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Weekly Contest #241
Part 1 Jean Davis In a raging swath of flame mankind—those who turned away from the One Truth—burned. This emptiness took hold from inside them suddenly, and they cried out as one—finally one—and their pain and terror of knowing in their last moments that they were too late to change, that they had thrown away their final chance at salvation, struck me as I watched atop a great hill of black and gold. The Visitor was beside me, scorching me with his radiance. Larger than I could comprehend, but who hovered beside me not much taller ...
Weekly Contest #216
I sat at the corner table in a dreary inn in Swanknoll, very aware of the eyes that found me. The small mountain village was used to passersby almost every day, most traveling from Ríse to Kruh Zivota, and still, their glares painted a vivid picture of how welcome I was. If there was another way through the mountains, I would use it, but I was here, instead. Talons wrapped around the mug, I brought it to my beak and swallowed, shuddering at the ale’s bitterness. Its taste twisted with the inn’s odor of sweat and smoke in my mouth as I took ...
Weekly Contest #205
Walter’s breath poured before him in a haze, goosebumps scaling his skin. A demon was here, and it had to be Zalagoth. Jean tried the lights, but none of the switches worked. “The chill freezes the wiring,” Walter said as he opened his bag, sifted through it with a hand, then produced a long wax candle and set it into a candlestick with a bridged plate. A second later came the matches, and then– light. Or as much light as they were likely to get. The glow extended about three feet, depending on which direction it was aimed. For the foyer, i...
Weekly Contest #204
This story involves the mention of suicide, violence, and alcohol-use. Plum-colored clouds struggled for the dominance of the sky, fire-red and orange and yellow roiling against the impending darkness as the stranger came to Riverbend. With her came a horde of tumbleweeds, dusty wind flowing into the town’s single street on waves of smoke and charred flesh. Each of Riverbend’s occupants, those pilgrims of the West so brazen as to remain in a dying village when all others had left, stopped and watched the strange woman as she glided i...
Weekly Contest #200
This story contains kidnapping, violence, gore, and tobacco use. The rain beat hard against John Dyke’s black umbrella as he meandered down the dark, slick sidewalk. A plume of grey smoke puffed from between his lips and out of the big, oval nostrils of his bulbous nose like a dragon’s warning, daring anyone brave enough to test him and see what would happen. No matter the occasion, trailing a suspect inconspicuously or not, Dyke always had a Nub Connecticut cigar gripped firmly between pursed lips, its embers casting his features in a low o...
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