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Art-to-Fic Preliminary Poll - 2


Art-to-Fic Poll - 2  

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Vote here for your favorite Art-to-Fiction story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 9th at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to Art-to-Fiction Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 10th round preliminary poll.

 

Choice #1:

 

"Hunt"

I'm running. Harder than I ever have, and hopefully harder than I ever will.

The human body really is amazing, isn't it? When it comes to impressing girls, it'll lock up and prevent you from moving even a few steps. But when it's a matter of life and death, suddenly you become your own little Superman. You run faster, jump higher. Sadly, though, there usually aren't any girls to impress in these moments. Like right now. I'm running, but I'm all alone. Or rather, without companions.

Because try as I might, I won't be alone, not until I leave this jungle. My hunter's still stalking me, playing this real life version of The Most Dangerous Game. He's Zaroff, I'm Rainsford. He's got the advantage, I have nothing but my own wits. And a human body.

“Oh, Mr. Lancaster? Dear Mr. Lancaster, where are you?”

At least he doesn't have his hounds.

I've never been very athletic, so really, the above comparison wasn't too accurate. I've never hunted, let alone been hunted. I have no clue about how to make traps, how to obtain food, and so on. I don't stand a chance. This won't end with me sleeping in the best bed I've ever slept in, unless one counts a crude grave as “the best bed one can ever sleep in.”

I run deeper into the jungle. It's dark, all of the Sun's light being blocked off by the canopy above. I can barely see. All I can make out are the tree trunks ahead.

My body's losing power. Even Superman goes down after a while. Getting tired. Can't run. Need...to..slow down.

I collapse. It's over, I can't go on. My captor has me.

Except he doesn't. I hear no sound. But I do notice something. A glint of light up ahead. Could it be him with a flashlight?

I wait, lowering the sound of my breathing as I do so. My chest hurts, my lungs feel punctured. But this is life or death, and I can't lose.

The light doesn't move. It's a set source. Could it be salvation? It's either try or die in this situation.

I vote try.

After five minutes, I pick myself up and walk towards the light into a lush, green meadow. The trees decided to let light shine through in this area, and for the better. The circular area is skirted by beautiful trees, their leaves turning the light into a dazzling lightning green. There's the outlying darkness, but it contrasts so well with the green that it adds to the picture.

And in the middle of it all is something beautiful: a large plant, red and laced with white flowers. It beckons to me. It calls to me. Come, rest, take a break. He'll never find you here. You deserve this.

My body's too tired to let my resolve control it. Without any hint of doubt, I walk over and plop down into the plant's cushiony, sofa-y middle.

Then it begins. The petals rise up and trap me inside. I struggle to get out, but to no avail; I'm trapped. Stuck.

Liquid starts rising, smelling terrible. Some form of digestive juice. Years of science have taught me that.

But they didn't teach me to watch out for suspiciously placed plants.

“Oh, Mr. Lancaster. I expected better of a highly regarded scientist. You almost gave me a good hunt. Almost. Alas, it's sad it ended this way. Good bye.”

I'll never sleep in the best of beds. Unless if a plant's belly is the best of beds.

Granted, it is pretty soft.

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Choice #2:

"God's Garden"

 

Beautiful trees and flowers towered above me; colossal beings that inspired both awe and a little bit of fear. Such was the case with all things in this garden, because this wasn’t just any ordinary garden, this was the Garden of God.

 

All around me I could see Angelic Beings, hard at work, cultivating these gargantuan beings. It was marvelous seeing them at work, seeing them take the ordinary and make it extraordinary. Never in my life had I seen such sheer beauty, such sheer magnificence; no earthly being could accomplish such a task.

 

However this also means that no earthly words could possibly describe this wonder and so I will cease with all attempts, instead I will merely relate to the things I experienced and bore witness to.

 

The first thing that must be mentioned are the Angels. My god, pardon the phrase, were they brilliant. Spectacularly divine beings of unparalleled beauty, once more words fail to properly convey their radiance.

 

These majestic beings were scurrying back and forth from the far reaches of the garden tending to and from the plants. They were carrying out a variety of tasks: Some Angels ferried with them a golden liquid that I can only postulate was a heavenly equivalent for our mundane water. The plants soaked up this liquid and grew nigh immediately.

 

Other Angels were trimming the plants akin to how one would a show dog. Hence it is my belief that the proper word would be grooming. They were grooming the plants to become towering beauties like the rest of their brethren. However it still bears mention that, even at this infantile state, their beauty was leaps and bounds beyond anything on earth.

 

Even more Angels were diligently administering an odd green liquid into the soil, the only explanation my mind can formulate is that this was a some sort of heavenly fertilizer. Still, this explanation does not sit well my soul and I believe its true nature is incomprehensible by our minds.

 

These are but a few of the countless tasks I saw the Angels partaking in to make this garden so divine. I cannot fathom the nature of a tenth of these tasks and I understand even fewer. However it was never the tasks or even the plants within in the gardens that truly inspired me. What truly screamed brilliance and will remain embedded in my soul for all eternity is the most beautiful event one can see on any plane of existence:

 

The birth of a new soul.

 

Still, do not mistake my words of praise as claiming this sight was on par with any in the mortal realm. This event was still a multiplication tens of thousands of times greater than its earthly equivalent. The births I saw can never be surpassed by anything except, perhaps, the birth of a new god.

 

Of course, considering how unfair to you it is for me to prolong my explanation with any more embellishment, I will now offer my explanation. I had been walking through the marvelous garden, thoroughly enjoying the heavenly spectacle, when a flower, that had previously remained closed to me, decided now was the right time to open. Inside it rested an even more beautiful creature, a tiny little gift from god, an infant angel. Even as new born it still conveyed that it was a majestic being.

 

Still reeling from my shock and awe at seeing such a beautiful creature I slowly looked up and down the rows of flowers. Another fantastical sight lay before me as I saw more and more flowers opening to reveal their true splendor. That was the moment it dawned upon me:

 

I, Andrew Caldwell, have truly walked down the path of God and seen the majesty of his garden.

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Choice #3:

"Rules of Combat"
The rules of combat are clear to us.
There are always two combatants.
There are only two weapons.
Victory is called when one person’s fighting spirit is broken.
Bones may be cracked.
Blood may be spilt.
Lives may be taken.
But there must be a victorious soul.
There must be a defeated soul.
The rules of combat are clear to us.
I fight against Him.
The Blade-man, the Knife-artist, the Steel-stinger.
All assembled know what He will choose as His weapon.
A leather handle...
...topped with seven inches of cold, iron death.
Fun.
He steps forward; His eyes gleam in the dark like His blade does in the sun.
His smile is a wolf’s grin.
His stance proclaims Him as victor of a thousand battles.
The common consensus:
He will win.
I will die.
It is prophecy -- written in the stars by the divine.
Divinity cannot be beaten.
And that is why I challenge it.
I reach down to claim my weapon.
Fingers slither through shallow undergrowth.
A rigid ovoid is trapped in my grip.
I rip upwards, dragging my prize into the light.
Reaching out, I reveal my weapon.
It is met with laughter.
Ridicule.
Pity.
Despair.
Because how can He, Knife-soul, lose to me, Fruit-bearer.
Quietly, I take my own blade and slice my weapon in two.
I keep one part; the rest is thrown away.
We enter the circle.
The battle commences.
He charges, steel aimed for my throat.
I step aside, raising my left shoulder, making a new target for his blade.
Blood splatters, and I keep turning, twisting his knife deeper into my arm.
Pain burns in my flesh, but I am stronger than it.
I endure.
I always endure.
He tries to wrench his weapon free, and I raise my free arm -- my fruit arm.
Step back in front of Him, push my weapon forward, towards His eyes.
I focus my pain into my right hand.
My fist clenches.
Acid flies.
He screams, grabbing at His face.
Drop my weapon; draw His.
Let His blade land on the ground.
My fist moves like lightning through the air.
It finds His face like flies find dung.
he joins his weapon in the dirt.
Victory is called.
The rules of combat are clear to us.

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

Choice #4:

"Trigger"

I think that within this universe, in the journey of every sentient species, there is a threshold.On the near side of the threshold is prematurity: space-faring civilizations whose hops and skips onto stellar stepping stones are fueled primarily by hubris, temerity, and more than a few careless decisions; societies still consumed by civil war and turmoil, who have not found a common enemy to unite them and so turn on themselves like fever on the human body — i.e. adolescence. The mountain lies before them, but they only have the faintest idea it exists and know not what it means. Humanity belongs to this group.The far side of the threshold is maturity. I don’t know what lies beyond the threshold, for I’m only human. I don’t know what a species in adulthood would be. Maybe species beyond the threshold are as burdened with war, dissonance, poverty, and mortality as the rest of us primitives are.The threshold itself, however, must not be discarded. It (theoretically speaking) must be a trigger, what event or discovery that awakens a race to its potential and, like spurs in the sides of a horse, accelerates its pace.Why am I relating this? First, I’ve been on a science fiction binge for my past month on Europa: Speculation has become a part of my daily routine.Second, I believe I’ve discovered the trigger.* * *If I had to describe Europa in one word, I would choose “interesting”.Its tenuous atmosphere contains oxygen, the product of water molecules on Europa’s surface being broken into their base components and hydrogen atoms’ nominal mass. The temperature about the area of Outpost EU1-E, to the best of my knowledge, has never risen past negative two hundred eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Naturally, being on average over three hundred degrees Fahrenheit colder than the freezing temperature of water, Europa’s surface is frozen solid; but it is covered with canyons and rifts that we still need to explore.Jupiter, however, is massive. Its gravitational force kneads Europa’s core like dough. The warping generates heat. Subsequently, the heat melts some of the ice. Thus, water — two and a half miles below the surface.It was into that water that we tapped perchance a month ago. (Most of us celebrated not with water but with alcohol.) We still haven’t named the ocean, but we are fully expecting those of us more inclined to mythology to brainstorm a name posthaste.No human could (or would) squeeze through the hole that we bored in Europa’s surface; thus, we deposited a robot, ignored cries about pollutants, and began exploring.I was on duty when the discovery occurred. Actually, I was nearly asleep at the control board. The putta-putta-putta of our robot’s propellers served as a sleeping machine in a pinch, and three hours of looking at flashing lights like the ones on a Christmas tree does not adrenaline trigger.Because I was drowsy, I almost didn’t notice the screen. We’d discovered a form of cropped seaweed, probably modified algae, on the Europan ocean floor; it was by now a familiar sight, so it nearly concealed with its familiarity my discovery.Between the verdant filaments of seaweed lay a colored object — three to be technical, but they were pieces of a whole. I slapped myself so I knew I wasn’t dreaming, but there it was: broken pottery on Europa’s ocean floor.I reported it. The higher-ups came back to me (a full day later) and said to do tests. We did them. The pottery wasn’t from us.We recovered it. It was worn so the designs weren’t legible, and much of the pottery had been worn smooth so it wouldn’t perfectly fit together again, but it was enough. A report was prepared. I was told to sit in the background of the video, and I waved when my direct superior, Dr. Ian Miller, pointed to me and said I had made the discovery, but otherwise I said nothing. Maybe I should have — who knows?What I do know — what we all know — is that the pottery belongs to someone else. It’s a mystery, but its existence has answered another question that has burned in our hearts for millennia:Are we alone? The answer is no; we are not.Now I’m waiting for someone to answer, “So what now?”Perhaps the answer to that question will be the trigger, and my discovery will be the trigger of the trigger, if you get what I mean. It’s just speculation, mind you.

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

"As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake." ~ Aimee Bender

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Wow. That art piece is bringing out the best in the competitors, isn't it? Frankly, #2 and #4 here are perhaps my favorites out of the entire Marathon. Why, oh WHY, must I only pick one?

 

Well, first things first, I guess. #2, you get my vote. Whoever did #4, just know that I love love LOVED your story.

After five long years. . . The Master of Fire is back!

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