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I am going to be reeeeaaal embarrassed if this isn't a Flash the dc hero fiction contest..... 

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Wally West hangs up his phone and begins speeding along the roads of central city nimbly moving around all obstacles. This leaves him with some extra time to think as usual.

“Time…it is amazing how precious it is. No one ever never really stop to think about how important it is what we choose to spend it on.” Out of the corner of his eye he notices a child frozen reaching out in futility to catch a falling ice cream cone. “Hmm, wouldn’t want to lose that now would we.” He says to himself as he places it back within the child’s grasp. Looking at the youth he ponders “I wonder despite all my speed and how fast I think how many times I am still not fast enough. How many times people I need to save are just out of my reach.”

As he continues his target is in sight. A young woman standing outside her house waiting for him. He smiles “I suppose that really isn’t the point. I guess the point is I keep trying to be fast enough and I make sure I spend time on things worthwhile.” He quickly screeches to halt in front of the woman cocks his head to one side raises a half salute and says “Hey Linda...how is it going?”

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Drunken cries of jubilation, and the heavy smoke of countless bonfires only barely registered in Jonathan Belmonte’s troubled mind. High above the pockmarked city – gorging itself on its new-found freedom – he sat alone, balancing on top of the blackened ruins of a bombed-out church.

The crescent moon and shimmering stars formed a bright contrast against the murky landscape below, vanishing evermore from sight with every passing moment. But Jonathan didn’t notice. Instead, his gaze drifted on towards the broken fields past the crimson horizon, from where he could still hear the resounding lamentations of the dead and dying.

His hands wandered, unknowingly, towards the tiny bronze disc that was pinned to his lapel. How long was it since the dignitaries presented them to him, immaculate, all dressed in their Sunday best? A day? A week? One pinned to his jacket, two presented in fine oaken boxes – tiny caskets for misplaced men – for his brothers. His trembling fingers gently rubbed the jagged letters: ‘Volontaire’. He found himself hunching under its weight.

Somewhere from below echoed the cacophonous notes of the Marseillaise, filled with patriotic joviality. Did they play it when he returned to a silent home? Did they sound the bugles when he broke down – tears of joy, of relief? – in his abandoned mother’s arms? When he fruitlessly searched for his youthful fiancée? He honestly couldn’t remember. Ceremonies, funerals, celebrations, remembrances; all muddled into a single, mournful dirge.

Ashen tears rolled down his cheeks – soot from the trenches. Why was he even crying? Didn’t he survive? Didn’t he return home, one of the few? Jonathan clasped his searing medal, and wallowed in its weight – two brothers, three. Blackened stone crumbled beneath his unsteady feet. He closed his eyes, and let go.

One drunken bugle-call wound in the distance.

298 words.

Aaaand, edit-lock.

Ashley couldn't believe how unbelievably bored she was. Perhaps an art museum wasn't the best place to host her sweet 16. She didn't even like art all that much, but she knew Braydon Wilson loved it. After begging her father to pay a considerable amount of money on her party and inviting everyone at school, here she was. A teenage girl with a crush is truly a force to be reckoned with. 

Ashley wandered off from the entrance hall. It had been two hours and Braydon hadn't showed up. There was no point to the party if he wasn't coming. She sighed as she wandered past contemporary paint splashes and sculptures of long dead kings. She walked until she couldn't hear the blaring music anymore. 

Staring up at the nearest painting, she saw the backs of a man and a woman, hand in hand. They were surrounded by trees filled with bountiful supplies of small, delicate pink flowers. Ashley looked at the couple, even though she couldn't see their faces, she knew they were probably smiling, happy to simply be in each other's company. Their hidden faces were most likely just as beautiful as the cherry blossoms they were surrounded by. 

Ashley thought of Braydon. Deep down, she knew he would never like her. Even though he was the only person in school that was kind to her, he was just that: kind. "Nobody could love a face like mine," she swallowed back tears as she walked back to her party. Ashley's disfigured face couldn't hide her shame as she looked upon the portraits of beautiful women on her way. The empty entrance hall greeted her. It seemed to laugh as she recalled the hundreds of hand written invitations. It sneered as she remembered the singular heart shaped one.

Word count is 299 because I like to go to the absolute limit.

The Cause

***

    One day in June, a man stood still. His life lay shattered at the blood of his love. His tears ran down at the rhythm of his heart as he moaned into the sky; the song of a swan.

    Several years later, he rid the back of a horse, his face riddled with the sand of the broiling desert. His hand on his sword, glistering in the sun’s glare. Suddenly he stopped and jumped off, landing into the soft dusty rock. His eyes stared at the body of child, its eyes lifeless and skin cold as space. He got down on his knees and prayed, hoping the child’s soul would find peace.

    A decade later, the man wore an eyepatch on his right and a metal substitute arm on his left. He shifted through the white flakes blasting at his face, trying to slow his travel. Then he had found what he sought, a worn castle, its stone cracked and weathered. He ran inside, his steps pounding against the darkness and his breaths echoing across the barren walls.

    It was there, a ghastly figure stood, its slow exhaling raspy and coarse. The man’s face grew grim as he unsheathed his scythe and vaulted himself into the air. The figure and man clashed, the sounds of gore and screaming haunted the very area centuries after…

Now, in an engraving on a stone that laid on the walls of a lost battleground, was the carving of a man’s last words.

“The loss of a man does not mean the loss of a cause…”

Edit lock!!!!! Also 261 words not including the title.

Anywhere I Roam

Word Count: 300 exactly

Wanderer, nomad, vagabond, call me what you will. All of them are correct. I don't stick to one spot for longer than a few days, a week at best, and travel to the next as soon as possible. I typically visit the small towns for when I rest - easier to find cheap beds and meals there. I'm not a picky person, and I don't hit up certain restaurants or hotels. There could be a massive cockroach or rat or some shit I have to share my room with, and I wouldn't care. I've got more crucial things to worry about. Damn it, I've got a job to do.

Word spreads quickly around smaller towns like wildfire, so I've got to be careful. One slip-up can make a huge difference. I don't want to take care of business with violence. I want to go in, do my job, stay the night and leave. It's kind of ironic, though, considering the fact that violence is my business in the first place.

It wasn't my choice to get into this hellhole of an occupation. I've got a life, a family waiting for me to come home. I'm doing this for them. They can barely afford proper food and new clothes. Everything they have is handed down, worn out, close to expiration or bought at a dirt cheap thrift store. I don't even have a proper house to come home to after a weary day of working. I just reside in my car and inexpensive hotel rooms. I've got the money I need, however, and the clients.

Lots of things happen in life, and sometimes it pushes you to do things you wouldn't ever do. Estranged relationship, hatred, rival companies, vengeance. You may be wondering what my magic moneymaker is now. Well...it's a rifle.

The chest sat in a forgotten corner of the attic; dust from its lid puffed into the air as Anna opened it, curious what was inside. Most of it was the usual mementos: Christmas cards and letters, dried roses, pictures. The one thing that caught her attention was a plastic, flat egg attached to a keychain. On one side there was a screen with three buttons underneath. Nothing happened when she pressed them. What was this? The other side had an opening that was screwed shut. Batteries went there, obviously. They must be dead. 

"Grandma?" Anna called, hopping down the stairs and taking the bobble with her.

The woman was watching the stars from her porch swing.

"Grandma, what's this?"

Taking the proffered item, Grandma smiled. It was one of those smiles she got when she remembered something pleasant. "This," she said as the girl sat down, "was your mother's. It's a Tamagotchi. It's a toy where you take care of an alien pet. In places like Japan where many people live in a small space, these were nice because people didn't always have the room for a real pet."

Anna took her phone out of her pocket and looked at the two. "Did it do anything else?"

"Nope. It was just a pet."

"That's it? Phones are way better. I can download as many games as I want."

Grandma remembered having a similar conversation with her own Grandmother once. She chuckled and looked back up at the sky. "My, oh my, how the circle comes back around...." She thought. "Is that what we're like to you, bright stars in the heavens? Here one moment and gone the next, like a flash in the pan?"

words: 292

THE EXECUTION

    Not a man in the Fiefdom of Basnage knew by what authority Sir Abraham was knighted. He displayed none of the knightly virtues commonly attributed to the armoured noblemen; he killed for showmanship and glory, and not for king and country. He lay with the women (and it was rumoured, some of the men) of the village. Not a man dared to challenge him, however. Even without his colossal plate armour or his cruel-looking flail and gargantuan shield, he cut an imposing figure at six feet and three inches tall. Muscles rippled through his clothes, and his eyes were two shrewd looking slits, placed far-back in his head. 

    This wasn’t why men feared him, however. He served a vital, brutal role in the community. Local convicts could choose between certain death by hanging, or probable death in the Arena; sword in hand, the convict could do battle with Sir Abraham, and meet their death by his flail. 

    … 

    The knight and the criminal  squared off on either end of the sandy arena. The baron’s wife used it to train horses, but it served this purpose just fine. The two-hundred men and boys  of the village gathered around it, staring in half-horror, half-fascination at the scene in front of them. Facing the armoured brute was a local thief and heathen, wearing little more than a pair of trousers, a rusty full-face helmet from a long-passed war, and clutching a rusty sword. 

    Sir Abraham crossed the arena almost immediately. He shrugged an overhand strike off on his thick armour, before retaliating with a chest-crushing blow from his flail. The other fighter gasped, and slunk to his knees. Sir Abraham grabbed his helmet and unceremoniously ripped it off, revealing the frightened child underneath. 

______

297 words. 

annnnd, edit locked

Harry stood silently in the rain as he stared at the building which loomed intimidatingly in front of him. His eyes lingered on the cracked gutter which ran along the edge of the roof, dripping dirty water down the brick walls that stained white paint peeled off of.  A small cobweb hung in the corner of a window, the spider which lived there clinging on for dear life as a gust of wind threatened to blow it off of its perching space.

A large steel gate stood to the side, something that would soon be an impenetrable barrier between Harry and the outside world. The sound of screams drifted over the metal bars, and Harry shivered in terror at the thought of what might be happening in there.

The realisation that he would be spending much of the foreseeable trapped within this place filled him with dread. Who knew just what terrible things they would do to him in there, or if he would ever be able to escape. His feet were rooted to the ground, he wasn’t ready for his world to change. He didn’t want to leave his family, and the fear that he would never see them again made it impossible to take another step.

He looked up behind him, and the reassuring smile of his mother comforted him. “It’s okay darling,” she said. “Go ahead.”

His momentary worries vanished, and he ran through the gate into the playground to join the other children as the stomped about in the puddles, screaming in joy. 

Word count: 257

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Ralph felt his heat race as the laughter from the other members of the culinary class continued. It was an open secret that he was an outcast, but Ralph had tried to convince himself that this time things were different and he was simply over worrying. Now however, it was now impossible for him to deny that he wasn’t welcome. Who would have thought the decision to add eggs would be the event that would bring the truth out into the light?

“This is the worst dish I’ve ever tasted, why the hell did you put eggs in it?” Head Chef Carl demand to know.

“Some people would like it,” Ralph tried to defend himself.

“Kids in Africa would rather starve then eat this.”

The laughter began again, this time even louder. Sweat dripped down Ralph’s face as it turned bright red. At this point in his life you would think Ralph would be used to being treated like this, but he would never accept being an object of rejection and scorn. He also decided today would be the day things would change for him and he knew just how to make that possible.

Ralph picked up the electric egg beater and turned it on. He approached Carl, who was too busy  laughing to notice him. Using all of his strength Ralph rammed the egg beater into Carl’s abdomen and within seconds Carl fell to the floor dead. The other members of the class ran out of the room screaming. Ralph knew he should leave soon, but before he did he was tempted to try the dish that caused this series of events. After taking a bite, he chewed it a bit and a nauseating taste entered his mouth.

“Oh my god, this really does taste terrible,” Ralph conceded.

Word Count: 299

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We're watching you. O-O

"One Night"

Word Count: 300

“I’ll leave the three of you alone,” echoed Nurse Sycamore, following Dr. Mirth out the door.

The children looked out the window at the storm that was beginning to brew and clustered closer to the hospital bed. The sound of an ambulance wailed by, but the only thing they could hear was the piercing omen of the heart monitor. They turned back to the old man.

“Mary Scott,” the man croaked. The young girl looked up into her father’s eyes. “Promise me you’ll take care of Matthew.”

She looked away. Saying those words meant accepting something awful. Daring to look back at her hero for support, she found only love and sorrow in his eyes. She knew what had to be done. Closing her eyes, she whispered the vow. When she reopened her eyes she saw some twinkle of light had returned to his. They shared a weak smile.

The old man then turned to the boy. He might not remember this moment five years from now, but for the time being, his world was going to fall apart.

He simply turned to the child and uttered the phrase that had been said so many times before:

“I love you, Matthew.”

“I love you more, Daddy!” came the automatic reply. The boy got confused by the saddened look that his response had earned and frowned, thinking he’d done something wrong.

“I’ll always love you, Matthew,” the old man reassured. Matthew smiled back.

Now the old man turned to the figure of his wife that prevailed over the room. “Clara….”

The heart monitor fell silent. Finality enveloped the room.

The old man sat up and spoke. “I’m glad to finally see you again, Clara.” They embraced.

The cries of the children echoed throughout the halls for the loss of their father.

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Forever After

It was just past midnight when Death set foot on Church Street’s muddy sleet. Silent and unseen, he passed the gathering crowd of speechless onlookers – flustered faces, wrinkled formal dress – and made his way towards the sea of sirens and flashing lights.

Frightened eyes met with his own. Sunken deep inside their battered sockets, glazed-over with alcohol and adrenaline, they pleaded him to end their pain, to alleviate the suffering of a conscience-stricken heart. He walked past them, as they were borne away into the begrudging care of duty-bound paramedics – an appointment for a distant day.

The hastily-erected plastic wall did little to hide the tragedy that unfolded behind it, and even less to impede Death’s stride towards the intersection – two vehicles strewn across its asphalt. He passed one dismembered metal carcass, its occupant already being sped away, and followed a frantic fireman, glistening stars of glass crunching beneath his boots, towards the commotion on the other side of the road.

Death glanced briefly at the smudged writing on the shattered wind shield, and paused at the sight of the placid couple – tranquil, if not peaceful – inside their mangled hearse. Silently, he straightened the woman’s once-ivory dress and picked a grain of uncooked rice from her fiancé’s – now husband’s – matted hair; and collected them: two blazing souls that unknowingly reached the end of their allotted time; and a tiny, shimmering one, half-hidden by its mother’s glow, that never was to be.  

Aaand, edit lock. 241 words. These things are a great way to procrastinate :P

               Like the whistling of the whirling wind through the nettles of her childhood, the deafening noise swirled, fading. For a moment, life felt dark and heavy.

               She opened her eyes and gazed up towards the setting sun, together with her dearest companion, both lying on the gentle slope on the southern side of town. Below was a field overgrown with nettles, one her grandfather had once cleared and maintained, leading away from civilization and towards the small pond that was ever so popular with experimenting teens.

               Somewhere nearby, but eerily far away, she could make out a muted, rasping wheeze. Interspaced irregularly into that noise was gurgling and crackling; it reminded her of the of the densely forested spring where she and her companion had their first encounter. For a moment, life felt dark and heavy.

               She opened her eyes and wiped the sweat off of her brow. She leaned into her companion’s caress, resting her head. Her companion outpaced her quickly; A gifted athlete and a natural socialite. She felt both grateful and envious; she craved for her companion’s touch, and yet small incidents of everyday life distilled vitriol which would strain their relationship.

               Lingering in the edges of her perception, the smell of smoked roast warmed her slightly. It smelt like the special rub her grandmother had perfected.

               She opened her eyes, rubbing soot from them. Her grandmother placed the roast on the table. Soon their new neighbors would arrive. The two girls would begin their lifelong relation with an appropriately strained greeting.

               Life grew dark and heavy. It did not relent.

               Her old companion was the one to find her. Despite the burns, she wore the peaceful expression of a non-sufferer: a small relief, at least.

289 words

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I'm not that great of a writer, but here. Laugh if you wish. Word Count: 300

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It's all a game of chance.

The thought echoed in my brain as I watched her giggling with her friends, sneaking looks at me while they strolled around the carnival. I leaned against one of the booths, biting my lip in frustration. What was so hard about talking to a girl? 

"Hey, are you going to play or what?" The voice came from the booth, and I turned my head. Immediately, I felt trapped in the gaze of an old man, his pupils the darkest shade of black. 

"Only a dollar to play, and the prize is big!" He pointed to a large teddy bear, roughly the size of a decade-old child. I replied with a curt "No" and returned my attention back to the girl.

"Ah, I see. It's the brown-haired one you're after, correct?"

"How...?"

"Have no fear, your secret is safe with me. Don't be afraid of love. Go on now."

Forcing down the nervous feeling in my chest, I started walking slowly toward the group of girls. Before I could even take three steps, a boy somewhere around my age walked up to the girl and put his arm around her shoulders. He said something and they all laughed, following him to the ferris wheel. They sat in pairs, with the girl and the boy together in a cart. I find myself staring as it revolved, and made a small choking sound as their two shadowy forms became one. Somehow, I had not realized that their eyes had not seen past him to me. 

I took a sharp left toward the carnival exit, my hands curled into fists and shaking, hidden deep in the pockets of my trench coat.

"Don't think too much on it, boy! It's all a game of chance!"

I didn't look back.

Edit Lock :(

Auto-Pilot

Anderson was cruising to the Beatles, taking in the scenic coastline as his Tesla drove itself home.

‘This is the good life’ he thought, as an unknown caller popped up.

‘This Anderson of Anderson-Kleiner-Perkins?’ came the squeaky voice

‘Yes?’

‘You won’t remember me, but this is LilPrince44’

‘Who?’

‘Toldya. I wrote that poem about my parent’s car crash on ___. You roasted it, you ripped it apart. I’ve called to thank you’

‘What the fuck?!’

‘I was depressed, that poem was my out. You told me to kill myself. Your comments saved me, I figure. Gave me a purpose, killin’ you, ya psycho. I went through all 3,021 of your posts and your FB. I found your name, number, address, age.‘

‘I Google mapped your house, nice crib by the way. I saw your car, and then I knew I had you,’ the kid’s teenage voice cracked with happiness.

‘This is a sick joke, I’m cutting this call!’ Anderson said as he pressed End Call.

‘I mention I burnt my parents’ insurance money hiring hackers?’ the voice resumed from the car’s stereo.

‘I own your car. I own you. Apologize, now!’

‘You have got to be kidding me. It was a throwaway comment on the net, are you serious?!’

‘I didn’t hear an apology. Too bad, I was feelin’ merciful.’

LilPrince44 hit Enter on his dad’s old computer, and the car veered of-road.

‘Say hi to ma and pa!’

LilPrince recorded Anderson’s final screams and the final resounding crunch as the car went over the cliff and crashed into the rocks below. He planned to replay Anderson’s last cries for years to come.

‘Worst I'll get is juvie again. Prolly shoulda asked Anderson though, he was a lawyer’ LilPrince thought as he turned the TV on to Cartoon Network.

299 Words

Monsieur Le Roux looked down at the poem on his desk. His mind was locked up, yet, having nothing better to do, he just continued to stare.

“Stand alone in the bustling marketplace,
As careless faces pass you by
Stand up proud! because here you have more grace:
Among the hopeless passerby”

Lacking the ability to conjure a title, he turned to the letters beside him, reaching for an important-looking envelope perched on top.

“Third Annual Writers’ Convention!” he read enthusiastically. “Well, there’s a first time for everything!”

He reached to dial for a taxicab, but caught curious eyes watching him. “I’ll be back before you know it, mon petit chaton!”

***

The parlor of strangers was much too congested for the poet, so he invited himself to the Egyptian garden outside. The gentle wisp of the fall air rejuvenated him as he sat down on a bench by an ancient-looking fountain.

After a brief relaxation, another figure stumbled into the garden – alas, a familiar face!

“Why, if it isn’t Madame Juniper, Queen of Nomenclature!” he called. “What a pleasant—”

“Not now!” the women trilled. Her hair was as frivolous as her cascading voice. She smelled like firewater. “I haven’t had inspiration for weeks!” she cried, pacing amongst the shrubbery. “I’m a wreck!”

“Hm… I might have a way to help,” suggested Le Roux carefully.

“Yes, anything, please!”

“I haven’t practiced what I’ve preached… but try to come up with the title first. See where it takes you… just look around here! Any ideas?”

She stopped pacing and took in the scene around her: the vineyard, the garden – and, turning around, the magnificent mansion.

“Aha! I’ve got something!” Forgetting all pleasantries, she dashed back into the parlor.

Le Roux responded to the now stabilized serenity around him: “As have I.”

"After Two Glasses of Gin" - Word Count: 300 (Edit Lock)

I inhaled deeply as my grip on the phone tightened.

It’s an odd feeling that one could never quite describe with words alone – that intoxicating combination of excitement, anxiety and perhaps even…fear, when you first grasp a taste of something you’ve deeply desired for your whole life.

For me, that was truth. A certain peace of mind, or closure, that came with questions needing to be answered. I was not one to shy away from cold, hard facts, no matter how painful. Denial and blissful ignorance were not traits I associated with; there were two sides to every coin, and I had to be aware of both.

But knowledge came at a price, and it was a fact that I was aware of all too well, a fact that I, and many others before me, had to learn the hard way. It takes a certain skill that I could never quite name, a hardening of the heart, a steeling of the resolve.

And that would no doubt be put to the test now, as I mentally prepared myself; in a manner not dissimilar to that of an explorer about to take their first step across uncharted territory, of an Olympian moments before their race, of a would-be mother about to read the results of her pregnancy test. This would mark the beginning of a discovery, of something so deeply tied into incidents that shaped my life and helped forge my very identity.

I exhaled and pressed dial.

Word Count: 247

Edit lock.

In the Gutter

Christina weaved through the dense crowds, her hands deftly swiping any coin purses that her victims had foolishly left exposed. A man cried out, “Thief,” but she had vanished as quickly as she came, disappearing into the busy marketplace, just as her brother had taught her years ago. These skills were essential for survival when born and raised in a world of poverty. A stall keeper frowned at her ragged clothes and Christina bolted to avoid arousing any suspicion. Dancing gracefully through the shoppers, making a profit as she went, she paused to count her takings. Twenty-three gold pieces - enough to keep her fed for the week.

She turned to return home, to the gutter where she belonged, when she saw the man. He wore an officer’s clothing, his coat sealed with shiny buttons. He was sat in a small enclosed garden, writing furiously with a quill. Christina’s hand slid into her pocket and retrieved a scissor blade. Her brother had owned the other half; they had split the blades to make an oath that they would always protect one another, through thick and thin.

She nonchalantly approached the gentleman and dropped her knife by his foot. He glanced up at her for a moment and then returned to his paperwork. Christina bent down to retrieve her weapon, making sure to make eye contact with the man who changed her life for the worse. His eyes lit up in horror as he recognised who she was. Before he could scream, she plunged the scissor into the side of his skull and threw his body to the ground. Wiping the blade clean, she left him, buttons and all, lay in the dirt. It had been 10 years, but she’d never forgotten the day she broke her oath.  

297 words. (edit lock)

"Overslant"

Word Count: 295

“‘Overslant Hospital,’” read Lieutenant Perelman as he finished with security. “You know, Doctor, hospitals are some of my favorite places.”

“You don’t say?” replied Surgeon General Knast as they traversed the stained linoleum floor.

“As a matter of fact, I do. I see them as a place where people are given second chances to lead a better life. A place where the community comes together to help the fellow man out: a place where commitments are made and miracles happen.”

Knast stopped at the elevator junction and turned around slowly to face Perelman. His face was full of contempt as he shook his shrewd head.

“I don’t want to sink your boat, Lieutenant, but from what I’ve seen through my personal experience – that’s twenty-four grueling years – the ‘hospital’ is a dreaded hole. Sure! I concede that rarely, every once in a lingering while something we do may cause a smirk, but in reality, we’re just spinning the casters of misfortune and deceit. This is a place where promises are broken and living corpses are left to rot. This is where old souls are brought to die and where new, unfortunate souls are brought into this miserable world.”

“But, sir—” started Perelman, but Knast cut him short and called for the elevator.

“No, I much prefer the prison. That’s a place that hides you away from the troubles of this world. One of the few places, I believe, where you can actually feel safe and secure. Delighted by your own ignorant bliss.”

Perelman chose his next words gingerly. “But, sir… then why do you work here if you despise it so?”

“Well, Lieutenant,” said the Surgeon General as he stepped inside the elevator. “This is the closest I can get to that without doing something ‘wrong.’”

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Among the Tombstones

Two careless children were playing in the garden of a long-abandoned home. Circling an ancient apple tree, with nimble feet that barely stirred the dry blades of grass, their cries of joy echoed loudly against the windowless walls. Even now, I wonder who they had been: the boy, wearing ragged clothes that were not of this time; and the girl – a few months his senior, though both had barely left the cradle – in her elaborate dress. Both lost in play.

I don’t know how long I stood there, gazing intently at that unexpected scene of unspoiled innocence. The street around them had long since disappeared, its cobbles cracked by growing weeds, its houses covered by the dust of ages. Nothing there but the cold, eastern winds, to disturb the reminder of that once bustling place. And then there was me, who came to dig it all up.

A shiver ran down my spine as the wind howled through the emptied husks around me. And in that brief moment, I glimpsed the untarnished splendour of a vanished world. Its pillared houses, gleaming in the morning sun. Its proud people, languishing in the luxuries of an empire that spanned the globe – built on the broken backs of conquered peoples. A blissful bubble, once and forever more detached from all the sorrows in the world, and the discord that brought it crumbling down.

Silence once more gripped the decaying ruins, their splendour gone forever more. Only a whispered echo remained, borne on the murmuring winds that stirred the leafless branches of an ancient apple tree behind me.

Two children played in the garden of an abandoned home. But when I turned around they were gone, called home by the voices of long-forgotten parents, amidst the crumbling monuments of their forgotten existence.

Something, something, edit-lock. 298 words.

The diagnostic had been running for the better part of the evening, and despite the cold recycled air, sweat beaded the engineers’ faces. There had always been concerns about the Chinese machinery at these facilities, and mishaps weren’t unheard of. Naaz himself wasn’t an engineer, after twenty long years with the nation’s largest employer, he’d earned his seat in the Control Room. He’d hardly left his chair in three days since the war broke out.

From the center of the square room he oversaw flashing panels, ancient screens, emergency valves, and sickly gray walls. Without windows, it was easy to lose track of time; Naaz kept himself busy re-reading operating manuals. When the order came, he’d be prepared.

Water. Everyone had seen it coming. The challenges of feeding a population that had quadrupled since independence, droughts amplified by global warming, brinkman politics, and global instability had collectively pushed the region over the edge.

By 11 the diagnostic was complete, everything checked out. While the weary engineers left to catch a few hours’ sleep, Naaz stayed, patiently awaiting his orders. The men in the room were patriots to a fault. Despite knowing the importance of their task, they resented not being on the frontline, personally taking the fight to the enemy.

Naaz’s faith was rewarded at two-and-a-half minutes to midnight, when the fax violently printed out a string of sixteen characters. He broke open the ‘cookie’ in his locker and validated the order. It was authentic. Mechanically, he moved to the panel, inserted his key, and flipped the switch. The computer began the automatic countdown – shi-jiu-ba-qi-liu-wu-si-san-er-yi. With each number, Naaz remembered a friend, a home, a family. After midnight, they would all be memories. With an unearthly roar, the missile left the silo, a broken nation’s parting gift to the world.

Minutes to Midnight.

Word Count: Leonidas (300)

Blasting through light like ice, the stars dimmed as the ship’s engines roared empty calls across the dark void. Far ahead, a white dwarf emitted a glow through the abyss, its radiating shine piercing the shadows of the galaxy.

“Do you have sight of the star, Captain?"

Her eyes reflected the brilliant glint of the rays that projected through the ebony vacuum.

“Dead on.”

The waves of plasma swam away from its source, shredding any form of life on surrounding planets. The Captain stared at the snowy surface, taking in the phenomenon that was occurring in front of her.

Suddenly a voice cracks open on an intercom, “Are you crazy?! Get out of ther-” The transmission is broken up by crashes in the background but the Captain pays no attention. Her mind was glued to the glacier skinned body; baffled at the magnificent grandeur before her.

The show is interrupted by another voice, “You fiend! You will be harshly punished for your vile actions against us! You have no right to disobey us and scurry away with our supplies!” The man starts to scream impertinent words but the Captain only hears silence as the star starts to condense, crushing its elegance.

The Captain shuts off the main line and quickly focuses her attention back at the celestial body. It was imploding at a miniscule level, its atomic alignment shifting ever so slightly.

“Captain! The dwarf will detonate any second!” Worry grows in the crew member’s voice, “Will this be your final stand, Victoria?”

Victoria chuckles then smirks, her face brighter than the glimmer of every single star. “Why wouldn’t this be?!” All communications cut off, leaving Victoria isolated.

With her last final breath, the star collapsed, its pulchritude seen far beyond its reach.

A display of true cosmic destructive beauteousness.

Word Count: 300!!!!

ahem

Edit lockdown

The Last Vigil

296 Words

Atop the ebony stone tower, a lone sentry dutifully stood clad in battered steel, as the final solace towards those departed. Gnarled shafts vacant, banners torn and scorched beyond recognition, echoing the impartiality that masks all who are consumed by the chains of mortality.

The warmth of a fading resolve flowed in a sea of serene ambiguity, seen by the one who kept watch. Treachery quelled by dignity. Dreams merged with anguish. Resentment changed to yearning. A cheer of triumph and vindication subdued by those who lost their voice to share it. There were no victors.

Through the pattering of raindrops in the murky sky, a wailing came from afar. Had someone else survived? He tightened his stance and squinched his eyes, desperately trying to pierce the grim blackness.

He heard a sound again, this time closer. It was muffled and unclear. Should he call out? 

A chorus of birds greeted the departure of the night's grasp, showing mangled meadows painted amber under the rising sun. Agile steps with burdened breath resonated from the stairwell, shattering the solitude his vigil provided.

Destitute though unwavering, he stood ready with weapon in hand, unwilling to succumb to the feeling of despair. Perishing would mean seeing his wife and child anew, as they waited for him in paradise. Remembrance of his family led to hesitation.

Unable to react, he found himself knocked down and sitting upon frigid rock slabs. Yet instead of agony, there was tenderness. A dog? They shared the same look of affliction, only felt in those touched by death.

He unbound his helmet, cast aside his pike, and abandoned his doubt. It would be needed no longer. The clouds soon parted and the rain turned from trickle to distant memory, as he embraced his new companion.

Edit Lock.

The old engineer, with his glasses that made clear the complicated machinery and his formal apparel, carefully and diligently works on his new assignment from the AWAA. His face is set with determination as he manually applies the shaped metal to form the figure’s small head. It clicks in place, prompting a sigh from the engineer before wiping his brow with a nearby cloth, thinking of his monthly pay check. The door behind him creaks open, and a short man in a beige suit with a red tie steps into the room. The engineer looks over his shoulder before straightening out his own suit and tie, rising from his office chair and greeting the visitor.

“Hello there, Mr. Tandler. I have made sufficient progress on the model, as you can see.” The engineer said while smiling.

“That is good to hear, Mr. Richard. Allow me to examine it, if you will.” Tandler then proceeds to walk over to the desk and lay down a photograph of a less complete model and a data sheet. He periodically marks off a checkbox on the data sheet. After several minutes, he gathers his supplies before addressing Richards with a smile.

“This is remarkable work, Mr. Richard. I’ll call Mrs. Gladen to pick up where you left off. In the mean time, relax in the waiting room until we need you again.”

With that, Richard heads off to the waiting room. With the latest newspaper, he seats himself at a table amid the chatter and reads it.

‘Food Shortages at an All-Time High: Population Outrageously Inflated.’

Richard looked solemnly at the headline before setting the newspaper aside and drinking his evening coffee.

Eventually, the product would be completed. Eventually, it would be shipped out and loved and cared for by a happy married couple.

The Agency

Word Count: 300

Words: 300

I stared at the cockatiel. He looked at me with a tilt of his head then ruffled his feathers before tucking his beak back into them, cozy and warm with his own little radiance. Without him and that light, my studio would have been dark, with my lamps shut off in an effort to save money. The light shown through his nostrils and eyelids, bouncing off my papers and a photo of my beloved that rested under my palm. Beloved's dark eyes looked at me through between two fingers, and upon one, was a diamond ring.

In my other hand, a wine class, stained with the red wine of whose reminisce was a few drops at the very bottom. I had to take my mind from the gifts I received from my beloved. The first being the bird, that had travelled thousands of miles, with it, letters in his handwriting.

He wrote how much he loved me, told me how his trip was and how much he missed me. There were pages upon pages, and of later that would be wet with my tears, as I missed him just as much.

And after my mind had finally emptied, the words that echoed from my mind and onto the walls faded, the room grew completely silent, save for the cockatiel's soft breathing. My eyes were the only thing to move, between the bird and his photo.

Then, my mouth followed and said the words, "I love you" to the cockatiel, who had as soon as I had stated such a thing, perked up and recited it back to me, clearly and lovingly.

It was not in the package I had received my beloved's final gift. It was from two men dressed nicely in military uniforms, who met me outside my door.

Behold the worst entry!

Magical Mountains?: 212 Words

If there's one thing i've learned as a mountain climber, it's that you can't give up. Ever.

The mountains you climb as a mountain climber always appear to have some kind of... magic to them that keeps me climbing. It urges me to keep going. To never stop until I reach the top.

...

It's cold outside. The mountain is jagged, with many sharp stones and ice coating it. I forget the name... all I know is that it's a mountain. And I wanna climb it.

I just wanna climb...
Alone...
Forever...

It might sound silly, and childish. But I really do think these mountains are magical. It's not in my head or anything. It's... real. 

But nobody believes me. Nobody believes about all the things i've seen on mountains. Witches. Goblins. Magic.

Of course, it's either that or i'm insane. But I don't care if nobody believes me... i'll keep climbing.

Every time I hear my feet crunch against the icy rock...

It reminds me of the magic. Everything I know, and everything I see. The memory where I had to outrace a pack of ice wolves to stay live. The memory of avoiding the avalanches caused by the angry snow golem. So many memories.

And I know there's more to come on these mountains.

Because so much has happened already.

Lock.

Rat-a-tat

300 words

Over the wall they were ordered to go. Over the wall they would run. Your sleeping buddy Tom was assigned to the raiding party with glee in his eyes upon hearing the news. It beat the muddy rat-infested trenches or the hazardous 3-hour watches that he would always be assigned.

Which would constantly lead to the stray sniper bullet that playfully missed whoever would watch. The leader of the raiding party was a newly enlisted Lieutenant who hadn't even been in the trenches for more than a week. It mattered not as he had full command of his portion of the raid and looked the most frightened out of the rest of them when the courier gave him his orders.

The seasoned soldiers were picked, the recruits volunteered.

Ten men from your Lieutenant, ten men from the other Lieutenant. All was still and silent as everyone watched and waited for what was to come.

"Were going to take their trench, just you watch." Tom told you confidently.

You looked over at the Lieutenant with his shaking hands and drooped eyes that were warily watching no man's land, he didn't seem to share the excitement.

All was frozen for a moment.

Then in one single gesture his hand went up in preparation for the over the wall push. 

With his hand going down the raiding party quickly climbed over the sturdy logs and onto the barren dirt with fast stride towards the enemy trench.

Looking over into no man's land you could see the other raiding party follow suit. 

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

The smokescreen engulfed the raiding party as they continued on in cover of the white mist as another *pop* signaled the second smokescreen being deployed.

After the pop came the rat-a-tat.

You never saw Tom again.

lock

His eyes widened as she fell; the sight reflected in deep hazel orbs with dilating pupils that flickered as the first teardrop began rolling from the duct. The floodgates were open before she'd barely touched the ground, for he knew the moment he'd freed his grasp from her that there was no going back, that she was beyond saving.

So. much. red.

He let out a strangled gasp as he stared at her broken form, glistening in the scorching sun. Arm extended helplessly, frozen in time, fingers desperately reaching out for something no more.

'You let go.'

The voice boomed above him, deafeningly deep. The corrugated underside of a heavy work boot smashed down upon the remnants of the fallen cherry popsicle, much to the chagrin of the teary-eyed boy.

Word count: 130

Edit lock.

It's a 200-300 word limit.

It's supposed to be between 200-300 words.

Oh, I wasn't aware that there was a minimal word limit, my apologies.

Dropped my popsicle and needed to vent for 5 minutes xd

Word count: 221

His eyes widened as she fell; the sight reflected in deep hazel orbs with dilating pupils that flickered as the first teardrop began rolling from the duct. The floodgates were open before she'd barely touched the ground, for he knew the moment he'd freed his grasp from her that there was no going back, that she was beyond saving.

So. much. red.

He let out a strangled gasp as he stared at her broken form, glistening in the scorching sun. Arm extended helplessly, frozen in time, fingers desperately reaching out for something no more.

He remained unmoving for a few moments, unable to think, unable to breathe. Unable to process the macabre scene that laid out in front of him. Hesitatingly, his fingers gradually unfurled, and his arm jerked to his side in a sudden, swift motion as he dropped onto his knees in a hopeless fashion, head hung low, tears cascading down an already stained face. The ruthless heavens were not forgiving of his pitiful self; the heated guilt relentlessly beating down on him as if he were a convicted murderer, shamed and humiliated.

'You let go.'

The voice boomed above him, deafeningly deep. The corrugated underside of a heavy work boot smashed down upon the remnants of the fallen cherry popsicle, much to the chagrin of the teary-eyed boy.

Edited version

Lock.

“Who are you?” The little boy asked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. 

The man arched his back, a cape covering his entire body and a ragged top hat on top of his bald spot. His single yellow eye fixated on the child before him.

“Cor fractus.” The man’s voice came out coarse and heavy.

“What?” The boy looks with a confusing glare.

The man sighs then replies, “I travel.”

“Where?”

“To places that shouldn’t exist.”

The child gets visibly frustrated and starts to talk in a irritated tone, “What does that mean!?” The child jumps up and down, stomping the wooden floor of the tavern.

“I don’t think a child like you would understa-” The man is cut off when the boy points his finger at the man’s eye.

“Why do you only have one eye? It’s creepy.”

The man’s face grows grim but he exhales loudly then speaks, “Years ago, I had a friend and she is the reason I even travel. Together, we sailed across oceans, ran through tunnels and flew up high! My heart was never before so fulfilled...”

“What about the eye?”

The man slowly speaks, “We were home one night... I was busy looking at a peculiar gold medallion when suddenly, I felt an arm around my neck and I was pulled back… With a knife at my eye!”

“Oh no! Was it a monster?”

The man chuckles but quickly resumes his serious demeanor, “I wish it was… But as the knife is held, it… Removes my eye and I scream, the loudest I ever had! And as I moaned, I saw my attacker... My friend...”

The boy gasps but remains silent.

“She yelled, “Your eyes will never see the real treasure!” then ran off... gone forever.”

“Why?”

“Because I never learned to love her.”

Edit lockdown drilllllllll

Wordcount?

Oh sorry, it's 300.

300 words on the dot.

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

I am the Teller. I have been here since the oceans rose and fell, since the great looming lizards of ancient times came and died. I was here before the universe was created. I wandered the vast planes of existance for so long, time itself became irrelevant to me. That had been a very boring time- there were no stories then. 

Am I a god? No, nothing of the sort. I am nothing more than a librarian. To put it simply, I collect the stories of the world, of life- of everything. 

Stories come in all shapes and sizes. They can be as cool and soothing as dew on the morning grass beneath your feet, or as burning and passionate as the rising sun. I have collected more stories than I can count- but I remember each and every single one. Some are more exciting than others, to be sure.

One story I recall vividly was one a woman whispered into my ear, as we lay nude on her bed with our arms wrapped around each other. She was with child. 

Eight months later, another story came into fruition. And it was beautiful.

I recall the ending of stories as well. I remember walking up to the last of the great lizards as it lay dying on the bone-dry sands around it. I placed a hand on its scaly side as it gazed up at me, its wide gloomy eyes tearing a hole into me and filling my soul with grief. Its death was near, and with it would come the closing of a masterful tale, filled with wonders and vivid settings. 

The first story came from a seed I planted into the universe. I waited for a long time, but something eventually came out from the hole. 

A star.