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Katia146

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A day in the life of...

Sir Prysin looked out of the small circular window, a puzzled look upon his face. It had been a week since the thefts began; he sighed. They could have taken whatever they had seen first; jewels, novels carelessly left out after his majesty’s naps, even the sweet, cooling pie on the cook’s windowsill. But of course, as always it seemed in the city of Varrock, this was not the case. Somehow, the perpetrator had managed to get into the library, stealing a book that Reldo described as ‘invaluable, dangerous, and extremely fragile’. However, Prysin preferred to ignore the last statement; Reldo described all the silly books like that. The thing that worried him the most was the antiques store. He thought that the King, on his many travels of the world, would love to place his most expensive vases and assorted crowns in there. But, of course, in the city of Varrock this would never happen. He could only really think of what the thief’s target would be next; what would they steal next, if books and antiques were already on the list?

He gazed down at the people below him, the guard’s lack of zeal boring him, and sighed one final time. ‘This will be my task,’ he thought, silently but confidently. ‘I will bring the thief to justice, as none of these simpletons will.’ He turned around, shouting in pain as he hit his shin on a stool, and exited the room with as much dignity as he could muster.

His first instinct was to the kitchen; the cook was always so good at cooking her pastries... he remembered supper last Tuesday, and the delicious pie...cherry, his favourite...

He burst through the kitchen door, and the cook jumped with shock, relaxing slightly when she saw the glinting armour in the doorway.

“Prysin, why, I haven’t seen you in a while, althou-“

“I couldn’t keep myself away, my dear!” he replied, a sickly sweet tone in his voice. “Now, Audrey, would you happen to have any of those delicious, sweet cherry pies-“

She tutted, and turned away. “Sir Prysin, back to your old tricks again... As I was saying, I wouldn’t have expected to see you, with all the thefts going on and that chest of yours-“

“SILVERLIGHT!” Prysin shouted madly, his face full of pie crust.
He dashed out of the room, and pushed hastily past the librarian.
“Darn young rapscallions!” Reldo said, adjusting his skewed glasses and retrieving his books. As he picked one up, he ran one finger over it, whispered ‘Its ok, my precious...’, turned into the library and slammed the door abruptly. Still running down the corridor, Prysin cursed himself. How could he forget even for one minute about Silverlight, his lifelong charge, his destiny even for second, even with the allure of pie... sweet, CHERRY pie... NO! He shook himself. He had to check that his sword was safely secured in its chest...

Was the last thought as he saw it dash out of the room, in the arms of a cloaked unknown. They swept out of the building, almost gliding with the greatest speed, and Sir Prysin hastened to follow.

Rushing through the palace courtyard, and ducking fire blasts all the way, he kept his eyes fixed upon the long, tattered cape the bandit wore, the bottom caked in mud. Such bad taste would be apparent in any crowd, he thought, but suddenly realisation struck him.

He saw before him, what could be the most feared place in all of Gielinor; the Varrock fountain. Many a Varrock guard had lost their lives trying desperately to make the area safe for civilians; however, only that lovesick looney Romeo would go anywhere near there, and that gypsy; in fact, most people around the fountain were awkward characters at best. Alas, for the sake of his sword, he had to brave the hoards of the Varrock fountain!

He took a breath, and gathered all his courage, which was just enough for him to pelt full speed into the crowd.
It lasted what seemed a lifetime to Prysin, when darkness and cries of ‘Phr33 st00f!’ and the ever echoing “Plz” consumed him. It dragged him down to his knees, begging to be let out of this hole...

He was thrown out of the other side of the crowd moments later, and he fell, groaning slightly. He looked up, and saw the cloak and his chest move away from the group. He pulled himself to his feet, shouted an almighty curse, and rapidly pursued. From behind, a thousand shouts of ‘Lol, rep0rted!’ met him.

He continued chasing, almost becoming a race to the finish with him staying firmly in last place. They ran through streets, turning into alleys, the sound of cats screeching in pain becoming louder and louder with every step.
“Almost...there!” he shouted, as he finally caught up to his target, slamming into the door they just slipped through. Fortunately, the force of Prysin’s impact had knocked it completely off its hinges and fell to the floor with a crash, Prysin falling with it. He moaned, and raised himself off the floor.

The cloaked figure stood near a table, holding a decaying book and an archaic crucifix, the chest sitting idly on the surface.

“Aha!” said Sir Prysin, standing proud as if nothing had happened. “So it was you who is responsible for the thefts-“
“Not without good reason.” The figure cut in, bright eyes shining from under the hood.

“Oh, ok.” Prysin turned around, starting to exit the hovel.
“Wait!” interrupted the thief, obviously annoyed. “You don’* want to know why I stole all this?”
Sir Prysin turned on his heels.

“Fine...” He said, bored.

“With this blade, I shall strike down Delrith, the demon that plagues us all! With this crucifix, I-”
By this time, Sir Prysin had taken his sword, book and crucifix, walked out the hovel and closed the door loudly behind him, grinning at his own ignorance. Another crime solved!

Dreamweaver

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Don't Eat the Chicken

It was a dark and cold Wintumber's night in Draynor Village, but particularly so in the Tight Old Man's house just north of the bank. It was always dark and cold there. The grumpy occupant was far too miserly to warm the place, despite having made a sizable fortune in the poultry industry.

Actually, the Tight Old Man was even more grumpy than usual, for it was Christmas Eve, his single least favourite night of the year. His employee, Seth "Scratchit" Groats (so-named for a persistent rash he didn't like to talk about), had been mumbling about how he wanted to spend some time with his family. But who else would get the last shipment of chickens to the butcher before the holiday? Finally, the Tight Old Man had agreed that if Scratchit completed his work that night, he could take Christmas morning off.

Things had gone from bad to worse after he'd returned to Draynor that evening. His nephew Fred, who was always painfully jolly, had paid him an unexpected visit to wish him season's greetings.

"Season's Greetings, Uncle!"

"Bah! What do you want, Fred? Still paying Adventurers to shear those sheep of yours I'll warrant? Well I'll not bail you out, you know. It's not my fault if you can't profit from..."

"Uncle! I've never asked you for anything. I just wanted to offer you some holiday cheer and wish you a merry Christmas!"

"Away with you, you scoundrel. I'm off to sleep and will not be disturbed!"

With that, the Tight Old Man stomped up the stairs and huddled into his cold, unforgiving bed.

He had not long been asleep when he awoke with a start. The room was bitterly cold, and everything looked strangely ethereal. He had heard something. A metallic scraping sound. It was getting closer. Something was coming up the stairs in the darkness, nearer and nearer. The bedroom door swung open slowly -- a puff of weird green fog accompanying the unnecessarily prolonged squeak of the hinges. Then out of the gloom leered a familiar face. Nigel!

Nigel had been The Tight Old Man's equally tight business partner for many years, but he'd disappeared unexpectedly the previous Easter, following an unfortunate affair involving smashing rabbits with a shovel -- the same shovel that was now scraping along behind him.

"Ni-Ni-Nigel?" stammered the Tight Old Man. "Is that you?"

"Wooo-ooo woooo wooo-ooooo-ooo!" replied the apparition.

"Darn it, Nigel. Let me grab my Ghostspeak Amulet," the Old Man muttered, fumbling in a drawer. "Now what was that?"

"I bring a warning. If you don't mend your miserly ways, you'll end up like me, bound to the tools of your trade and forced into an eternity of regret and remorse," Nigel replied hauntingly.

"Don't be silly Nigel. Why would I regret such successful business practices? You certainly never did."

"Then you will be visited by another ghost tonight. It will show you the impact of your actions," Nigel moaned in his most hollow voice.

"Oh good, I could use a preview of next quarter's gross earnings. But shouldn't I get three ghosts for these sorts of occasions?"

"Yes, but there's a major shortage in the holiday season, and the Undead Union has put its rates up again. It's much cheaper to do everything with one."

"Bah!" snapped the Tight Old Man. "Anyway, what's with the green smoke and why's my furniture all translucent?"

"I'm trying to spook you," confessed Nigel glumly.

"Well darn it man, let me sleep. I thought I'd woken up in Building Mode."

As Nigel dissipated, the Tight Old Man turned over and forced his eyes closed. He didn't believe a word that Nigel had said because his partner had never been the type of person to spend money on anything insubstantial -- let alone ghosts. With that happy thought, sleep found him once again.

Clank.

The Tight Old Man denied hearing anything. How could he? He was asleep. It was just a dream.

Clunk.

Okay, so he had definitely heard that. And it was close. But he could pretend to still be asleep.

Cluck!

The Tight Old Man's eyes sprang open in shock. There, by his bed, surrounded by the obligatory green swirl that always accompanies such visitations, sat an undead chicken.

"Cluck-cluck. Brrrrk brk-brk cluck!" it intoned in a fowl tongue.

"Wait, let me get my Chickenspeak Amulet," grumbled the Old Man, fumbling in the same drawer as before. "Now what's this all about?"

"I'm the Undead Chicken of Christmas Past," the unsavoury bird repeated. "I'm here to lay it down for you. Watch!"

The world went fuzzy and dissolved into another time and place. The Tight Old Man and the chicken were standing in a field, looking towards two familiar figures.

"There's Fred! And that's me, the Tight Middle-Aged Man. Hey, I look good!"

"Your nephew wanted to follow you into farming," the chicken said reproachfully. "And you encouraged him, just to drive him out of business. This is the Christmas when he lost everything to you except for those sheep."

"And penguins," retorted the Tight Old Man.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Now he's poor yet happy. Everyone likes Fred. You are rich but miserable. How did you gain from treating your nephew like that?"

"Fred learned a valuable business lesson. He's fine."

"Look at him closely. Look!"

Sure enough, the Tight Middle-Aged Man had strode off across the field, but Fred was sobbing, his face in his hands.

"He lost nearly everything, including his respect for you," the chicken scolded. "He didn't speak to you for two years, but eventually he accepted you again. You still do not respect him."

The Tight Old Man remained silent, reflecting in a way he had not done for as long as he could remember.

"Well, on we go," clucked the chicken severely. "There's more fowl play."

The world dissolved again. This time they materialised inside a large white building. Hundreds of pullets were running in panicked madness like headless chickens.

"They're worse than me," muttered the undead chicken. "Ahem! I'm the Undead Chicken of Christmas Present!"

"Christmas present?" asked the Old Man, "What did you get me?"

"Present as in now, you buffoon. I'm not giving you anything except a hard time! Now look."

Seth Scratchit came into view, weary and harried, but desperately trying to finish his work in order to get back to his family. But what terrible work it was. Without equipment, he had to catch, kill and pluck each chicken by hand. He toiled like mad, but there were so many birds left. As he laboured, the remaining chickens became more and more frenzied, and Scratchit looked more and more sick.

"You went to bed hours ago. Scratchit will be lucky to be done before dawn. And I can't say I approve of the work you have him doing. Have you considered turkeys instead?"

The Tight Old Man shuffled awkwardly and stared at his feet.

"I didn't really think from his perspective... what can I do?"

"Moving on!" the undead chicken clucked. "This next one's interesting."

Once again, the Tight Old Man's surroundings dissolved. To his horror, he appeared in a dark graveyard, surrounded by swirling mists. A single bell was striking slowly in the background. Two people were standing over an open grave, heads bowed.

"I'm the Undead Chicken Of Christmas Yet to Come. Let's amble over there and see what gives, shall we?"

As they moved closer, the Old Man recognised one of the figures as a priest. Then he recognised the other. It was his nephew, Fred.

"This is my funeral isn't it?" stammered the Tight Old Man.

"It's one possibility that may come to pass," the chicken agreed solemnly. "That's up to you."

"Fred's the only one here? And why do it at night? The bell tolls and the mist?" stuttered the Old Man fearfully.

"I admit to some poetic license," the chicken admitted. "It's hard to teach moral lessons in glorious sunshine."

The Old Man dropped to his knees, eyes tight shut. "Please take me back! I'll make amends. I promise to think of others from this day on!" he begged.

To his surprise, when he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bedroom, with daylight streaming through the window. He bounded downstairs, out into the street and ran to the butcher's store in a frenzy.

"I have an urgent order! Please deliver your largest turkey to Scratchit at this location. I will take the next biggest with me!"

The Tight Old Man sprinted down the road to his nephew's house. Glancing through the window, he could see the family already settling down to a hearty feast. He pounded urgently on the door.

"Fred, Fred! Let me in!"

A most surprised Fred opened the door. "Uncle! To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Merry Christmas, nephew! Here's a turkey for you. But please, DON'T EAT THE CHICKEN!"


~Dreamweaver~
~November 2007~

Capt Chekaka

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Profile

Heya. I'm Capt Chekaka, but you can call me Capt, or Chek.

I started writing here in May of 2007, and have been active here ever since. In the beginning I was *only* a writer, but I soon branched out, integrated myself into the community, and started other projects, including having "Your First Story," a thread used by Poller5 and myself for organizing authors to write a guide for the Stories, stickied.

Anyway, I'm pretty outgoing here on the forums, and winning Tron's contest was quite fun. Right now I'm writing a full-length story, but you can talk to me anytime either ingame (not ingame much, though) or here on the forums on one of my many threads.

Craddock said to go crazy, so here:

"We're no strangers to love!
You know the rules and so do I!
A full commitment's what I'm thinking of;
You wouldn't get this from any other guy!"

Continue and such. But, yeah: happy writing!

100 Word Grand Final Winning Entry

An icy wind blew across the pristine tundra, carrying specks of white within its grasp. The beautiful flurries spiraled over the ground, brushing the earth like a lover’s kisses as a whistling sound emitted from their depths. The barren country was soon enveloped in a sparkling maelstrom of fragile beauty as the tiny shards swept over the land.

It was then the sun rose to its zenith.

The crystals fell to the ground like the tears of the sky, melting away in a display that tore at any aesthetician's heart.

Still, as the land knows, winter comes again.

Showcase story

-- Invincible --

"The art of a warrior is one of humility, his mind set to win all encounters, both mental and physical. Each battle is a story of its own, and every tale must come to an end."

An armored man stepped out from the shadowed enclosure all around him, becoming visible to those that watched from the stands above. His iron breastplate shone with brilliance, while his platelegs, adorned with festive markings, sparkled in the midday light.

Blinded by glee, the crowd let out roaring cheers as the man entered the center of the ring. His arms were bare and specks of perspiration gave them a slick feel, while his muscles, surging with adrenaline, faintly beat up and down as he moved. The helmet beneath his forearm, engraved with the symbol of his family, gave off a blinding reflection as the sun's rays fell upon its metal craft. Making his way across the sandy area, he stopped and gripped the hilt of his sword.

He raised his left hand to the crowd, signaling his will to fight before them all, or die entertaining them. Carefully, he lifted the helmet with his left hand and placed it firmly on top of his head. Taking deep breaths, he grasped the shield on his back and lifted it in front of him while grabbing the hilt of his blade and removing it from its sheathe.

A golden hue seemed to form around the spectators as the warrior glanced up at one figure, seated in a large throne high above. The man, his lord, nodded in approval and signaled to the guards far to his right; it was time. The gladiator watched anxiously as a large silver gate lifted, and death’s foul jaws came for him.

A slash of blinding steel;
The tearing of fragile, mortal flesh.
A smell of running blood;
The lingering feeling of failure.

Nothing. No cheers came from the crowd; there were no glorious shrieks of victory, no cries of suffering. Silence crept upon the arena and embraced all within its grasp, while the fighter, in all of his glory, lay beneath the lion’s paws.

-- End. --

Torpeh

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Profile

A little about me, for those of you who are yet to encounter me: I am primarily a poet, but I also write prose and occasionally construct reviews. Indeed, I started off my writing career as a reviewer, and won many awards, including The Academy of Literature's 'Head Reviewer' and the GE Awards' 'Best Contribution to Reviewing'. Recently, though, I have been concentrating on my poetry, and have been acclaimed in that field, too. My best poem, 'Of Those Years Ago', was accepted as one of the seven wonders of this forum, the only poem on that list. My old novel, 'Language's End', also received awards. My best award, however, was probably attained in 'The Collection', as I achieved the top author position.

I mainly write in the Dark Romantisism genre, focusing on the use of supernatural horror. My works have been acclaimed especially, in the past, for richness of description and eloquence of language -- so if those critics were right, you can expect a lot more of them in 'Selected Tales'. My reviews are famously harsh and critical; but due to this, I have decided to cease offering them on this forum, as it causes more bad feeling than it does good, and that is opposite to my aims.

Winning Entry

~~<><>~~ The Vista from a Block ~~<><>~~

When I think of the clouds, wistfully drifting miles above my head, no longer do I observe their strange, wild shapes – admire the airy wisps of light that cling to their façade – wonder upon whose shores their heavy shoulders will finally collapse, become unburdened. No: now, those thoughts are more distant than the sky itself. And, in their place, my mind is entertained by the darkest of fantasies. Looming over the surrounding villages, will the great sulphurous bulges of these very clouds send the minions rushing back to their houses? Rumbling across the spitting oceans, will the mere sight of them ignite writhing flares in the mind of every lonely seafarer? Crashing across the white skies of the plains, will the sun that breaks onto the steaming sands in their wake finally dissolve the wilted people's hopes to nothingness? Oh, only one in my position can apprehend the whole of such great carnage. It leaves a taste on the tongue quite unlike any other.

Indeed, as I lay here, not much about life concerns me. The sparkling sound of an axe grates against my ear; the vulture-like squawks of the blackbirds come quicker; the crowd's words sprawl across the air, tying my name to 'traitor'. But not one fragment of my mind is wasted in contemplating such hatred. Instead, as my eyes wander about this scene, they finally rest themselves on what, to everyone else, would seem but a speck. And yet, as it glides through the trembling morning airs, all the dark fantasies that hung from my mind dribble out into its silvery trail.

For a moment, I lose myself in reflection. The wings that flutter with a cloudless azure – the motions that drip with a fluid liquescence – the mysterious marks that enchant with an otherworldly desire – each attribute lucid alone, and yet each melting together into one form.

The butterfly nears, and alights upon the end of this wooden block, the slight breath of its fluttering wings curling across my face. This creature, it has barely seen a day, and yet, by sunset, it will be joining me, freed from the boundaries of time, losing itself in the quintessence. But what am I, this betrayer of faith, this fading mortal, to the soul by my side, whose affinity only to the sky has enriched every motion, even in the face of death.

Showcase story

~~<><>~~ Be Strong, Young Saviour; Be Strong ~~<><>~~

The moon's slight ghost breathes kisses upon you,
Upon your never-flitting eyes;
This hour, this minute, you sleep, you slumber,
Beneath the dreamy twilight skies.
And here I sit — I sit and wonder
Why death should slip among your number;
But be strong, young saviour;
— Be strong.

Tonight, tonight, the greatest stars have thronged,
Glimmering in the violet sky;
Tonight, tonight, heaven is torn sunder
To watch your airy form float by;
And all the time I sit and wonder,
Whisper amidst the distant thunder,
'Be strong, young saviour;
— Be strong.'

Your soft, cold face glows in the candlelight,
As it shall glow forevermore,
And the moon and sun, they shall slip under,
Douse under the faraway shore:
For in my wake or in my slumber,
Memories are the brightest wonder.
Be strong, young saviour;
— Be strong.

The funeral bells sigh deep unto the night,
With slow tolling, lonely tolling;
And blood-red tears strike my heart asunder
By the low moan of the tolling.
I hear horns howl; I hear the thunder;
I feel tears gather in their number;
But be strong, young saviour;
— Be strong.

And time drips away with that same old stride,
Amidst the deep, distant thunder;
And your great soul is now where it belongs —
With your great heart, little wonder.
Hearken, hearken to the angels' song:
Times are dark here, but you must be strong.
So long, young saviour;
— So long.

Ivir Baggins

---

Winning Entry

A single torch was the knight’s only company, held trembling in fearful hands. Its hopeless flames bled desperation across the walls of the pass, creating shadows that danced like nightmares across his sweating brow. His mind silently screamed for salvation, any escape from the faceless, soulless horrors that surrounded him, everywhere and nowhere at once.

It had been a source of great pride being selected to brave the unspeakable terrors of the pass. He and his men had proven adept soldiers, unquestionably loyal. Many a ballad had been composed recalling their limitless bravery and heroic courage. Just sight of their waving banner on the battlefield, tall and true, was enough to route their foes, as had been proven time and time again.

But now he was the only one left.

His contingent had received word of their mission only days before. The envoy bearing the news cited that their ferocity and fearlessness had suited them to the job perfectly. The King himself had selected them before all others, knowing that only the strongest could face the perils ahead.

A thought stumbled across the mind of the knight. It brought fresh beads of sweat to his face, and he swallowed the little saliva in his dry throat. He glanced about unnervingly, wary of the dancing shadows cast by his torch. The others were far behind him now, their unheeded cries for help falling upon the ears of beings too sinister and vile to bear description.

The thought was not his own.

They had left the city under cover of darkness, hooded cloaks hiding their shining armour. There were no waving banners, no streets choked with loyal citizens to wish them farewell and good luck. Their procession was solemn and austere; the clapping of hands replaced by the rough scraping of metal boots on the cobblestone paths.

Under a moonless sky, they entered the pass.

The white soul ventured further underground, aimlessly seeking an exit from his hellish torment. This had not been a mission of valour; there were no great battles to fight, no gargantuan foes to vanquish. No songs would grace the warm flames of campfires at home. Their enemies were countless, lurking not in the shadows that fell harshly on the walls, but in the shadows of their hearts. Swords and arrows could do naught against the evil within.

The knight fell to his knees, the lone torch landing softly on the ground beside him. He had abandoned his helmet long before, and beads of sweat from his tangled locks dripped slowly into the puddle before him. A dark reflection starred sardonically back, emulating the most hidden depths of his soul.

The unspoken voice was now clear in his head. Its whisperings pierced the very core of his being, perceiving that the dark within had reached its zenith.

His torch went out, and in the rustling darkness, a voice spoke.

“Join me.”

This was no longer his nightmare. It was his home.

Xanthangum

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Xanthangum won the July-August 2008 story contest. It was the first in-game storytelling final and he wowed the three judges with his exciting entry.

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Winning Entry

Raindrops clattered atop every rooftop in Varrock. The melodic and calming tune was interrupted only by the violent explosions of thunder accompanied by the forked ribbons of light in the sky. Not even the hardy warriors of Relleka would try to brave this storm.

A lone traveler found shelter beneath an abandoned market stall, his eyes fixed upon the king's window. He shook himself like a feral beast trying to get dry as he fiddled with his awkwardly long fingers.

"Not long now," He muttered, pulling his hood down over his narrow face, "Not long at all..."

Morning finally crept over Varrock and the weary traveler could hear the city guard looking for those sorry souls who had been caught in the storm. This would be his only chance to get inside the castle. His only chance to reach King Roald.

"Help me, I'm injured!" He lied, limping oto the nearest guard, who helped him to the castle's hospital wing.

"If you need anything else, just call for Nurse Poppy," The nurse said happily.

When she left, he slipped out of bed and crept through the castle's hallways. A guard began to question him outside Roald's chamber, but fell dead with a bloody hole in his throat. The guard who helped him watched from the shadows as the man entered the chamber.

"Who are you?" Roald asked biting his lip as the traveler pulled his hood off and his face was revealed. He was a werewolf.

"A friend. Do not be alarmed," The man whispered.

The king leapt away from the creature and shouted for help. Instantly, the guard ran in and skewered the monster through the back; an eerie howl filling the chamber.

"Who was he?" Roald asked frantically, "I am lucky you were here!"

"Lucky? No. He was trying to protect you," The soldier said as his eyes began to glow bright yellow. Roald gasped as the soldier's true form was revealed.

"My name is Vanstrom Klaus. Goodbye, King Roald."

Showcase Story

Dockwa

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Dockwa finished in first place in the November-December 2008 story contest.

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Winning Entry

Time passes over the vulnerable, yet content, Varrock. A crescent moon looms aloft them, and an eerie night-sky smothers them with its ominous hand. Tragic news of the king spreads through the streets and into the homes like a morbid plague. Some eyes swell up with tears, and loyal subjects cannot help but fall to their knees. To the north of the ambient fountain in the heart of the land, King sleeps. The vigorous rainfall bombards his castle. King's lids conceal his eyes, his breath remains frigid. Only his family, his dearest family, stays at his bedside.

The traitors cower in the alleys; the remains of deceit are still held in their mouths.

Hands have gripped him: poor King Roald. The clock strikes for twelve, but Mister Midnight's toll desists not. Its hands are paralyzed by arcane spells, and they hold Roald still. Lord Dusk's presence is strong: its clock still chimes at twelve, even as the hours pass. Are they hours? Oh, wretched, twisted Dusk.

Touching the ground in a dark corner, a pale, faded note sits. Scrunched and deformed, its crinkles distort the black ink scribed on the papyrus.

'He used an Iron Fist, but it has rusted. His face, carved of gold, is now mold. In time his final breath falls. Oh, what are his possessions now?'

A young man clenches the scrap, observing it with eyes of curiosity. After examining it twice, he dismisses it as, "Preposterous!" before he tosses it into the blistering fire.

---

"Soon, old Roald, in the dark with eyes closed. The night is dark, yes, but the light is bright, too. The beacon—oh, so bright, it is not so far, as may seem."

Showcase Story

Innocence' Sick Eyes

A young boy, abiding in a light-less darkness, shook his eyes frantically, counting the nothing: the endless nothing. He lavished in the tranquil setting, finally able to elude the unbearable tragedy.

His vision trudged through weary and worry, through thorns and scars. Sick-sorrow poured from his eyes. They twisted, they turned, and fell to the sky. A creeping light gaped in, and the poor boy quivered as he felt his eyes open ...

Their cupreous colour reflected a foul flame rising high above his home. 'Falador', it was called, when it had been. The boy's mother shrieked his name, but it was drowned out by the roar of the flicker, the fire, the red. The swelter stung his eyes and permeated his sight with tears.

No!

His eyes closed ...

The comforting blackness returned, aiding him to sweep away his tears.


\|/ DUcK ·

Yrolg

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Yrolg finished second in the November-December 2008 story contest. He's consistently been one of the strongest contestants in every Stories Forum contest.

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Final Entry

“There stood before an exceptionally extravagant man, dressed in the camisia of royalty, deep hued, violaceous robes, and with the exorbitantly regal aigrette, an entity of indefinite beauty. Among the most powerful of people in the world, the lavishly dressed King had no choice but to obey the peremptory stare of this wondrous being; a man forced to admit and honour an entity greater than him.

“But alas, a relief it is, to find, after countless decades of ruling, someone able to command you, someone else able to filter through the refuse which is you kingdom, and go about fixing it. And when, at last, King Roald set his eyes upon such a deity, so manifest of such capabilities, of such generosity, as this being before him. His promise, nay, his command, was quite simple. It was quite easy. It was quite heinous.

“He never said his name, nor did he ever make any promises, save one. But it was a secret meeting, secluded even from the gods, and indeed even from Roald’s own memory, for a time. Three days passed, and not a thought of the encounter brushed the periphery of Roald’s conscious, before, at last, he realized his grave mistake.

“But the gold was so beautiful, the power and poise now accompanying the role of King so exceptionally pulchritudinous, that the mistake went unnoticed for many a year yet. The King sponsored three children, the youngest reaching twenty-three years, before at last his élan vital won over the spotlight, spreading it to the horrific disaster now fast approaching.

“But alas, the deal was made fast and binding, and inexorable it stayed, not yielding to the multifarious begging* of the King. The King would die—family held fast in bonds to watch.

"The King is ill.”

Showcase Story

Pirates999

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Pirates999 finished third in the November-December 2008 story contest.

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Final Entry

“The King is not yet dead.”

“I promise you, within a few short hours he will be. I have done all you’ve asked of me. I am forever your grateful and indebted servant.”

“Wretched man! You swore the same to Roald.”

Thalius remained silent at this, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. It would be dangerous to say anything at this point. If he were concerned for only his own health, he would not have held his tongue. If he were not so selfish, none of this would have happened. He’d sworn to meet the King’s needs before his own. But mere words could not override his overwhelming love for Lily.

“I am forever your grateful and indebted servant.”

“You will be compensated for your efforts only when he is dead.”

At this Thalius flung himself to the ground at the nobleman’s feet, overcome by emotion. “Please, my Lord,” he sobbed. “Please, I beg of you! I need the silver now! She will die if I cannot provide the medicine!”

“The dog may eat from his master’s hand, but will turn on him once his needs have been cared for. Your daughter’s health is no concern of mine.” The nobleman’s voice was cold and indifferent. He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his pristine doublet as though physically dismissing Thalius’ earnest supplication.

“Please, my Lord,” he whispered, only now raising his head to meet the nobleman’s hard gaze. “I beg of you just this one thing. Would you hold a human life in the balance to meet your agenda?” On second thought… Thalius lowered his head to hide the tears.

“Thalius, Thalius, Thalius.” The nobleman knelt down and lifted Thalius’s chin with his finger. There was laughter in his voice now. "What good is a puppet without strings?”

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Bunni Killer

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Bunni Killer on Death

My brother, who has patiently read all my short stories, had one thing to say about them: "Jeez, Sara, you kill all your characters."

I would like to point out that this is not true. Nobody died in the Cinderella entry. All in all though, in 15 entries I have killed 10 characters, including 7 protagonists but excluding stories like the speech, in which death is an obvious but as-yet unrealized outcome.

And before he goes off to tell our parents that their daughter is sick, I would like to explain myself. The deaths of these characters are not reflections of my own desire. I do not recommend death, nor am I eager to try it for myself. My characters may have worse life expectancies than a pair of Varrock guards, but the reasons for that are purely creative.

In writing, I like to capture characters at their defining moments, and no moment is really as defining or as dramatic as death--or the moment immediately before death. Death is also a very emotional thing, especially for the survivors. Their experience opens up thoughts and reactions that would otherwise be unrealistic.

Some of my characters have gone to death willingly, others unknowingly, but all reveal themselves as they do so--and they stay that way. If you end a story openly, it is entirely possible for the character to change in the days after "happily ever after." Death freezes characters, fossilizing them like peat moss or an inelegant simile. I find it beautiful, really.

That said, I have to admit that I have killed one character simply because I had nothing better to do with him. That was Elsan, a disgruntled farmer in one of my Wintumber entries. I talked it over with my brother, who agreed that this was the best possible outcome for Elsan.

Sorry mate.

~Bunni

Winning Entry

When the first flakes were falling at Wintumber’s start
Less benign frost descended and coated my heart
I had not left my window since the summer before
When the lords in their boredom had waged a new war

And now, as my vigil I patiently kept
Came the news I had told myself not to expect
I sprang up from the windowsill, stricken with fear
As approached the first omen of the new year

I pressed up to the glass, throwing back the curtain
And glared at the figure, but by now I was certain
He marched as if drilling, steps perfectly timed
Though his navy coat by now was with icy frost rimed

His uniform was plain and his expression bland
But I knew too well the letter clutched in his hand
Recognition brought fear, and I wanted to flee
He was “officer” to many, but reaper to me.

His march was deliberate, solemn and slow
But inevitable as the Wintumber snow
My knees went weak, and I fell to the floor
When Death and its messenger as one reached my door

He pulled on the knocker, and it sang like a bell
His knock was the sentence, the funeral knell
I gathered my courage but could not feel stronger
Though I left him outside for a minute or longer

I hoped that he would turn back and go,
An apparition forgotten in snow
But he stayed, and finally I let the man in
There was reason to lay blame, but not upon him

He saluted and asked, “Are you Mrs. Dubame?”
—For the first time—I wished I was not of that name
And he sat me down, and I knew what would come
And my heart pounded loud as an uneven drum

He passed me the dispatch; with revulsion I took it,
And the violent trembling of my two hands shook it
As I opened the letter, tears sprung in my eyes
Blurring three simple words, which read: “I am alive.”

When the first flakes were falling at Wintumber’s start
Less benign frost descended and coated my heart
As they fell to the ground and melted to dew
My cold heart thawed out and my anguish was through.

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Two shadows play across the tent’s canvas. Words, though murmured in lovers’ whispers, are audible.
“Our armies wait outside, my enemy, my love. Look how far we’ve come.”
The woman leans close, breath on his neck. “Full circle, darling.”
The man's silhouette crumples.

Auraofguthix

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Final Entry

Wintumber Poem

As the night of Wintumber settled on the lands,
From Trollheim's peak, to the Kharidian sands.
Men and creatures both, with anticipating eyes,
Gazed expectantly towards the fast-darkening sky.

From Jad to the chickens, feathery and small,
Everything was transfixed, awaiting the fall.
Promise was hidden in the bellies of white,
A balm of purification, cleansing all blight.

Children's eyes, filled with innocence and longing,
Crowded the roads, swarming and thronging.
Their parents had eyes only for the clouds,
And their contents, hidden beneath fluffy shrouds.

Men grouped all over the island of Miscellania,
And all manner of ghouls observed from Morytania.
All over Karamja, eyes peeped from the trees,
In Varrock, the sewer rats abandoned their cheese.

The sigil was taken up by the hidden elves,
Even Reldo came, leaving his books on the shelves.
The revenants halted in their reaping of life,
Great demons ceased their causing of strife.

The Godwars was postponed for this one night,
The gnome pilots settled down from their flight.
The ogres and trolls, and giants of all kinds,
All stood assembled, one thought on their minds.

"Let it snow! Let it snow!" thought every working brain.
Even the fish wanted the white, flurrying rain.
The animals cried, in a blast so fierce,
The very gates of heaven, they seemed to pierce!

Like the crash of the waves, or the crackle of thunder,
By this call the clouds were quickly sundered.
But no matter how loud the outpouring rose,
To keep their snow, was what the clouds chose.

Saradomin cried, "Enough wait, let it snow!"
And yet the black sky remained utterly fallow.
Though Guthix's tear flowed freely on the ground,
Even a drop of snow was yet to be found.

The dejected masses prepared to take their leave,
Animals around the world began to greave.
And as the array of humanity started to go,
A shout was heard "It's starting to snow!"

Joyous celebrations resounded everywhere,
The world experiencing happiness beyond compare.
The children and parents gave happy cries,
For a blanket of pure white fell before their eyes.

But in hindsight, one might begin to ask.
Who caused it to snow, opened the cloud's flask?
Men, animals, and even Gods were unable,
Who accomplished this act of great fable?

Was it Mother Nature who made the clouds flow?
Was it the virtues of humanity that sent the snow?
Nay, 'twas Paul Gower, and his karaoke hub,
"A.K.A. Mister make it rain in this club!"

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