ladyhwin

Part 5 of the Oblivion saga! 380 words exact!


Sriera, the little faerie dragon halted in front of the tree prison and stared through the gaps, compassion radiating from her. She glowed as blue as the magician’s magic medallion and cautiously settled onto a bent tree branch, only to leap back up in fright, realizing the spell placed on the trees was not only a fire-proofing spell but felt suspiciously like the same magic which the magician had left behind in the Queen’s castle.
Gently, Sriera fluttered forward, alighting upon one of the sleeping dragon’s claws; when, with an angry screech, a purple orchid fairy dived down to knock her off the perch.
The tiny dragon regained her feet and glared indignantly at the newcomer. The little fairy chattered angrily, bewildering Sriera with a barrage of wild insolence and rude flattery.
With a harsh, smoky breath that sent both fairy and faerie tumbling back, Oblivion raised his head and fixed one bright eye on them both.
Sriera looked archly on as her tiny companion lectured the silent dragon, then, when there seemed to be no end to the one-sided discussion, began to amuse herself by rhythmically breathing acid onto grass blades, watching them wither. At long last, the fairy flew off in a huff and Oblivion turned his attention to his second visitor.
Sriera left the grass and stood as proudly as her three-inch height would allow and directed her thoughts towards the impressive creature.
‘I am Sriera, faerie dragon in service to her Ladyship, Queen of the Elves. The Queen and her worthy advisor, the Storyteller called Celynor send their greeting and inquire specifically after your health as well as whether you have seen a magician about.’
A snarl slipped from between the enormous teeth and suddenly, as though a dark cloak had been flung aside, cold, hissing, almost tactile words flooded Sriera’s mind.
‘I have seen a magician and he is a treacherous, disingenuous excuse for one besides. It was he who imprisoned and holds me captive here. Tell your Queen she is welcome to my friendship and protection if she will but aid my escape.’
The gargantuan dragon flung himself against the sides of his prison in anger; Sriera fled, as fast as her butterfly wings could bear her. Here indeed was news for her Queen.

giraffe

Mum23 Your war poem is timely and scary on its own. Don't worry about your own fears - It's your right to scare us and you did that very well.

giraffe

Marius. The Favor is way complicated but it reminds me of some Toni Morrison where stream of thought overtakes logic. I wonder "did I get that?" I think I did or might have.

giraffe

Nyle and LadyH, Keep galloping. There's something signicant that hasn't yet been brought to the surface, but anyone can tell it's in there. That's just a prod - not a diss.

Nylecoj

Part six, 380 words, compassion became companion or complicates either or! Enjoy!



Celynor threw back her head, letting the wind whip her hair about, in front of her the queen laughed as they raced through the woods, on the back of a sleek black horse. Once a wild and unpredictable horse, Fury had become curious when she had seen Celynor. That curiosity led to fascination, from her fascination had sprung love, and from their love had formed an unbreakable bond of friendship. Now she bore Celynor and Katharine rapidly on their search for the dragon

Tracking the dragon was not hard, the entire forest echoed with rumors of him, and though twice now they had gone the wrong way, squirrels do not give good directions; they had made good progress. The rhythmic beating of Fury’s hooves slowed as a blue flash approached them. Sriera flew up and landed on the hem of Katharine’s riding cloak, muttering something about the disingenuousness of orchid fairies. The queen gently lifted the tiny dragon,
“Did you find him?”
“Of course I did!” Sriera replied tracing one wing with her nose. Celynor arched an eyebrow in curiosity at her companion. Katharine smiled, waiting with all appearances of patience while the dragon traced her other wing,
“I suppose you wouldn’t care to know that the annoying magician with the leaky medallion has him trapped?”
“Thank you Sriera. Anything else we should know?” Asked Katharine.
“Yes!” came a voice from a tree stump, “You should know you are disturbing my nap!” Out popped an imp, grinning mischievously, his bright clothes popping against the green of the forest, his eyes blue filled with delight, “Not that I mind.” He added waggling his eyebrows.

“I was going to say, before I was so RUDELY interrupted.” Sriera glared at the imp, “That his name is Oblivion, and he is trapped within a fire proof cage of enchanted trees.”
“Merely tactile obstacle” Put in the imp, “ The real problem is your magician!” Sriera began polishing her scales, not flattering the child-like imp with a glance.
“This complicates things…” Celynor murmured to the queen, “What now?”
“I suggest making roast magician, but that is just me, good day!” Grinned the imp, disappearing into his stump again.
“If Fury will consent to bear us further, we will see what we will see.” Answered Katharine

giraffe

This is another stab at using dialog only. Followed all the rules. Trying to bring back funny.

I GUESS

"Whatcha doin, Man? It's time to go on stage,"

"Gimme time to finish this smoke. Make em wait. Tell em I got rhythm to work out."

"I love your orchid coat, Dude. Just don't take too long."

"Flatery will get you nowhere, Dog. Gimme 5 minutes. I'm waitin for Vendetta. She's my squeeze now."

"You can comp her ass in, but none of them homies. They gotta pay."

"I know. I know. We're splitting the gate. Now go away. Here she comes. Hi, Miss Vendetta. You're lookin so fine."

"What's that thing you're wearin with all the flowers on it? You look faggy."

"Baby, it's just part of the act an you gotta get used to it."

"So I'm supposed to go in there and act like your woman? And you're prancin around in a sun dress?"

"First off, it's only a cloak. Second, you don't diss me, bitch. Ingenious for you to try."

"Ain't ya gonna hit me again? Big Man?"

"Where's your homies? They usually right behind you."

"Turn around, Butthead, they's right behin YOU."

"Hey guys, want some tickets to the concert? Ow! Ow! Stop that!"

"Your 5 minutes is up. Oh my God. I'm calling an ambulence."

"He's not conscious. Cut off his clothing, IV him with saline and see if you can get a tactile response. Get that medalion off him, too. We might have to do a trache."

"We showed him, Vendetta. Hope the S.O.B. dies."

"I told ya. I don't want him dead. Just to feel some a the pain that he made me bear."

"Nurse, this man is fading fast. Get the paddles. Clear!"

"The pulse is normal again, Doctor."

"Hi, Sweetie. It's me Vendetta. Can you please wake up? Can you at least arch your hand or foot to let me know?"

"I've been awake for a couple hours waiting for you. Why did you do this to me?"

"As you reap will you sow, Baby. Karma came by."

"Is that bitch staying with you again?"

"Only till you feel better."

"Did they cancel the concert?"

"No, they went on without you, Babe,"

"How was it?"

"It was great."

"Do they want me back?"

"No, Baby. There was 4 other drummers waitin in line."

"I guess I have to ...get....."

marius

Haha giraffe, re your comment on The Favor - *I* think the bear should have eaten the author! But seriously, what I've learned (maybe) is that some stories do not want to be flash fiction, or at least, not SHORT flash fiction. [One internet site said Flash Fiction is generally 500 or 1000 words and I think I needed at least 800 to make that story work.] But thought I'd share what a friend said: "I thought the bear ate the husband at the home because of the claw marks which we saw on the door after the funeral...but then it seems he was eaten at the dance?" Erm ... LMAO and, yeah, yeah ... back to the drawing board. (giggle)

ladyhwin and Nylecoj, am so enjoying your tandem story. Laughed at this: "squirrels do not give good directions," ... sounds just like squirrels! And, it seems that your character development is getting better and better. Am 'feeling' the characters.

giraffe and "I Guess" ... didn't 'get' the ending, but did get the karma. : )

Dragon

marius, when I read yours I thought that the wife (the one who was leaving her family) and the sons had tried to set the bear on their father and that the narrators husband got killed instead.

marius

LOL Dragon. This is what happens when the writer/writing is not clear. Frankly, I like YOUR version better than mine and can see why you thought that. Hmmm. If I can re-work it before this TW is over, I'll post it again, maybe. I knew something was confusing in this story but wasn't sure what, exactly. Now I know ... it was me! LMAO! (Goes off shaking head, nodding, thinking of a nap.) : )

giraffe

Marius. The end of Guess was supposed to be that strangely she came back to him and he was totally confused about what to do next. Lost his band and almost died but his squeeze was still there. I could have used a hundred more words, too.

marius

Well then, giraffe, I DID get it ... ; )

Qsilv

mum - welcome! Your word-work fits your drawing style, careful and startlingly effective. More, please.

lady & ny - I agree that your team-tag is fun, and more - seems to me the characters ARE getting deeper, richer. They're really holding my attention, getting a re-read, even!

dragon - that guardian tale worked well... feels like part of something longer.

midnight - love the idea of having a muse... hurry back to us with the fruits?

doug - same general idea... get that 'net! We/I miss your wise commentaries here.

giraffe - I like your venture into verse, notwithstanding our sense of humor's pretty different.

five - you paint pain with words in a way that works appallingly well for me

marius - this one was a complicated puzzle... turns out I probably got it, as far as it went, but there's the problem... it DOES need to go further for me... I want to know what happened after that!

;>

morshy

This got out of hand. 380??? Oh dear. Sorry.

Assassin

The arch soared high above his head. He’d never been to the city before, had seen it only from a distance. From afar, it was pale and beautiful. Up close, it was grubby and pallid. He pulled his cloak tighter and hunched deeper in the saddle. He didn’t want the guards to pay too much attention to him, or his cargo.

The nag pulling the cart was on its last legs. It wouldn’t last much longer; there was a terrible rattle to its breathing and a grey liquid seeped from its eyes and several open sores on its flanks. As soon as he got to the stables, he would end its misery swiftly, and send it on its way with a prayer. He glanced up and saw that they were approaching the Royal Stockade. He steered the horse over to the left, unhitched the cart, and got to work.

He had long ago learned that tactile flattery would often open the door, but bribery would invite you in with open arms. The guards had been easy, a few florins in their hands and they looked the other way. The lady of the keep was a different matter, requiring delicate persuasion. He opened a small chest and revealed a forest orchid. These flowers were rare, blooming only for a few short hours every spring. He had been lucky to procure it when he did. The one he procured it from may have felt differently, if he was still able to feel. The lady of the keep, the Madame who looked after the kitchens and the dungeons, was lost in the beauty of the blossom. He hefted the sack onto his back, and made his way deeper into the stronghold.

A rhythmic drumming was coming from deep within the walls. As he made his way deeper into the labyrinthine structure, he checked once more over his plan. They’d called it a suicide mission, and he’d been happy to agree. Some things were just worth dying for. Although he was slight, he knew he’d take some of them with him before they finally extinguished his flame. He checked once more the dagger in his belt and the skean in his boot, and pressed on.

The huge open fire in the long hall caused the shadows to dance on the walls. In the corner, a slave beat a huge dragon-skin covered drum, and in the centre of the floor, listless couples performed tired gavottes, wearily throwing their hands in the air and clapping their hands lethargically. At the far end of the room, on a huge dais, sat a bear of a man, King Harald Hringval – The Dragonslayer. On either side of him, chained to his throne were two beautiful maidens, clad only in scraps of leather enough to barely hide their modesty. And to his left, just behind and partially hidden by the shadows was Longargent, disingenuously whispering into the king’s ear, filling his head with smoke and mirrors.

He walked through the first group of dancers, who broke apart, creating a path through the centre of the hall. As he approached the next group, they too broke apart, leaving a clear line to the bear. At a signal from Longargent, high in the rafters of the hall, guards let loose a volley of arrows. They were intended as a warning, and as such thudded into the stone flags in front of him. His step never faltered, never waned. When he got to within 15 feet of the king, he stopped. He eased the sack off his shoulder and dumped it onto the floor in front of him. He pulled his dagger from his belt (another signal from Longargent, this time to hold fire) and cut the rope tying the sack closed. The cloth fell to the floor, revealing a naked body. Longargent took an involuntary step backwards.

He pulled a medallion from under his cloak, whispered a few words, and pressed it onto the back of the body in front of him. Her eyes opened and she took a shuddering gasp of air. Her head swivelled round, confused by her surroundings, the sights and the smells. She found King Harald, and to his left, the serpentine advisor. She let out an inhuman roar and leapt to her feet, and made directly for the perfidious counsellor. He shrank back, held his hands in front of his face and begged for mercy. But there was no compassion in the girl’s eyes, just murderous intent.

Longargent ducked behind King Harald’s throne, the girl close on his heels. He swivelled, stood upright, and shed the human body he had inhabited. At the same time, the girl shed her human skin, and two demons faced off against one another. Harald, ever keen for a new adventure, hefted his huge double-headed battle axe Skullsplitter, and was swatted aside with the merest flick of Longargent’s wrist. He flew across the hall and crashed through a banqueting table. He slowly struggled to his feet, leaning on Skullsplitter for support. In front of the throne now, Longargent and the other demon fought for supremacy, each perfectly matching the other, neither gaining not giving the other any ground.

He waited until they were locked together, focussing totally on the other, until he made his move. He slipped the skean from his boot, flipped it in his hand and threw it at Longargent. Time slowed. The blade made its way inexorably towards the demon. He shouted the demon’s name. It turned to him, never letting go of his foe, and in that moment, the dagger entered his eye. He let out a howl of frustration, fury and pain. Sensing her time had come, the other demon redoubled her efforts. Longargent was weakening. His claws could not pull the skean from his eye, the bleeding would not stop, and he could not win. With a final agonised cry, he winked out of existence, his howl echoing round the room.

Quickly shrugging his cloak off and pulling the medallion from under his tunic, he whispered something to the disc and threw it at the other demon. She looked up, and for a heartbeat, looked almost human again, and grateful for the release. The medallion hit her square on the forehead, and she too winked out of existence. Silence flowed into the hall. King Harald was now fully on his feet, and swung round to question the stranger, who himself had disappeared. Calling to his guards, and swinging up Skullsplitter onto his shoulder, Harald set out to find him.

marius

Qsilv, thanks for the comments. : )

morshy, hands clapping that you have returned! And, "out of hand?" No, no ... think that story was very well in hand ... and it could go on ... questions not answered ... (smiling). Like this tale and also how you fit the words into it so cleanly. Also enjoyed many of the details such as "dragon-skin covered drum." [Erm ... saying that last thought with sincerest apologies to our own Dragon of ThinkWrite ...]

marius

And, Qsilv, I think midnightpoet will indeed show up by Saturday. I, erm, uh... have her whip. Surely she will want it back. As for Doug? Surely the moving and settling has stirred up another story. Now, where is mouse?

morshy

380 not including the title. All words included.

Family Ties

The petals fell delicately from the orchid and onto the hem of Melissa’s cloak. She had placed them at the graveside two days ago, and they were now withering, as was everything else in the cemetery. The rusted arch at the entrance had fallen into disrepair, the gates no longer a barrier to anything other than fragile memories, broken dreams. Head bowed, Melissa turned from the grave, and nearly collided with Anton.

Anton had watched from under a tree. The medallion around his neck hung heavy, and every day was a strain. Only those closest to him would ever have seen the signs, but he pushed everyone away, so there were precious few who could tell. Melissa stood silently at their father’s grave. He wanted to be like her, with her compassion and ability to bear her burden with such humility. Would she be able to carry the family secret, the family shame? Silently, he made his way towards her.

“Anton,” she exclaimed in a shocked voice. “I didn’t know you were in the country.” She hugged him, stiffly, unsure of the fraternal protocol. He had the good grace to look embarrassed enough for them both for the show of tactile affection. In the past, Anton may have resorted to flattery, words to mask the awkwardness. But no words would ease the distance between them. In a few short hours, he knew that distance would have grown, possibly beyond hope of reconciliation.

“Our father is dead Melissa,” he said in that patient voice that had always infuriated her. “I came to pay my respects. I’m not a monster.” He said this last part quietly, and for a moment, Melissa wondered who he was trying to convince, her or himself. The rhythmic peal of the church bell signalled it was twelve o’clock. Melissa knew Anton at times to be disingenuous, insincere, even downright dishonest, but thought she saw pain in his eyes, and reached out to place a comforting hand on his arm. Anton knew he had slipped, his façade had cracked. Even now, all these years later, he was still a little boy in her presence. He turned and strode off. A moment later Melissa followed him. And in their passing, the dirt in their father’s grave began to shift.

Dragon

morshy, Wow! You are a true wordsmith. Loved assassin (who cares if it's over the word limit) I could really see that city and that hall. Oh and I'll forgive the dragon skin drum, so long as it's not MY skin :b
And Family Ties was wonderful too, leaves us wanting to know more about the monstrous family secret, though we got a hint of it in that last line I think. There's something very compelling about leaving a short story as a bit of a cliff hanger I think, I often like to leave mine on a bit of an ambiguous note and let the reader think what they will on it.
Good to see you writing again!

giraffe

Morshy. In Assasination you described a great scenario, but the motive for the murder was unclear to me. Can you clear that up in a few sentences? Is it a political or racial thing? Or just murderous intent?

giraffe

And 'Family Ties' is wonderful. I can totally relate to it. Keep it up, Bud.

morshy

Assassin isn't about murder. The target was Longargent, which is a bastardisation of the French Langue Argent, which is Silver Tongue. The demon was whispering to the king, the king was doing nasty things.

The point of leaving things hanging, of only giving you a glimpse into what has happened, is that you get to determine the scenarion yourself. You get to decide what came before, and what comes after. It's a short story after all, not a novel.

Some of the greatest short stories ever written don't have a beginning, a middle and an end. They are windows onto an event, giving you a perspective on something that has happened. You get to explore the characters who contribute yourself. You get to determine what motivates them.

So you tell me: Why did anyone hire the assassin to get rid of Silver Tongue? DID anyone hire him? Did he do it off his own back? What's his back story? And what's going to happen to him now that King Harald is after him???

That's the beauty of a short story. You don't HAVE to flesh every single idea out.