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

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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.

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

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

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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

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i'll write for you bb

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Spoiler: Blue and Green, 1272.

Humans are nothing if not adaptable, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I sit in the shade and run my finger across my lips, feeling the rough skin—each crack serving as a mark for the days spent in this arid hell. For a moment, I wonder what I look like. Perhaps I look rugged, fit to survive in the harsh conditions, with an unshaven chin and a hard edge whittled down from months of toil and tribulation. But it seems more likely that my beard does nothing to hide my gaunt features, and that my eyes are as lifeless as the landscape.

Orange and yellow—it’s nothing but a sea of orange and yellow, meeting at some indistinguishable horizon. I look up, and the sun pierces the thick dust from just above the mountains. It sets the sky on fire, as if the sun were telling the heavens that any benevolent being that was up there had no power over the earth. Orange and yellow. Perhaps once beautiful, now sickeningly oppressive.

Slowly, I stand up. My shirt is at this point more of a rag, the original design little more than ugly grey at this point. A tear in the back gets caught on a nail and widens with a soft ripping sound. The nail scratches me and I inspect the damage, looking at my scars that alternate with the faded brown of my shirt’s bloodstains, records of the darkest parts of my history. Grey and brown, grey and brown, grey and brown.

I look at where the scratch intersects my past injuries, and remember where one particular scar came from. It was back when there were three of us traveling together, back when I had companions and stories to beat back the fear, the emptiness, the terrifying thought that we may be entirely alone on this planet. One night, with two of us sleeping and one of us keeping watch, the creatures came for us. As we scattered, one of them slashed my back, and I cried out and fell. Without missing more than a step, one of my companions picked me up in his arms and started running. The other gave us a quick nod, drew his knife, and turned to face our pursuers. I looked at his eyes then and saw conviction, and my protests died in my throat. Together, the two of us ran away from him, and the distant howls and the crunch of boot against gravel muffled the quiet sounds of our sobs.

We returned when morning came, carrying only a sliver of hope with our heart. And when we saw the blackened embers of last night’s campfire spattered with red, even that disappeared. Red and black. Life to death. Three to two.

And we could do nothing but carry on. Conversations became more scarce, but we would share the occasional glance and we would understand everything that was left unsaid. We slept less—we had no choice, with only two of us to split the night watch. But we survived, and increased our rations to split two ways instead of three, and adapted.

Eventually, he started eating less, and soon became too weak to walk while the sun was still high in the sky. Eventually, any color that was left in his face drained away. And eventually, he collapsed, and with a voice choked with emotion and illness, he told me that he still had hope. And I looked into his eyes, seeing what I had seen when our long-gone third member had drawn his knife and silently told us to run, and I knew that he was telling the truth. And he told me that if I too were to finally succumb to that eternal sleep, he wished that I would not die alone, but that I, too, would die with hope by my side.

And there is nothing left for me, but I adapt, and once again increase the rations.

--

I shake off the memories of the past. The tear in my shirt is longer from my carelessness, but still manageable. The next town over should only be a day’s journey, so once again I’ll be able to spend the night indoors. Perhaps four walls and a door only serve as an illusion of safety, but when I’m looking at a ceiling and not a starless night sky, it’s much easier to pretend that I’m not the only person left.

The abandoned street, just like everything else in this world, is faded from disuse. I walk on the black asphalt, sweating from the radiating heat, and count the faded stripes to occupy my mind. The yellow, too, is dull and lifeless.

Occasionally I pass by the remnants of once-survivors. Back when I couldn’t stand the smell, I would hold my breath and look away from the grey corpses, skin and bones bleached ashen from the passing of the days. Now I look, and I wonder if they would have had any stories to tell over the campfire. Sometimes the remains of the dead rest together, and I wonder if they were family, or friends, or lovers, or perhaps partners of circumstance, as my group had been. Sometimes the remains are alone, with nothing but the street and the endless stretch of cracked, orange earth for miles. And I wonder if I, too, will soon join them.

I make it to the town without incident. It’s not very large, but it will take several hours to explore. I enter each house, sometimes simply through the open doorway, sometimes through a broken window in a practiced and methodical search. Sometimes I find valuable rations and put them in my backpack, and the thoughtless, repetitive work blurs the brown walls and red roofs together.

A wail pierces my thoughts and stops me in my tracks. The sign of life immediately puts me on high alert, and slowly, carefully, I open the door to the house. Heart pounding, I climb the stairs, following the sound of the cries, and enter the bedroom. On the bed is a child, and holding her, a woman. My eyes meet the woman’s, and I see that strange look again—those green eyes look so determined to cling to hope, the look that I only see before someone knows they will soon lose everything else. I had not seen that green in a long time, resilient and bright, like the leaves and trees of yesteryear. She smiles, and rests her head back on the pillow, and never opens those eyes again.

The baby is still crying, and I walk towards her, slowly picking her up and cradling her in my arms. Eventually she calms down and reaches towards me with small, fragile hands, and I see yet another color from the past, except this time, it’s the color of what was once the sea and the sky. Her face is still wet with tears and her blue eyes look worried. I think to myself that it’s because she hasn’t seen what’s out there. It’s innocence. It's the eyes of someone who still has something to lose.

I keep cradling the baby in my arms, and wonder if she also sees that look in my eyes too. Because I think I have found something to lose, now. I don’t know if I can ever take that look to a place where it will be safe, but I know now that I can try, and that I can hope, because I know that there is still color in this world after all.

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Thanks so much for the comments, they were nice to read. And yeah, it definitely was pretty cliche-- I didn't really have any original ideas =^=

Here's the next prompt:

"It's time for you to do me that favor you owe me."

1800 words.

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It was serious (I think it followed the guidelines, right?) but mostly just so there would be more than one story competing! Good win, SS

I personally enjoyed Irrelephant's short vignette so I decided to

shitpost about it

expand upon the Saturday Morning Soccer Tournament Cinematic Universe with a story of my own and simultaneously try to prove that I can write something other than depressing shit (this is an entry to SS's prompt).

Spoiler: spoiler

also this is trash. LMAO
hope you like reading about sports gays somethingsmart

Spoiler: The Smuggler, 1162 words

- - -
We’ve come a long way since we were kids, haven’t we?
- - -

The dull roar echoes around and around the stadium, through the tunnels, into the locker room, and through your headphones; even here, in the inner workings of the stadium, the fans insist on making themselves known to you. But with each match, the noise of the crowd seems to melt more and more into the background of the music, and listening to it is becoming a natural, even welcome part of the pre-game routine.

A teammate slaps your back and you jump. He laughs good-naturedly.

“Hey, come on man. You can’t let me sneak up on you like that. Spatial awareness, buddy.”

You glare at him⁠ (“oh, fuck off, Leo,” you say), ⁠but he knows, and you know that he knows, that there’s no bite behind it. This is a relationship forged through years of sharing in the most exciting victories and the most devastating losses. You can’t spend the happiest and saddest moments of your life without at least growing a little close⁠—the intensity of reluctant, sweaty practice drills in the hot sun and the monotony of passing the day away in an air-conditioned plane on its way to yet another exhibition match.

- - -

Somehow, it never really changed.

- - -

The current song ends, and you hit pause before the next one starts, putting your headphones in your locker.

It’s that paradoxical boredom and excitement that draws you to the game. That’s what soccer is, isn’t it? It’s the half-delirious excitement of a clutch goal after 85 minutes of nothing, it’s standing perfectly still, coiled like a spring ready to release, putting all your hope in one person to block the penalty kick… it’s looking out the window of your mother’s minivan, it’s scuffing your tiny cleats against the grass waiting for something to come your way…

It’s orange slices and juice passed from teammate to teammate after a game. It’s friends, and it’s family, and it’s home.

And it’s Dave, you think, as you look at the orange slices that you still bring to every match—the comfort of being able to come back to your locker and take part in those memories of childhood, when you were happy after every Saturday game because your mom would ruffle your hair and take you and your friends out for pizza, no matter if you won or lost.

- - -
Somehow, we never really changed either.
- - -

“I’ll order the ‘za, alright?”

“Please don’t call it that,” you tell him, and you hang up.

With your busy schedules, it’s not always easy (you’ve probably met more times on the field then off of it), but you always manage to make time for each other. Sometimes you grab a bite to eat, sometimes you hit up a local bar together, and sometimes both of you would rather stay in, order a pizza, and watch a shitty movie, talking over it the whole time.

The night before the match is one of those times, and upon hearing a knock you open the door of your hotel room and see Dave leaning against the opposite wall looking into the distance, trying and failing to look cool, dark curly hair falling over his eyes.

“Get in here, dumbass,” you say.

- - -
Even if I lose, I’ll still be happy that I got to see you.
- - -

Hours later, the pizza box is empty, the tv is off, and the both of you are halfway through a bottle of wine, talking about nothing and everything. Too tired and tipsy to stay alert, your eyelids flutter closed and you sink a bit further into the couch.

“You think you’re gonna win tomorrow?”

“Hell yeah I do,” Dave responds. “Trust me, we’re a lot better now. How about this, loser treats the winner afterward. Real fancy restaurant-type shit.”

You nod in response.

He pauses. “Although maybe staying up late the day before isn’t a great idea.”

“Hey, I’m doing it too,” you murmur back.

In a haze, you struggle to recall the last time you played against his team. You remember how your striker slipped the ball through Dave’s grasping hands, seeing the bitter twist of his mouth, the adrenaline rush of victory. You remember saying goodbye at the airport, unsure what to say, wondering whether or not an apology would just offend him.

But now there’s no animosity in his voice. He would be an enemy on the field tomorrow, but for now you feel the light pressure of his arm over your shoulder and you can’t help but lean into his chest, dimly registering how quickly your confused heart is beating. You aren’t entirely sure if he’s stroking your hair, but you’re too afraid to look up and risk him stopping, so you stay there, breathing against his shirt and keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut.

- - -
And I’ll count the days until I get to see you again.
- - -

You hold the small plastic bag, bouncing it in your hand, remembering the closeness and the warmth of last night.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Leo, and you dart out of the locker room, jogging through the underbelly of the stadium, listening as the noise of the crowd gets louder.

You cradle the bag of orange slices, careful not to drop them, and once you get to the other side of the stadium you slip into another locker room, this one filled with unfamiliar people. You try to be discreet but your uniform colors stick out, brazenly unsubtle.

Dave is there, near the back of the room, sitting on the bench by his locker and tugging on his cleats. You shake the bag of orange slices near his face.

“Hey,” you say, and he looks up in surprise. “Little present for you.”

You sit next to him on the bench and he takes it, laughing. “What is this, some kids’ game? You gonna give me a Caprisun too?”

But you can tell that he appreciates the sentiment, and you look at his eyes and you think that he, too, is dwelling on those same idyllic summer weekends.

“You better go,” he says. “If the rest of my team notices you they’ll probably kick your ass.”

“Oh come on, I can’t be here to wish them luck? I mean, you’ll probably need it.”

He doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he opens the bag and picks out an orange slice and waves it in front of your mouth, offering it. He’s unbearably close and you dodge the orange, opting instead to peck him on the cheek. His eyes widen and he reddens.

“Wh-”

“I’d better go,” you say. “Don’t wanna get caught being somewhere I’m not supposed to be, right?”

You stand up to leave, but Dave catches your hand and pulls you in. He kisses you, for real this time, and you think that it cannot possibly matter if you get caught. Right here with Dave, in a swirl of memories and feelings and years gone by, is exactly where you belong.

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prompt -

running out of time

words -

1500

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yes i shall read these stories today thank you

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real tough choice but im going to give it to ss

creature i really liked the theme running through your fic and its like a great classic archetype that always packs a punch (person learns a good trait and gains meaning from losing a loved one)

zaph im a big fan of your writing style i think you have a good way with words

ss your story was really good -- im always a fan of a good high school drama romp, i would say the reason i gave it to you was it was the best at keeping me engaged despite it being like a less emotional concept. its not the most adventurous idea but i was just a big fan of how you managed to condense this plot into a flash fic