Fiction Rumble II - Week 26 (Current Champion: Zaphkael)

[Zaphkael]

Welcome, one and all to the

FICTION RUMBLE

!

Previous Thread

This is YOUR CHANCE to become the Mafiascum.net Flash Fiction Champion! Everyone wants to be a champion, right?

The rules, my friends, are simple.

1. Each Week, there shall be crowned ONE CHAMPION.
   
2. Following the crowning of a Champion, the new Champ must provide a writing prompt and a word count limit. (Not to exceed 3000 because we're all busy people.) The Champion must not dilly-dally. He must perform this first duty within
   24 hours of his coronation
   .
   
3. Once the Champion announces the prompt and word limit, the round begins. Anyone may submit a story. Once the round begins, you have
   FOURTEEN DAYS
   to post in-thread with a fictional story pertaining to the prompt and word count.
   
4. After the deadline, The Champion must judge all participants and choose a winner within
   FORTY-EIGHT HOURS
   .
   
5. Once the winner is chosen, that winner becomes the new Champion and we return to step one. Enjoy your crown, for victory is fleeting.

Furthermore:

• Although the reigning Champion has sole judging power, anyone may critique anyone else's stories.
  Please refrain from critiquing stories during the competition period.
  Critiques, however, are encouraged during the two-day judging period.
  
  
• No Champion may reign two weeks in a row.
  The current champion is barred from selecting his own story to win (obviously), but he may if he chooses, write a story for the hell of it.
  
• 
  
  In the event the Champion is lax in his duty of providing a prompt and word limit,
  one will be selected at random.
  In the event the Champion fails to choose a winner,
  a vote shall be taken. I will be angry if this occurs, because this isn't a freaking democracy.
  
  
• If one so chooses, one may
  ask the reigning champion for a Challenge
  when announcing their /in. The Champion should then assign them some small (or large) challenge that is unique to them. They should attempt to complete the challenge while remaining within the bounds of the prompt and word count.
  You receive nothing for successfully completing a challenge except style points.
  An example of a challenge may be along the lines of, "Your story must include a duck," or "Your protagonist must be a deaf-mute." Please note that should you request a challenge, you are at the mercy of the champion and you will probably get something outlandish.
  
• If Fiction Rumble becomes so popular that the Champion cannot judge all submissions, I reserve the right to allow Champions to name co-judges. This may be necessary going forward depending on popularity, or it may not.

Submission Guidelines

• All stories must fall below the word count

[Zaphkael]

Hi everyone!

The last fiction rumble kind of died, but pens got itchy and it was about time this came back. Since kuribo isn't active enough to constantly update the thread, we discussed that I'll do that for now.
Massive props to kuribo for this - I stole this all from the previous fiction rumble, it's his idea. The link to it can be found in the OP.

The current champion, Errantparabola, gave his prompt. You have 10 days to submit your stories.
Good luck, and have fun writing!

[Zachstralkita]

Lets get it

[Bins]

oh shit I might have time to do this again

[Max]

Egooooo

Also, can I have a challenge?

Edit: word limit?

[Errantparabola]

Also, can I have a challenge?

unsure how this works, so sorry if it's bad.
start and end your story with the same sentence.

and word limit 1750.

[The Bulge]

Ego!

[Bins]

simple thing I wanted to write about

Spoiler: 638 words

The grass was damp and squished under Jonathan’s feet. He did not have any reason or recollection on why he should be afraid of the cemetery, but he definitely was. The gravestones looked like figures on solemn guard, the fog hung thick in the air, and there was not a soul but him.

He stared at the grave before him. His memory had always been bad and the accident made it worse. It started with the things he knew he should remember - the keys, his phone number, his name. But soon Jonathan began to forget and no new memories would form.

Anterograde amnesia

, the doctor had called it, but Jonathan didn’t remember that.

What good was a life without memory? Days he would spend at a piano, trying to recollect what was important to him, but he couldn’t even remember that. He played concertos and sonatas with ease, but he could not remember anything after the accident. It was the feelings he forgot that hurt him the most. The way he felt when his wife held him eluded him - what was it like again? What did her hair smell like? How much did it tug on his heart to no longer see her?

“Do you know what it is like, Elizabeth?” He read the name on the grave. “Do you know how hard it is to love you?”

“I think so long and so hard about what it is I loved about you, but I can’t remember. What did we do? What did we do? Please, let me know. I want nothing more but to know that I did love you. I remember falling in love with you, I remember the first kiss and the dance at our wedding. I remember your smile. But your comfort and your care for me is a empty space in my mind. Did you care for me, did we fight? Was there a feeling of everlasting and withstanding support? Even if there was, Elizabeth, I do not remember it. And what good is a love that I cannot cherish?”

He tried to imagine the suffering he felt when he forgot something, but he couldn’t even remember the pain of forgetting. A feeling, then nothingness, feeling, then nothingness, her smile, then blank, her laugh, then nothing, feeling, then nothingness. No feeling ever lasted. How could he know if it was even there to begin with?

“Dad?” His daughter appeared behind him.

Jonathan smiled. “Catherine, when did you get here?”

“I took you here, Dad. We come every Sunday to see Mom.”

Jonathan blinked, forgetting for a quick moment where he was and what he was doing. The damp grass and fog brought him back.

“Every time we come here, you do this and it breaks my heart. How many times can I tell you how much she loved you? Mom cared about you so much. I have never witnessed a love so real and withstanding.” Catherine embraced her father.

Jonathan’s mind struggled, as it always did, to hold on to these thoughts. They lasted no more than thirty seconds they stayed in short term memory. Her smile, then blank, her voice, then nothing, her comfort, then blank, her saying Elizabeth loved him, then emptiness. A blink and it was gone.

“Dad, please. Come back to me.” Catherine’s smile was warm and patient, as if she had seen the struggle a hundred times before. She handed her father a note. It was Jonathan's handwriting - he knew this. The words were scrawled on, almost panicked:
 

Go see Elizabeth
Row 4, red round stone
Bring flowers for her

 
And on the back of the note, in a handwriting Jonathan knew as his wife’s, was a gentle and beautifully written -
 

I will never stop loving you.
- Elizabeth

[animorpherv1]

Ego

[Max]

I have a draft that I need to edit.

[Dunnstral]

It's me

[Zaphkael]

Spoiler: Written In Stone, 761 words

As I got out of the car, a chilly breeze blew my hair back. It was cold for summer evening. I held the letter that I had received not that long ago firmly in my hand. Nervousness got the better of me, but I told myself that this would be important. It had to be.

Ten thirty-seven PM. A man came from the cemetery, walking towards me. A slight smile added wrinkles on his otherwise smooth skin. He probably was younger than me, twenty-five maybe?

"Hi there! Roger Moore, New York Police. Sorry I'm late, I had some stuff to finish first. You must be Sam Colson?"
"Well, I'm Sen, not Sam. Otherwise, yes, that's me. I was the one who called a few days ago."
The man looked puzzled for just a moment before he put up a smile again.
"Is it really not Sam? Damn, I've written it incorrectly!"
I took a look at the letter I had received, adressed to me. Sen Colson.
"Nah man, you didn't", showing him the letter. "You're fine."
"Well, in that case... Come, let's get this over with. Show me those tombstones."

You see, my husband died a few years ago. Ever since, I've walked through the cemetery every day again. It's calming, really. The dead don't complain, they don't bother you and don't need you to do anything. They're just there, silent, peaceful and soothing. Many are scared of graveyards, but I don't see why. They're beautiful.
Although...

Two months ago, a new grave was placed. It was odd, since I hadn't seen any funeral, nor family members. For weeks, there were no flowers but a single magnolia on it. Jane Austin, died on October fourth, 2017. Next friday. It was odd, but I thought it was some prank. I hoped so.
It wasn't. On October fourth, a woman was brutally murdered. Limbs severed, thrown in a dumpster. A white magnolia was stuck in her mouth. Her name? Jane Austin.

The second time this happened, I was too late. I saw the grave of Kurt Snider, death date the day I found out. When I came home, his death was on the news. He died just the same way, and police had not yet found out who killed either. It was at that point I decided to contact the police. I was scared that, if I reported what I saw, the murderer could find me and kill me, and I told them that. They ensured me that they understood that.
Two days after my call, I received a letter. NYPD. The letter said that an officer would meet me at the cemetery, undercover, at half past ten today.

As we walked past the graves, he questioned me. I didn't mind - he was doing his job, after all. Mostly basic questions came, like 'did you see anyone' or 'have you found another grave.
"No officer, I didn't see anyone. I would have told you if I had. I'm sorry."
He stood still for a moment and looked me in the eyes.
"You know, it takes a brave man to do what you are doing. Going to a cemetery with a cop, trying to help him catching a killer who might even be here at this very moment." He sighed. "Brave, or very careless. I like that."

He was a nice man, but a strange one for sure. Whenever I said something, he barely listened as he was just scanning the graves. For what? I wouldn't know. But then, it seemed he had found what he was looking for.
"What are you looking for, really? You've been staring at every gravestone for the past ten minutes or so. You happen to know someone here?"
He laughed.
"I sure do, but that's not it. I was looking for possible clues, or the next grave. That's what a detective should do, isn't it?"
The light of the moon reflected in his brown eyes.
"Anyway, I should get going. I think I've seen enough. You should watch out, though. You never know when it's your turn to get your name written in stone. Goodbye, I'm sure we'll meet again." As he walked away, he whispered something I didn't quite hear.

I turned around to ask him what he said when something caught my eye. A white magnolia, lying on a black stone.
This was the new section of the cemetery, and this grave wasn't here yesterday. An engraved text read 'A succesful businessman minds his own business'.
The grave was Sam Colson's.

And he would die tomorrow.

[The Bulge]

How do you write a story youre satisfied with in a week ahhh

This prompt is perfect for a story idea ive been sitting on since i first saw the original thread but i cant get more than a couple paragraphs down ugh

[Errantparabola]

There are only two submissions so I am more than willing to wait

[Bins]

BULGE GET IT TOGETHER

[Zachstralkita]

Word Count: 1350-1360~ish

Spoiler:

Even the violent rainstorm seemed somber today for some reason. The volley of droplets pounded relentlessly against the sleek marble tombs, headstones and mausoleums dotting the ornate cemetery. An intricate walkway spanned across the green, weaving through all the points of interest. This wasn't just any burial site. Two looming walls stood beyond the iron gates. Through those was Melborough, the capital city of Argol. As with any draconian state, this one had plenty of enemies. Five years ago an insurrection arose when inept government officers implicated themselves in the “evacuation” of a small city, later outed to be a massacre. Details? Cinders, bits of bone and brain matter. The smell of iron you can't remove from the inside of your nostrils. And there were some who suffered enough who decided they would not gain strength from remaining weak, and resigned themselves to create a future where their children wouldn't have to step over shell casings every day while serving their whole lives as indoctrinated livestock. This cemetery was for the upper class of Melborough. To the resistance, this city symbolized malicious excess and filth. The pompous burial ground was like spitting in their face. But it didn't matter. The whole of Argol may very well have been one giant mass grave to those unfortunate enough to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time.


“Wouldn't you like to move to the shade?” a delicate voice strains through the storm.


A hooded figure lifts his head. He had been lost in thought at the bench, and the intense rain didn't bother his body physically. He needed the discomfort. It was his reminder. The raindrops only served as white noise to calm his anxiety. The girl – also hooded, is perched under an umbrella. Her face isn't entirely visible.


“My gun is in the hand that you don't see. Tell me the fucking password.” the man in the hood barks.

The girl cocks her head to the side. She watches him intently.


“....”


“Come on, you know how it starts, don't you?

Dolphins and deer...

" he prods.


There's a long pause, then the girl sighs, walking over to the bench.


“Decent, I suppose.” she begins, plopping down next to him and draping the two in the umbrella's shadow. “But no competent counterintelligence operative is going to bluff a code that they don't know. Especially when there isn't a code. Besides. If we had that serious of a leak in our networking, we'd all be dead because of the Hand.”


“There is a fucking leak.

'Dead drop

' does not mean our guy gets left on the ground rotting when he goes to pick up the fucking information. We've been compromised somehow. I don't know which cells are and aren't safe. What's your callsign?” he asks the girl.



“Genevieve. What's yours?” she replies.

“Fuck you. We're not supposed to give them out. I know yours already like you're supposed to know mine.”


“Must be a rural thing. You'll learn that we operate differently closer to the heartland.” Genevieve replies, smiling.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” the hood replies, shoving himself off the bench. “Don't think because they hit Lighthouse station I have to be your fucking friends now. You northern cunts might as well be their lapdogs. Don't forget that you only started fighting when the food shortages got to your fucking palaces and rose gardens. Not when kids were getting shot in the street.” he growled, contempt dripping from his words. It was years of agony and misplaced aggression he had to get out, even if directed at someone on his own side. Though the inner-city rebels were certainly considered... privileged, known as loyalists and sympathizers to some in the resistance. It was a topic of great controversy.






“Hey, asshole. You know they got my cousin last week? Pointed rebar through his chest.” Genevieve says firmly.





No-name pauses, putting his hand to the bridge of his nose. He then takes a long breath.

“Fuck... sorry. What'd he do?”

“Well, they didn't

catch

him, exactly. The shadows were chasing him through an old factory in the Steel District a few days ago. Dove off a catwalk. Better than the alternative, I guess. We've all heard the horror stories about the Twice Folded Hand's torture fantasies.” she sighs.

The man lets out a long breath. “Jeez. I guess so. The one where they cut out your tongue and waterboard you in rubbing alcohol. That's made up, right?”

“I wouldn't say so.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a hunch... listen. I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. But we came here for a reason, didn't we?” Genevieve stands. “I need to know the secondary routes the rest of your chapter are sending the arms through from the Harbor since the raids began, so we can funnel them to the interior and so I know you're not lying. Then I can take you to Home Base and we can confirm your identity.”














A gun barrel is in her face before she can step closer.







“Your story. They raised the bridges to enter the Steel District about 2 weeks ago when that security minister got hit with the car bomb. Only military. No government workers and definitely no civilians. So you're fucking lying to me.”



The girl we know as Genevieve blinks for a few seconds, then begins laughing raucously. It's actually very unnerving.



“Well. You're certainly entertaining. I'm actually curious, How did that information get all the way out to the country?” she pries, giggling. “You liked the story though, didn't you?”


“I'm going to 'like' when there's gun smoke drifting out of your skull. That's about it. What are you? AOCI? No. You must be Hand. The real Genevieve is a French girl, right? How far off am I?”


“Couldn't tell you, really.” the impostor yawns. “I don't know what a French girl looks like. You slum dwellers all have the same stink when you're dead.”



The rebel operative's expression is stone. His aim doesn't even shake. Inside he knows there will never be enough bullets in his revolver to show her how he feels or has ever felt.


“Gotta tell you something. You know what we do to stop the Hand, right? Cut off the wrist.” he says soundly, smirking.


“How ironic.”

Genevieve lunges forward. She barely pushes the barrel to the side before the deafening shot rings out, piercing the dense rainfall. In the same hand she wields a small razor and swipes downward with appalling force. In those few seconds our would-be hero learns several things:

1. Intent and skill are nothing without execution.
2. True pain is not bearable.
3. You cannot move your arm, let alone squeeze a trigger, with no tendons.
4. You cannot expect to survive after a certain amount of blood leaves your body.
5. Rain stings.

The pistol slams on the ground. There is still... technically an arm attached, but it would appear the owner doesn't want to hold the gun that badly. He's writhing on the ground making guttural noises in a futile attempt to delay screaming. It happens, soon enough. A reddish-orange pool congeals under him as the rain assaults his form and merely extends his suffering.

“You could have just shot me, you fucking idiot! I could have almost counted all of the times you should have shot me. I literally provoke you into shooting me and you use the opportunity for a fucking... catchphra-... sloga-.. pun? PUN? IS THAT WHAT A PUN IS? You fucking mutts. All of you. I'm going to kill all of you. I hope you enjoyed wasting my fucking time.”


“Genevieve” wants to deliver a lengthier eulogy, but she's furious and figures most of her anger would be wasted on this one. Her ears are still ringing and she figures shouting over his screams would be a nuisance. He probably wouldn't comprehend it anyway. What's the use? She's going to have a

very

productive conversation with the next rebel she gets a hold of to make up for the information she didn't get today. God help him.

[Errantparabola]

last day for submish, so if you want bulge, this is your chance.

[Bins]

BULGE GET IT TOGETHER

[The Bulge]

Unlikely tbh

[Errantparabola]

Sorry, I should have judged sooner, but, calimeet....???
in any case, zach takes it.

Bins, you had a great story and it was written very well but it didn't have the emotional impact that i was looking for, i guess?
Zaph, you also had a really cool concept, and a very creative execution of it.
I thought Zach had great dialogue and some really great lines, and the worldbuilding was done very efficiently, and I was never confused or bored despite the scope of the setting. Ending was good too.

The whole of Argol may very well have been one giant mass grave to those unfortunate enough to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Genevieve. What's yours?” she replies.

“Fuck you. We're not supposed to give them out.

Some of my favorite lines

[Zachstralkita]

Hmm. Shit. Thanks, I wasn't gonna do this one originally cause I didn't have any ideas. I haven't written anything in a while. There were like 3 different ways I wanted to have the twist happen and when I finished writing I was laughing cause there wasn't really a ending to the shit. I tend to naturally write wordy for some reason.


Zaph and Bins write solid fiction as always. Not a lot to critique at all. The way Zaph executed his concept was pretty neat and Bins wrote a great story but I kinda share the sentiment that it didn't hit as hard. That's not a fault on your part it probably just means that we don't have souls(can't you tell?)

Prompt in a bit. I know there's more people that write on the site than participate in this, so you should try and invite people, and also those who haven't written before.

[Errantparabola]

i'll write for you bb

[drealmerz7]

doop

[Zachstralkita]

Prompt: Your main character(s) must escort someone or something to a safe place. [Open-ended]

Word Count: Max(3000)

Deadline is the same, 10 days. But if you write something I'll take it. Don't expect me to be good at challenges...

[drealmerz7]

I'd like a challenge