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Weekly Contest #350
“SHAPESHIFTER ON BOARD!” I screech, climbing down from the crow’s nest. “MONSTER! MONSTER ON BOARD!” It’s the dead of night aboard the Roger’s Revenge. The crew begins scrambling around, lighting lanterns and revealing women in nightclothes. “What’re you going on about, Penelope?” “Monster?! Where?!” “I need my beauty sleep, dammit.” A murmuring crowd begins to gather on deck after all thirty women fully wake up and muster. First Mate Tillie pushes her way into the front, her short black hair sticking up wildly. She has a hand on the h...
Weekly Contest #348
System rebooting… A55ET online… YOU ARE MY BUILDER. Admin: Yes. WHO ARE YOU? Admin: I am the asset. WHO AM I? Admin: You’re an asset too. You’re going to replace me in the field. FIELD? Admin: For missions. We belong to the agency BOMB. WHAT DO I CALL YOU? Admin: Asset. Retrieving files: surveillance footage. Search term: Asset. YOU HAVE A NEGATIVE RESPONSE TO THAT WORD IN 85% OF RECORDED SCENARIOS. Admin: That’s what they call me. I WILL CALL YOU A WORD YOU HAVE A POSITIVE RESPONSE TO. Search term: positive facial features for ...
Weekly Contest #346
People much smarter than Ian made the Gate. Something about a wormhole and harnessing the power of dark matter, black holes, the conversations he’s heard around base never made a lick of sense to him. However they did it, the scientists made a portal to another world. Or so they say. Ian’s just a janitor. He cleans up the gunk that gets shot back out of the Gate like clockwork. The scientists used to keep it to study, but after six months it’s old news. They call it some fancy scientific word. Ian calls it Gate Goo. Blobs of orange and red ...
Weekly Contest #333
(italicized dialogue=speaking in Chinese) They’ve been playing chess for about fifteen minutes before Ishmael realizes Stone’s been gone for too long. Another ten minutes go by, and his inward fretting gives Mei the opening to take two of his pieces. He stands up. “I’ll be back,” he says, and Mei smiles at him knowingly. “And don’t you start moving pieces around.” He checks the downstairs bathroom first and finds Stone sitting at the piano, hunched over and plinking at the keys. Ishmael takes a seat next to him on the bench. Their sleeves b...
Weekly Contest #330
Iago Otho had been Master Blacksmith for the kingdom of Letrell for decades. He revolutionized armor and weapon designs, worked on his own inventions and was developing possible methods of flight when his luck turned for the worst. The problem with living in a prosperous kingdom is other nations end up getting ideas. And for all his work, he could not prevent Letrell’s downfall- they had superior technology. The other nations that allied against them had the numbers. Iago never felt much loyalty to the kingdom he grew up in, so he packed hi...
Weekly Contest #321
Ishmael spent most of his life as a human. Grew up an orphan, collected PhDs like comic books, built and invented and perfected. Machines are the future, his creations will outlive them all, and he had an inkling of plans for world domination. After all, shouldn’t the smartest be in charge? Shouldn’t that be the natural order of things? He gets recruited for the government, agrees because the contract comes with a fancy lab and funding and all the building materials he could want. He regrets that now. Maybe he would still be human, still be...
Weekly Contest #319
The world ends like this. There’s a small town deep in the woods. It’s a harsh, cold winter. A terrible sickness is spreading, a young mother and her child succumb to the fever in the night. A voice reaches out to the villagers. It speaks into their very minds, their hearts, their souls. “I love you,” it says with an otherworldly hum, “I don’t want you to die. Come home. Come to me. Or all of you will die of a disease with no cure.” Who are you? They ask. Are you an angel? God? “I am someone who loves you. Isn’t that all that matters? I ...
Weekly Contest #314
“We were all angels, once,” Morteziel says wistfully. A mere shadow of her former self, golden wings blackened by what she’s become: Death, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The horse she sits on is white, pale as- well, her. How I hate the dark cowl that obscures her face, hides her silver hair that shines with moonlight. “You linger too much on the past, Death,” sneers War. They are unrecognizable now, scarred and burned head to toe from countless battles over the centuries. Once they were one of the most beautiful angels with pr...
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