Category Archives: Writing

This week’s Flash Fiction Challenge from Chuck Wendig is appropriately bizarre. (I like it!) I rolled a seventeen, so I get to write a “Lovecraftian” version of my fairy tale of choice. Challenge accepted!

I went through the listing of Grimm’s fairy tales and found one which is upbeat and chipper (here — you might want to read it first so you can compare the original with my version), and thus  suitable for being twisted and manipulated in a most vile and horrendous way .

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

THE STAR-MONEY

Once upon a time I was a young girl born to wealth and luxury. My fortunes turned dark and monstrous when my father and mother died horribly.

The trustees of my family’s holdings betrayed the trust my parents had placed in them. They stole all of the wealth that had been my just inheritance. Soon I found myself so poor that I no longer had a roof over my head or a place to lay my head at night.

At last I was reduced to begging in the fetid gutters with the scurrying rats, nothing more than the ragged and dirty clothes on my back. A charitable passer-by took a small measure of pity on me, handing me a paltry crust of bread.

I was faithful and pious, however, my belief in a kind and beneficent God strong in my heart. As I had been forsaken by all men in the world of my birth, I took it upon myself to venture forth into the wilderness, trusting in the protection and strength of my God.

Walking through a festering swamp, I met a poor man with supporating sores covering his body. “Please, you must give me something to eat or I will die,” he said. “I am so hungry, I will not survive the night without your aid.” I gave him the piece of bread I had been given. “May God bless you,” I said, before moving onwards.

On a windblown, freezing moor I came upon a shivering youth lying beside the road. He howled as a dire wolf in mortal agony would and said, “My head is on fire with the bitter cold! Please give me something warm to cover it or I will die in agony!” Seeing that he would be soon be carried off by the Lord’s angels, I took off my torn and patched hood and placed it on his head.

When I had walked until the stroke of midnight, I met another child, this one a cripple who had made her home in an overgrown and abandoned graveyard. She had no coat and the night’s cold, black rain had frozen her to near death. Fearing that she was close to her end, I gave her my own jacket that she might pass into the afterlife with a small measure of comfort.

The next morning, at the door of a small country church, I saw the door slammed in the face of another child in mortal peril, a mere infant. She was nearly naked and begged me for a frock or scrap of clothing, so I gave away that precious belonging as well.

At the next sunset I came to the edge of a dark and twisted forest. There were the sounds of unknown and unseen animals all about, but I had no fear, for my God was with me. From out of the brambles and thickets at the forest edge there came yet another child. He was dark-skinned and naked, nearly an invisible specter in the moonless night. He asked if I would give him my shirt and I saw that I could not be seen by anyone on a night this dark. Without my shirt I would be naked myself, but there would be naught to bear witness to my immodesty. I took off the torn and filthy shirt, and gave away that final possession.

There I so stood, naked and powerless, with not one single possession left to me in the world save for the soul God had given me.

The wind suddenly ceased, as did all sounds of the animals. The dark-skinned boy began to call down stars from the sky, placing them into a pentalpha on the ground around me. As he forced them to his dark will with a high, shrill chant, the stellar gems began to glow and pulse with a rubicund hue. When the shape was completed, a rent in the earth opened up with a cloud of reeking, foul steam escaping upward.

Before my eyes the steam formed into a nebulous configuration, a hideous and writhing caricature of a homunculus, crowned with a tortured visage bearing glowing, orange eyes. Those eyes locked on me, never blinking or wavering, as the air all about trembled with a thunderous voice.

“Your God has abandoned you, child. Your mother and father tried to compel me, at the cost of their wretched lives. You have much more power than they and great Powers lie within your grasp if you but choose to take them.”

From the shadows came the beggar with her bread, the youth with her hood, the cripple with her jacket, and the infant with her smock. They joined the dark-skinned boy with her shirt and stood at the five points of the star surrounding her. In their hands she could see long, jagged daggers, dripping with fresh blood.

“You have only one thing left,” the demon said. It picked up one of the crimson stars and offered it to me as a coin. “Sell it to me and abandon your puny God as He has abandoned you! In return, all of these creatures will be your servants to command until the End of Days. Yours will be Revenge upon those who have betrayed the trust of your family. You shall reign over this land as my proctor for a thousand years. Choose!”

So it was that I waited for my God to deliver me from this Evil manifest, and so it was that I saw that I truly had been cast aside by Him. With no Light left but that of the Pit, I took the demon’s coin in return for my soul. In its place in my breast I found an undying desire for revenge and at my right hand was the unholy means for attaining it.

Thus it is that I and my iniquitous servants now stand before the city gates, demanding the delivery of the thieves and liars who are the first to earn my wrath. The city fathers will give them up tonight. In doing so their own souls will be forfeit to me and my reign will begin.

In the end, I will be rich all the days of my life.

It’s another “roll-the-dice-for-who-where-and-uh-oh” set of instructions from Chuck Wendig for this week’s Flash Fiction Challenge. I rolled a four, a ten, and a one. The title of my “1,000 words or so” about a dirty cop in a casino who is betrayed by best friend will be “Pit Boss.”

As an assignment, this random grouping of who/where/what seems pretty clichéd, and I hate clichés unless I’m making fun of them or spinning them on their heads, so I will, of course, see if I can come up with a suitable curve ball. Or at least come up with an unexpected cliché. (And I think I nailed the length, 1001 words. Woo hoo!)

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

PIT BOSS

The casinos weren’t the same since they had banned smoking. “Freaking health nuts,” muttered Hendricks. “Every breath used to tell you this was a lousy place to be. It tasted like somewhere bad for you, someplace that had something really addicting and toxic to make you be here despite that shit.”

“Which rant are you beating to death again?” asked Moore, her partner. “Why do you always have to talk to yourself like you think your bra is bugged?”

“That’s why I don’t wear a bra,” Hendricks said.

“At least it’s as noisy as ever. Wait until some asshole sues over losing his hearing in here.”

“We won’t be here when it happens. There’s Stan.” Hendricks led Moore through the clamor and flashing lights toward the casino’s pit manager.

“Ladies, what a pleasure!” Stan’s slimy grin was big and flashy, finely crafted to put the sheep at ease, but you didn’t need to look too deeply beyond it to see maggots writhing. “You’re looking particularly attractive today Detective Hendricks.” His eyes were locked on her cleavage and he looked ready to drool on her. “Is there a problem? I wasn’t expecting to see you until next month.”

“Your office. Now.” To the casual onlooker, Hendricks also seemed to be cordial and pleasant, but there was steel behind her clenched jaw. “Let’s make sure all the cameras are turned off in there, including all the ones you think we don’t know about.”

For the briefest moment there was a flicker of concern on Stan’s face, but he wiped it away in an instant. “Of course, please follow me.” He gestured for an assistant to take his place before leading the two women down a non-descript, unmarked hallway.

After passing through two security doors, Stan opened the door to his office. The lights came on automatically while he crossed to the desk. He reached underneath and flipped several switches. Hendricks sat casually in a chair in front of the desk, never taking her eyes off of Stan. Her expression got more threatening before she lowered her head slightly and raise her eyebrows in expectation.

The staring match lasted several seconds, before Stan caved. Reaching onto the bookcase behind the desk, another switch was flipped. Hendricks never blinked or looked away, waiting for more. Moore paused inside the door watching the two of them before shaking her head in bemusement and walking over to the small wet bar. There she picked up what looked to be a very expensive statuette and smashed it down. It shattered, exposing the wires and electronics hidden inside.

“I’m impressed,” said Stan. “You obviously have a very deep informant. It will be exciting to track them down.”

“You won’t be tracking anything, Stan,” Hendricks said. “We’re not here to show off.”

“Your décolletage says otherwise, but I’m sure this visit is for business, not pleasure. Do we need to make another adjustment to your stipends?”

“That deal is over, Stan. There’s a problem you’re going to help us solve. Once it’s done, we’ll let you save your own skin.”

“I see. I hope you haven’t given me too much credit. What is this problem?”

“First you help us. We need to disappear before certain people start asking questions we would very much prefer not to answer. You once indicated you could get people out of the country. Is that true?”

Stan seemed taken aback by the information. “You two? Both of you need to disappear? Who or what is chasing you?”

“It’s bad to worry about things that don’t concern you, Stan. Don’t forget what curiosity did for the cat. Can you do it or not?”

“Perhaps. When do you need this to happen?”

“Now. Yesterday. Immediately.”

“Interesting,” said Stan. “What if I’m unable to do this thing for you?”

“Then when we get fried, we’ll go down knowing you fried first. We’ll probably even build your pyre. Maybe we’ll earn a bit of mercy for ourselves.”

Stan gave a thin, humorless smile. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less of you. Yes, I can get you out of the country immediately.”

“Both of us,” said Hendricks flatly.

“Yes, of course, both of you.”

“Fine. Do it.”

“What about me?” Stan asked. “When do I get what I need out of this deal?”

Hendricks considered her words for a moment. “There’s a federal task force, some hot shot out of the Las Vegas FBI office working with that crooked slimeball new district attorney. They know about us, along with a dozen other places and cops working deals. They’re going to be coming down your throat. Once we’re on our way, we’ll tell you when and how so you can be somewhere else when the trap springs.”

“Since you have left me no other decent options, it will have to do. Lieutenant Moore, if you would join the detective, please?”

Moore walked over and stood immediately behind Hendricks’ chair. Stan looked directly into Hendricks’ eyes. His voice deepened as he spoke.

“Do you swear this is what you want to do, Detective Jenny Hendricks?”

“I do,” replied Hendricks, struck by the odd phrasing of Stan’s question as well as her response.

The lights in the room began to dim and redden. Moore grabbed Hendricks from behind, pinning her arms. Hendricks tried to get up and break away but found her partners’ grip to be unbreakable.

The room filled with smoke. The stench of sulfur became suffocating. Moore straightened up and yanked Hendricks to her feet, smashing the chair to kindling. Now facing the mirror behind the bar, Hendricks was shocked to see her partner transforming before her eyes.

Moore was growing taller and stronger in seconds, her skin turning dark. Long, sharp horns were sprouting from both sides of head. Hendricks’ kicking feet were grabbed and held tight by Moore’s sinuous, forked tail.

The floor became translucent and insubstantial, filled with enormous, leaping flames that burned Hendricks to her soul. Locked tight in Moore’s delivering embrace, Hendricks began her long fall.

After finishing 2013 with the five-week, five-part Flash Fiction Challenge (which was a ton of fun!), followed by a couple of weeks off for the holidays, Chuck Wendig this week has given us this task to start the Flash Fiction Challenges for 2014. I rolled a 16 and an 18, so the title of my “1,000 words or so” will be “Spiral God.” As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

SPIRAL GOD

The being that was a starship which was the starship that was a being had taken its time approaching the tiny world, sniffing, watching, tasting, probing.

For an epoch which was merely the blink of an eye it had been near this star, first touching many tens and dozens and thousands of the cold, sterile, icy balls and lumps far out from the heat and light. Deep in its belly it had grown millions of different strains of organisms, all ancient, all new, all rare. On each frozen shard it had deposited a diverse assortment of organic colonies to lurk, to hibernate, to wait for the warmth of maybes and the glare of possibilities.

Moving patiently and steadily inward, the being the starship had visited cold and cloudy worlds, screaming winds churning their atmospheres, hemorrhaging away what little precious energy there was out in the deep dark. Here it chose and built, picking and choosing, making new organisms from a vast catalog of suitable organic building blocks, designing airy lifeforms to dance and float in the frozen, hellish hurricanes.

Millennia later, now close enough so the star was at last more than just a bright spot over there barely moving, gas giants wrapped spacetime around themselves and tortured the æther with blistering radiation and gargantuan gravity wells balancing dozens of smaller cosmoses on the abyss. The starship the being worked slowly to craft hardy and vicious organisms that could survive in such hells, weaving carbon into diamond for protection and strength while thriving at pressures and temperatures unheard of except for in the souls of the stars themselves.

Fulfilled and satisfied with its gifts for the gas giants, the being the starship turned toward the many moons swimming in the electromagnetic soup and warming themselves in the tidal torture. To each one it gave a custom designed cornucopia of seed cells, trillions upon trillions of lifebits created with the wisdom and experience of a billion years of experimentation, all scattered for the sole purpose of eating the sulfur rains or swimming in the dark oceans under the ices.

Approaching the rocky inner planets, the being the starship found a dying world, its feeble gravity unable to maintain its tenuous grasp on the life preserving atmosphere. Without consideration for the long odds because in the end all life was fighting uphill against the only painful and incredibly long odds allowed by an uncaring universe, cells were crafted to thrive and grow in brief and transient periods with water and warmth before sleeping patiently for an aeon when extinction hovered near.

Methodically continuing down into the star’s gravity well the being the starship detected something new as it approached the next planet. An anomalous taste followed by an enigmatic sniff triggered subroutines and memories long dormant and engaged protocols only used twice in hundreds of star systems past.

Here there was something unique, something precious beyond all measure.

The starship the being began to test and retest, to sample, to question, to analyze, to categorize. Meticulously it disassembled the evidence it found floating on the solar wind and skimmed off of the most uppermost layers of the atmosphere. At long, long last it was convinced.

The highest priest of a religion based on facts and not on faith, the being the starship now believed that it had found that most precious and rare of all objects in the universe, a new form of life which had arisen spontaneously and unbidden out of the mathematical probabilities of necessity.

With infinite gentleness and love the starship the being gathered and dissected the tenuous wisps of this new and precious life. It found the enzymes used and the complexities embedded within as it teased out every secret and nuance of this biological treasure. It marveled at the complex yet flexible structures in the helical spirals that this new life used, so different from the various crystalline and geometric structures that all other life in its experience had utilized since the ancestors and creators of the being the starship in the far, far distant past near the beginning of time.

It practiced reproducing this new life on demand before it ran experiment after experiment to verify that the fruits of its creation were accurate and compatible with the miracles which had preceded it.

When finally the being the starship had examined and sampled and tested millions of samples from all locations on this verdant and fertile incubator world, warm and wet and soft and blue and white and brown and green in the ebony depths of the endless distances between the stars, it backed away from this world of gods, giver of new life, mother of infinite generations to come.

Blessed to be in the sacred and divine presence of such a god world, having received the beneficence and loving grace of a new solution to the eternal problem of creation, bringing being into existence from mere chemistry, the starship the being began to sing across the interstellar depths, telling its far-flung kindred of the new miracle. It shared and taught and spread the benediction of this newly found state of living grace, setting the stage for all of the beings the starships which were part of itself and itself a part of the whole to spread and use this new life as the backbones of billions of new experiments on warm and wet worlds throughout the galaxy.

Singing its song of creation and discovery and sharing, the being the starship spread its immense gossamer wings and sails and began the slow and unfaltering journey outward to the next star surrounded by barren and sterile balls of rock and ice and gas and gravity, spinning patiently in anticipation of the starship the being’s promise of the gifts of life.

Here we are at the end, week five (of five) for this odd task in Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge.

In summary:

• Four weeks ago, I (and many others) wrote a 200 word fraction of a story, intended to be the first 1/5 of a story.
• Three weeks ago, everyone took someone else’s first 200 word fragments and wrote a second 200 word addition.
• Two weeks ago, everyone took two other people’s first 200 and second 200 word fragments and wrote a third 200 word middle section.
• Last week, everyone took three other people’s first, second and third 200 word fragments and wrote a fourth 200 word section.
• This week, I’ll take the first 800 words created by four other folks and add my final 200 words.

In previous weeks we were instructed to not work on any story we had worked on previously. This week we have the option of completing the story that we started four weeks ago. Since I was fortunate enough to have my original piece picked up and enhanced each week, I’ll see if I can bring it to an end.

My thanks to Michael D. Woods, Liz Neering, and Kyra Dune who took my original story and ran with it. Michael also gave the story its title. My thanks as well as Angela Carina Barry who also picked it up and took it in a different direction in Week Two, even though it didn’t get picked up further by anyone (as far as I know, at least) in Weeks Three or Four.

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

WINTER TAKES ALL (THE FINAL TWO HUNDRED WORDS)

(First segment written by Paul Willett and posted here.)

The first time I saw it snowing in Los Angeles it was the sixth day of a three-day juice cleanse. Snow was definitely not something one normally saw down in the basin, at least, not then.

Because of my need to purify my body and aura, the news and media, filled with nothing but anger and pain, had been cast away along with the other toxins. My base aural color had always been a lavender or sky blue. Recently though, it had started to get muddied and dark. I would have thought my third eye would have seen the unusual weather coming, but it didn’t, so I was caught off guard.

When I first saw the falling flakes I thought I might have overdone the cleanse. Last time I had seen Elvis riding an ostrich on the seventh day. My transmundane counselor had resolved the issue with some orange juice, chocolate, and a sandwich, but that solution didn’t work on the weather. It was still snowing on the pier.

In Santa Monica we only got three inches, but of course it was more than enough to spread gridlock all the way to Riverside. Then, of course, things got much worse.

(Second segment written by Michael D. Woods and posted here.)

Wolves sprinted northward along the shoulder of the Interstate. Spectral at first, their forms quickly firmed from fog to massive, grey-white beasts, all fur and fang. Screaming people climbed from cars and ran eastward, away from the pack. The pack, on the other hand, paid little mind to the panicked masses.

I finished my sandwich, tipped back the last of my orange juice, and glanced over longingly at the waiting chocolate. Damn it. Opening the car door, I stepped out and manifested my Third Eye. My gaze followed the wolves, past the traffic, beyond the mundane. And there, further north, a silver radiance fluoresced from sky to soil, the obvious beacon guiding the will of these dire wolves.

Gridlock held my Taurus in its palsied grip so I opted for a more direct mode of travel. Delicately, I pulled along the seam of my own aura. With practiced ease, I unthreaded the edge and stepped beyond it into–

My third eye slammed shut, transcendental tears splashing my cheeks. Before me, what had once been a paradise of color and fragrance was now a blighted wasteland of ash. And in the distance a brilliant wound ripped the world from Heaven to Hell.

(Third segment written by Liz Neering and posted here.)

The wolves were moving towards the rift. With my newly clear vision I saw the beasts for what they were: I saw them in all their terrible glory, fearsome and monstrous and beyond mortal comprehension. Their spirits resonated with my own, their primal power dragging me, and the aura around me, back into darkness. I gasped for breath, but nothing came; it caught in my throat, hard as a stone.

I walked on.

With each step my legs felt weaker. I looked back, only to see my footprints were unsteady, of varying depths and direction. I looked back to the rift, attempting to regain my bearings. But the rift had shifted, now, its silvery light coming from somewhere else altogether. I stopped, then turned to each point of the compass, making my signs of respect and power each time. At first the familiarity of ritual calmed me. But my troubled aura confirmed what I already knew.

I was lost.

I heard the howling of the wolves around me, harsh and cold and wind. Snow flurries kicked up at the sound of their voices. Winter closed around me, and true darkness followed close behind.

(Fourth segment written by Kyra Dune and posted here.)

Oh, it still looked like a wolf, for the most part, only it kept shimmering to show me glimpses of something otherworldly beneath the guise. Something ghastly. But though I was desperate to look away, I dare not.  I had the feeling if I showed the least hint of weakness the grinning monstrosity before me would gladly rip my head off.

(Fifth segment written by Paul Willett)

“Are you not afraid to die, pitiful, ephemeral mortal?”

“Of course I am,” I answered. “Fear of a thing does not mean that it must be avoided.”

The wolf howled with laughter, a painful and cruel wail that erased all humor and joy from the universe. “You will be the first to die, while I destroy your world. You are too ignorant to even understand why you are dying. You see before you the path to immortality, yet you cannot go on that simple journey.”

“You are arrogant, demon. It’s not that I cannot grasp immortality, it is that I choose not to. Immortal, you are incapable of understanding the power of sacrifice. Without that you cannot love. Without that you cannot truly live. Slay me and accept your fate.”

The demon sprang into my welcoming embrace, ripping out my throat as I consumed him. My tears fell, my blood spilled, my pain enveloped his being. I joined with it. We neutralized each other, complimented each other, fulfilled each other – combined.

Together we left our worlds behind, collapsing to an infinitesimal point, dropping through the fabric of spacetime, emerging on the far side, blossoming, exploding outward, creating a new universe.

Coming down the home stretch in week four (of five) for this odd task in Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge.

Three weeks ago, I (and many others) wrote a 200 word fraction of a story, intended to be the first 1/5 of a story.

Two weeks ago, everyone took someone else’s first 200 word fragments and wrote a second 200 word addition.

Last week, everyone took two other people’s first 200 and second 200 word fragments and wrote a third 200 word middle section. Seeing a pattern here?

This week, I’ll take the first 600 words created by three other folks and add my fourth 200 words.

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

JOE’s BAR (THE FOURTH TWO HUNDRED WORDS)

(First segment written by The Urban Spaceman and posted here.)

“Buy me a drink,” he said, bloodshot eyes meeting mine from further down the bar, “and I’ll tell you how I broke the world.”

I gave a snort, took a long swig of my G&T, and turned my attention back to the game being shown on Joe’s decrepit TV.

“Go on,” he insisted, in a voice ravaged by years of strong alcohol. “It’ll be worth it.”

Glancing around, I looked for help, but none of the other patrons of the grotty bar were paying attention to me being pestered by the old loon, and the bartender was very focused on cleaning a glass. The old man’s eyes bored into me from beneath his dirty mop of hair, and in the dim light of Joe’s Bar I saw the dark red stains on his grey trench coat.

“Alright.” The game was dull anyway. “What’s your poison?”

“Scotch on the rocks.”

I nodded at the barkeep, and the old man watched hungrily as the amber nectar was poured.

“Go on then,” I prompted him. “Tell me how you broke the world.”

He took a sip of his drink, gave a happy sigh, and looked up at me with those bloodshot eyes.
  “It all started in 1939…”

(Second segment written by Rebecca Douglas and posted here.)

Nineteen thirty-nine?  That was an obvious place for a claim like his.  “So you were responsible for Hitler?” I guessed, humoring the old man.  He might have been alive in 1939, but he certainly wasn’t old enough at the outset of WWII to have played a significant role.  To have broken the world.

“Not exactly.”  His voice was still coarse, but now seemed somehow stronger.  “I was Hitler.”

I laughed.  “Yeah, you look it, Old Man.  Tell me another.  You were Mussolini, too, right?”

He wasn’t laughing.  “Yes.  And Stalin.  They were all aspects of me, and because of my incompetence millions suffered and died.”

I sighed, and bought him another drink.  The first one had sort of evaporated, and I wanted to hear what kind of story he’d spin.  The game really was dull as dishwater, and this lunatic at least had some imagination, unlike the coaches, who kept trying the same failed moves.

His voice was much clearer now, the ravaging effects of the whiskey fading as he began to tell his story.

“I thought it would be for the best.  I started with Stalin, when Russia needed a strong leader.  Times really were bad, you know.”

(Third segment written by Jim Franklin and posted here.)

“Yes, I’ve read that.” I said pushing my drink away, and turning to face him.

He stared at me intently, happy as if he had done everything he could to enthrall me in his tale. To be fair to him, he had, though I wasn’t sure if it was his tale or his mental condition that had grabbed me.

“So you were Stalin and Hitler?” I repeated, with as little disbelief as I could.

“Yep, Errol Flynn too but that was more of a holiday”, he smiled to himself, but stopped when he saw I hadn’t got the joke.

“You once broke the world, and now you feel you need to tell me everything?”

“We can’t do what we have to do, unless you’re brought up to speed.” The old man had scarcely touched his drink, and his eyes were now focused on me.

“We?”

Before my question was answered I felt a hand on my shoulder. A delicate, and intricately tattooed hand, with lime-green fingernails.

I looked up its owner. She was stunning; piercing green eyes, spiked black hair and a ring through her lip. She leaned down and spoke gently into my ear.

“We need your help?”

(Fourth segment written by Paul Willett [momdude])

If the old man had held my attention because he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket, the punk goddess grabbed it by the balls. Her breath in my ear sent a shot of adrenaline through me like I hadn’t felt since I lost my virginity.

“What can I help you with?” I asked, trying to sound casual and sophisticated.

“Not me,” she breathed, “us. We’re a pair, inseparable.”

I managed to break her gaze long enough to look back at the old man. He looked abused, broken, and beaten, but not drunk. I looked back to her and found her to be just as hypnotizing and infatuating as she had been five seconds ago.

“He’s what…your grandfather? Father? Uncle?”

“He is me, I am him. I am yin to his yang, he is the shadow to my light. We are one, yet we are asunder, wounded, and incomplete.”

Okay, maybe she was the one who had been drinking way too much. Time to keep track of her hands and make sure they stayed away from my wallet.

“What do you need help with?”

“To be reborn we must die together,” she whispered. “You alone must kill us.”

We’re now in week three (of five) for this odd task in Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge. Two weeks ago, I (and many others) wrote a 200 word fraction of a story, intended to be the first 1/5 of a story. Last week, everyone took someone else’s first 200 word fragments and wrote a second 200 word addition. This week, I’ll take the first 400 words created by two other folks and add my third 200 words. Clear as mud? It’s actually quite fun and interesting

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

THE THIRD TWO HUNDRED WORDS

(First segment written by Jeremiah Boydstun [boydstun215] and posted here.)

The soldiers carried the man across the narthex and through the nave. They lumbered along like some giant, wounded insect, three pairs of cold, stiff legs shuffling clumsily beneath a motley carapace of steel and leather. Close upon their heels, the master-of-arms was careful to avoid the hissing droplets of blood that the insect left in its wake. His sword was drawn.

At the end of the nave and standing at the foot of the chancel, the bishop held a gilded crosier at arm’s length as if to thwart the advance of the shambling mass making its way toward the altar. In his other hand he grasped a large silver crucifix. Despite his advanced age and diminutive stature, the crimson-robed bishop made for an imposing figure. “No further,” he whispered. The soldiers stopped , unsure of themselves. One of the men looked down nervously into the pale face of the man he carried while the other two turned their heads in askance to the master-at-arms. For several moments the only sound was the steady hiss of the blood as fell from the lifeless man and met the cold marble floor.

“It must be done here,” said the master-at-arms. “Take him to the altar.”

(Second segment written by Adrienne and posted here.)

The bishop moved aside, letting the soldiers scramble up the few steps to the altar. His crimson robes did nothing to shield him from the cold radiating from their frozen armor. The slick marble stairs proved difficult for the exhausted soldiers as they stumbled and fell under their heavy load. Grim-faced, the master–at-arms followed their procession, only sheathing his sword to offer aid in heaving the unconscious man atop the bare altar.

The soldiers scurried away, stealing a glance at the stone table before fixing their gaze on their snow-crusted boots. The master-at-arms moved to the side of the altar where the man’s head rested. His shallow breaths produced a faint mist in the cold air. Steady drops of blood from his mouth had already created a small pool that hissed quietly on the stone. The master-at-arms looked down at the man’s face, searching for any hint of the soldier he once knew, but finding only the thing he had become. A sharp intake of air through the pale, bloodied lips tore the master-at-arms away from his thoughts.

The bishop joined the master-at-arms. Two terrified altar boys carrying trays covered with vials, books, crucifixes, and various cutting tools followed closely behind.

“It is time.”

(Third segment written by Paul Willett [momdude])

The master-at-arms glanced at his men. “Stand ready,” he said, “if we fail, the abomination must not be allowed to leave this place.”

He took a heavy knife from an altar boy’s tray and began to cautiously cut through the frozen leather straps holding the man’s armor together. He was careful to jostle the breastplate as little as possible, each touch of it bringing a soft moan of pain from the dying victim. He studiously avoided looking at the gaping hole in the center of it, or the throbbing, writhing creature inside.

As the master-at-arms worked, the bishop began sprinkling holy water across the shuddering figure on the altar, murmuring prayers. He took a thurible from an altar boy, sprinkled incense over the coals, and circled the altar slowly. A thin, warbling chant escaped his lips.

When all of the armor save for the breastplate had been cut away and removed, the bishop retrieved the heavy silver crucifix and stood on one side of the altar, while the master-at-arms stood on the other and prepared to tear away the sundered steel. Their eyes met and the bishop gave a small nod.

A powerful woman’s voice echoed through the cathedral. “Stop!”