hopes of ransacking an ancient temple.""My warriors are persistent and tenacious.""This wasn't the only mountain I've climbed searching for this monastery.""My warriors are devoted. Can you dedicate yourself entirely to our cause?""I would lay down my life for it.""My warriors are humble."I hung my head. "That I am not.""And for that reason," said the man, "I believe you are." He regarded me. "But answer this: Why is it you wish to join us?""My life has been a penurious one. I've been oppressed by hooligans and thieves. I have seen firsthand the damage done by wrongdoers. I havelearned to fight back. I believe it is my purpose to protect the innocent, and that is what I have been trying to do. But I heard that here I could become more than just that. I heard that you could give me the strength I need to be a hero."The man was silent. Then his lips curved into a smile. "You are among the worthy. Your life has prepared you for my teachings." He bowed to me. "Welcome, brother! Welcome to the League of Shadows!"

[JRRT]

Great job on this contest, guys. It's great to see so much writing creativity going on 'round here.------------Member Name: TolkienTheme: PreparationWord Count: 600Story: "Ever Up"

Ever Up

He opened the door wide on creaking hinges, letting the orange light of evening spill across the floor of the hut. The windows followed, shutters flapping open in the breeze that was just now rising over the empty prairies from the north. It blew gently through the hut as he busied himself with other matters, shuffling about on aching knees.First, he swept. A slow task with the thatch-broom that he always kept in the corner. Dust rose in little clouds as he worked, glinting in the sunlight before the wind snatched it up and away.When that was finished, he turned to the furniture. Not much: only a wooden table and chair. These he dusted, straightening the small collection of books on the tabletop, and put away the pewter dishes that lay scattered about. They would be useless to him on the journey. He smiled faintly, though, as he touched the books. They were dear to him. He would miss them.Next, he hobbled outside, leaning on a stick that he had used for many years. Rounding the hut, he made his way up the hillside behind. There, he looked upon the pens of sheep and goats that he had tended for so long. A hermit must keep himself busy, after all, and what else was there to do on the open prairie but tend the animals and read and think? What more indeed?He wheezed a bit as he stooped to lift the latch of the main pen. The gate swung open, and he tied it to a stake so it would not shut. Within, the livestock shuffled around but did not leave the safety of the pen. They held together, looking back at him with dark eyes. Sad eyes. He smiled at them, always grateful for their simple, silent company.The descent from the hill was harder in the twilight. The hut seemed grey now, thatched with colorless reeds, fluttering in the wind. He stopped when he reached the door again, looking out into the distance.South, he looked, and then west. The wind stung his eyes as he turned to the north, and he shielded them with one trembling arm. Soon, now. Soon he would go. The thought sent a shiver through his aged body, and suddenly he wept, for he was lonely. Here in the desolation of the prairie, with only the sheep and goats to keep company, he was lonely at last.He had chosen this solitary life for himself, but now…now he longed for something else. He longed for speech and company…warmth on a cold night.Soon he would go. Yes, very soon, and he was ready.His hand gripped the wooden stick tightly as he turned from the door, leaving it thrown open to the prairie and the fading sun. With faltering steps he moved towards the chair, wheezing as he lowered himself into it. He wore a weathered cloak, and on his feet were traveling boots.Now all was prepared. Yes, now was the time.The hermit lay back as the sunlight fell away, and night crept up from the west. His eyes closed……and abruptly he went out…out from the sheltered place into that greater night where there are no stars. A dry land, with dark hills rising to a darker sky…But above those hills, fitful and half-lost in the darkness, it seemed that a pale light flickered faintly.Now suddenly he started forward on strengthening limbs, casting aside the walking stick, for he may now climb those deathly hills without weariness…climbing…climbing ever up.Ever up, toward the light.

End

[The Dark Chronicler]

It's been great fun writing all of these. I've had moments where I've been stuck for ideas and the stories didn't turn out well, and others where the theme just brought up an idea I really liked. This contest really kept the entertainment going, and it's hard to believe that it has been so long since it started.This shall be number twelve, all portions entered. I believe this is my best entry into the contest, it gets my thoughts and ideas into words better than any other. It was most enjoyable to write, and i couldn't think of a better way to end my list of entries.Member Name: PyrrhonTheme: PreparationWord count: 582Story: All of the PiecesNeeded is paper, the canvas of the writer. The place where thoughts come alive. A blank expanse that awaits to be molded based upon thought and idea, a world just waiting to be formed. It can contain the great stories of heroics and bravery, of love and emotion, of darkness and of terror. It desires only the hands of those who have an thought that can be expanded, an idea that needs to be preserved. It is merely a pad of paper, but it can become so much more, so much greater. It sits on the desk, laying open, awaiting the words of a land formed by imagination.Needed is a pencil, the tool from which words are formed. The tip holds the power of creation, the ability to design anything that the mind can see. It can be a weapon, starting wars, bringing death and violence. It can be a tool of beauty, creating lands that inspire and awe. It can cause depression or joy, tears or laughter. It is a mighty tool in the hands of one who wishes to write. It sits beside the paper now, awaiting the hand that will use its power, to stir the emotions of others, and leave a lasting impression on those who feel the words.Needed is an eraser, the reverse of the mighty pencil. It can destroy all that the pencil makes, undoing what has already been set. It can fix the slightest of errors, or dissolve entire portions of a world. A battle can be undone, to have never happened. A character can cease to exist, remaining nothing but a passing memory. It can repair the damage of war, or undo the happiest of endings. It now stands silently beside its opposite, waiting for the chance that its abilities to change the past be required.Needed is the hand of a writer, the force that allows the pencil to create, and the eraser to wipe clean. The hands that fill the paper with creation and imagination, that guide the creation of worlds. They hold the power to bring the pencil to paper, and bring hope and sorrow to those who live within the words. They steer each thought into place, and should one thought strike against the flow, remove it with the eraser. They sit aside the paper, one to the right, one to the left. They await the beginning of a new tale from the mind of their owner.Needed is inspiration, the most valuable tool of all. It can not be prepared as the others, it arrives only when it wishes, bringing with it the path that the story must travel. Without it, there is no need for the pencil and paper, there is no world to create. The eraser lays in silence, having nothing to repair. The hands sit motionless, doing nothing but wait, hoping that the inspiration will arrive and allow them to begin. There is no way to control it, only to harness it and use it to form great works of the mind. It can vanish for days, leaving a writer to struggle, or it can arrive like a great energy, compelling the hands, steering the pencil, and creating realms based upon dreams and nightmares. It can come from the strangest of places, the smallest of sources. It can be awakened by the most amazing of events, or merely the preparation to write.With all of these wondrous tools brought together, imagination can be unleashed.

[dotcom]

Member Name: Panty AnarchyTheme: PreparationWord Count: 600Story: Silver Alibi

Silver Alibi

“One can’t simply commit a crime and escape unscathed. If that were the case, there would be no point in crime. It’d be a boring, anarchical world. “If there is no risk, if there is no thinking involved, what is the point? We might as well be animals. “One can’t simply commit a crime. There is a prelude to everything, in order to work the crime to perfection. “In order to accomplish this, we need a plan, we need to be prepared. We must have a set goal. We need account for all variables. We must have an alibi, and, of course, we need to have no witnesses.” He turned around. There was nobody else in this cellar, for why would there be? A witness would only complicate matters. He was about to commit a significant crime. And although, due to technicalities, it would be a self-damaging blow, it would also be the perfect crime. He had every necessary factor accounted for. He could not fail. For the moment being, however, he had to make sure everything was ready. Beyond this cellar was a freezer room, where meat and other produce were kept. He made sure the door was unlocked, and that he had the key close by. He went upstairs. There was a butcher on the ground floor, small shops whose owners had left a couple of days before and were scheduled to return later tonight. He took a trip across the city. It wasn’t a very big city, and so, it wasn’t a very long trip. When he finally came to his destination, he had arrived at a factory of his biggest rival. He was still young, but had inherited his parents’ business when they had died in a tragic, traumatizing accident. It was simple for him to break in, find the owner’s office, and in it, a knife. This knife he gripped with a gloved hand, and set off to light a fire in the main factory floor. The stage had begun to be set for his crime. He then visited every other building owned by competing companies, making sure to stay in the shadows. Every time he lit a fire in, and every time he made sure to leave no distinguishable trace. Everything was ready. He returned to the butchers’ shop. Tomorrow, the town would be ablaze with the news of the many lost buildings. It would be clear arson, but nobody would be able to find the culprit. He would be the prime suspect, but he had a perfect alibi. It was safely tucked away in his coat, at least for now. He went downstairs, taking off his clothes. He was prepared.

**

The morning after, the town was indeed ablaze with the news of the charred buildings. The prime suspect was Peter Frowthorn, the unpredictable, scarred young man who had inherited the Frowthorn industries. Nobody would be surprised at his eliminating the competition. However, the previous night, the butchers, part of the Frowthorn family and those who had been living with Peter, had found him dead in their top floor. They had called the police, who, despite the blazing fires raging outside, had managed to come and inspect him. His body was cold, very cold. He had been dead for hours, long before the fires started. Sticking from his chest was a knife, engraved with a competitor’s seal.They had met a dead end. They attempted further action, but it was ineffective. The Frowthorn boy was dead, and the buildings were gone. However had worked the crime had been very well prepared.

[Padishah Mehmet II]

Member Name: Tsar DovydasTheme: PreparationWord Count: 600Story: In Honor's Name

In Honor's Name

“You ready down there, Ceh’Larr?”The hall in the Diurghas arena where the gladiators got ready for the fight to the complete and terminally utter death that awaited them above seemed quiet as never before today. Ceh’Larr, the soon-to-be champion gladiator of Diurghas, eligible to fight against the champions of the other cities of Naghaldia, shook his long dark hair aside from his face, which, like the faces of many Naghaldians, looked as if it was carved from light bronze with some remarkably sharp, but gentle tool and took a glance up, towards the ceiling – well, lack of a ceiling – high above, where the desert sun’s heavy light penetrated through a patchwork of iron bars.“Yes, ready, Eglund. Is everything in order?”Gladiators in Naghaldia, unlike in other countries of the Far South, such as Athofilgh or Antigorr, were not slaves. Rather, they were freemen, volunteers actually wishing to risk their lives in the name of glory and Ilrahn, Lord of All. Their swords sung a bloody praise to their god.“Yeah. I’ve also got…”Eglund, a young, light-skinned, brown-haired man of about twenty years of age – evidently not a local Naghaldian – suddenly cut short. Well, “cut” might’ve not been the right word to use. More like, his tempo of speaking slowed down to nonexistence. Ceh’Larr could still visualize his shillouette in the sun’s hard light up above, so he had not disappeared.“What is it, Eglund?”“It’s gonna be hard to hear, ‘Larr.”“Try me.”Ceh’Larr could swear he heard Eglund sigh. Heavily.“Your opponent is Magda.”It’s impossible to describe what the Naghaldian gladiator felt at that point… but we could start by mentioning he felt the ground spinning right out from under his feet. He caught hold of a nearby training dummy, leaning on it as if drunk while a surge of pain overran his entire body, charging from the heart itself right to the brain and to every end of the nervous system there exists in the human body.“Eglund, she’s---““Ceh’Larr, before you jump to conclusions, I tried getting her out of this. Talking her out of this. I’d almost done it, before that [redacted] archpriest of yours intervened. Long before I know it, he talks some nonsense about honor and courage, and a remarkable lack of any mention, for a priest, of God, of Ilrahn – probably assumed, rationally, that Ilrahn wouldn’t support a brother and a sister fighting out to the death.”Ceh’Larr spat. “You can’t be serious. I’m not going against my sister. If she doesn’t quit, I will.”“You can’t quit!”“Watch me.”“I won’t, ‘Larr. Because when I said ‘you can’t’ – I meant it. That god-forsaken archpriest’s prepared some stuff with the Gladiator Master. You literally can’t quit… otherwise, you, and worse, Magda, are dead.”Ceh’Larr didn’t feel succumbing to his knees. It was so natural. “Eglund, why are they doing this?”“Money, ‘Larr. Gold and silver. A lot of commercial value in selling a fight between two siblings… to the death.”“I’m not going to kill my sister so they could get their cash.”“There’s only one way you can do that, ‘Larr.”“How?”“Lose.”The gladiator tried standing up, slowly, weighing his options while he still could. This moment, he used to dream of it, when he was just a common gladiator trainee, amongst hundreds of others. He dreamt of it, all the way to the top. He dreamt of it for so long… to be the champion of his city.But now…“Leave me, Eglund. I need to prepare.”He fell to his feet again. And prayed.