Flash Fiction Contest Round 10
By Jo Eberhardt | October 3, 2015 |
Photo by Flickr user ‘Carlos ZGZ’.
Thank you to everyone who participated in round 9 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest. There was such a wide range of stories, from modern day tales to historical fiction, and even one from the perspective of the wagon itself.
Now it’s time to move on to the next round of the contest. I can’t wait to see what unboxed stories you come up with for the picture above. You have seven days to write a 250 word story to be in the running for an absolutely fabulous prize pack. And remember: this is your second-last chance to score yourself a place in the final!
The rules:
- Each submission must be 250 words or fewer.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential.
- All submitted work must be original, not published elsewhere, and written by you. After the contest, what you do with your story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Each submission must be made in the comment section of the prompt post.
- No more than two entries per person, per prompt will be eligible for any given month.
- Deadline for entries will be one week after the prompt is posted, meaning 7 a.m. EST on the second Saturday of the month.
- The winning story each month will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion (which includes a blind-reading of the entries by a panel).
What the winner receives:
Each month’s winning story will be announced the following month, and republished on Writer Unboxed, along with the author’s bio, and links to the winner’s website and social media accounts. As well as this platform-raising exposure, the monthly winner gets bragging rights and the exclusive opportunity to compete for the grand prize in December.
In December, each of the monthly winners will be asked to write a new flash fiction story based on a new prompt. The overall winning story will be selected by a mix of votes via a poll and our own discretion.
The overall winner of the 2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest will be announced by the end of December 2015, and will receive:
- A signed copy of Dave King‘s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers
- A signed copy of David Corbett‘s The Art of Character
- A 15-page manuscript critique by bestselling author Catherine McKenzie (double spaced, normal margins, Times New Roman 12pt font)
- A one-hour Skype lesson with Scrivener expert, Rebeca Schiller
- A free, non-transferable pass to attend the next Writer Unboxed UnConference (does not include travel or hotel expenses)
The other finalists will receive the a beautiful “Edit” poster from Three Figs Villa, as kindly donated by the generous Cyd Peroni.
We’re getting down to the wire now, with only three rounds of the contest left until the finalists all compete for this amazing prize. If you haven’t entered yet, now’s the time to jump in with both feet (and both hands). That prize pack is amazing!
And now… announcing the winner of Round 9 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest.
HONOURABLE MENTIONS
Pauline Yates (“The History Lesson”)
Kate Magner (“Prairieland”)
Congratulations Pauline and Kate. Good luck in September!
WINNING ENTRY
Photo by Flickr user Doug Wetman
The quality of stories in September’s round was incredibly high, and so this round we have two winners to announce. A huge congratulations to Meghan Masterton and Isabel Summers, who have both earned an entry in the 2015 WU Flash Fiction grand final with their stories. Please read and enjoy them in their encore performance:
The Oregon Trail by Meghan Masterson
I sank to the ground in despair. The wheel spokes made shadowed stripes across my lap. “What do you mean Esther has dysentery?”
“She just does.” David sounded laconic, in spite of my plaintive tone.
“But she just had dysentery. How can she have it again?”
“I don’t know. I guess the water is tainted or something.”
I leaned back against the wheel. “I don’t know if I can go on… It’s just one thing after another. Last week, Fergus was bitten by a rattlesnake. It’s a miracle he survived.” I cringed, picturing his inflamed wound, the fang marks glowing red, the surrounding skin shiny and puffy. “What if Esther doesn’t make it? How many times can a person recover from dysentery?”
David shrugged. “We’ll just have to rest, see if she gets better. We’ll still make it to Sacramento. How are our supplies?”
“We only have salt pork.”
He rummaged at the back of the wagon. “I should go hunting. Too bad we lost so much on the last river crossing.”
“Thanks David.” Grabbing the wheel, I yanked myself upright, ready to face the next part of the journey. “Be careful not to accidentally shoot anyone. We can’t afford another injury. I’ll try to make tea for Esther.”
Mom cleared her throat. “Are you two finished play-acting The Oregon Trail? It’s lunchtime.”
“This game seems more depressing when we say it out loud, instead of playing on the computer,” I said.
David grinned. “Yeah, let’s go get pizza.”
Meghan Masterson attempts to excuse her bad habit of reading at all hours (even at breakfast or far past her bedtime) as seizing the opportunity to study the construction of a plot or character. As a child, she gave her parents a flowery story about horses every year for Christmas. Thankfully, she has expanded her interests past tales of equine perfection and thinly veiled Nancy Drew retellings, and is now mainly interested in writing historical fiction. Meghan lives in Calgary with her husband, a crazy cat, and a dog who believes writing is a waste of time compared to walks or games of fetch. You can also find her on Facebook.
Black Hills Gold by Isabel Summers
I didn’t mean to lose my temper, but Mato kept pestering me to play the spear throwing game with him. Mother had placed me in charge of my little brother while she and the other women tanned the season’s buffalo hides. Winter was coming and the men would soon be heading to the flatlands to trade with the Cheyenne. I finally lost my patience when he jabbed me again with the sharp end of the stick.
“Mato!” I yelled, “If you do that again, I will break that stick over your head!”
With that, he ran crying from our tipi.
After finishing my chores I walked down the length of the village in search of him. The towering granite rocks of our sacred mountain, He Sapa, glistened in the waning sunlight, and I began climbing her majestic shoulders to get a better view of the village below. The elders had recently held a council meeting to discuss the many white men coming to He Sapa in search of gold. They called her the Black Hills and tore open her veins with axes and blasted her with dynamite. Reaching a sheltered ledge overlooking the wide plain below, I sat down on a flat rock warmed by the late afternoon sun.
In the distance I saw a long line of covered wagons approaching. As I watched them advancing, Mato crawled out from behind a boulder and sat beside me, resting his small head against mine.
Isabel Summers
has always written other people’s stories. They are the stories about culture; the ones that correct the misconceptions and stereotypes of a history written by the winners. These stories of history and a people that predate the invasion of this land are packaged in beautiful artwork and sold mostly in museums. Today, the Native People are still here and have become part of our country – but their culture and history are still alive. She tells stories that keep a culture alive. When she saw the covered wagon, she didn’t hesitate. She put her fingers on the keyboard and wrote. She told a story. Find out more about her stories through her Turtle Island and personal Facebook pages.
Congratulations to the winners, and happy writing!
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor’s cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
Congratulations to the winners! Both are excellent entries.
Absolutely! Congratulations to both!
Anja grasped Gustav when they crested the peak. The remains of Claes’ castle stood before her. Rumored stated that Claes, her great-great-grandfather, lost it in his youth because of a woman. The story had been told for many years that it was the stuff of myths and legends. No one truly thought it existed; yet here she was after three hard days of hiking, standing looking at it.
“Gus, do you see it?” It was a ridiculous question, or course he did. Pulling out her camera she began to snap a few pictures. That would not be enough though. She would have to complete her journey traversing the nearly impossibly slick terrain to get inside. The legends said that on the bedroom wall, below the window that looked out to the sea, Claes, had carved the family crest and the name of the woman who had won his heart. It was all very romantic, but until she could take a photograph of it the story was destine to remain a myth. Foraging ahead she slid down the moss-covered hills, Gustav close by, until she reached what were once the entrance gates. With the sound of the waves crashing below to announce her return she entered the castle.
“This way,” was all Gustav said. Climbing over the debris they made their way to the front room. Brushing away the moldy dirt below the window she uncovered the outlines of part of the family crest and the name of her great-great-grandmother, Nea.
Thanks for your entry, Annay.
Maggie McDonald tried to keep her voice steady as she relinquished the squalling infant to her maid.
“The gold should get you passage to the highlands. Agathe, “she swallowed a sob,” save him! For all that is holy, save my son!”
Agathe clutched the babe to her bosom. “Lady, will you not reconsider? The child needs his mother.”
“The fighting cannot go on much longer. What would Collum think to return, only to find both wife and child gone? No, we will find you, together. Now go through the tunnel, quickly!”
Through the stone arched window, Maggie watched the carnage below, anxious for any sight of her beloved. The clanging of steel grew louder as the fortress was breached. She held her head high as the soldiers dragged her from the castle, across the ramparts and to the edge of the cliff where several other women of the McDonald clan awaited the inevitable.
“Forgiveness, Lady.” His grey eyes matched the monotone palette of sky above and rocks and sea below.
“My husband…?”
“The Laird,” his gaze flicked away. “Dead, m’lady. At Kilwarlin.”
Maggie, nodded. Her heart had known. She turned to the sea, dashing against the rocks with fury to match that in her soul. She felt the hand in her back and did not resist the push. Instead, she flung her arms wide and in her mind, she embraced Collum again.
~~~
Aug. 17, 2015
Made it to Ireland. The ruins are fascinating! Wish you were here! C. McDonald.
Thanks for your entry, Linda.
Good one.
Thank you!
Consequences
By Jane Gorman
Waves crashed with a vengeance against the rocks. Her foot slipped and she lunged at a slimy stone, throwing her weight flat before she could slide any further. She cursed Kieran and his violent edge. She hadn’t meant the words literally.
The ruins towered over the cliff, shimmering through the deep shadows created by the shifting mist. A perfect spot for a clandestine meeting. Or a murder.
She heard the shot as she tried to stand – an unnatural crash. Kieran balanced on the rocks ahead. A body lay below him, blood dyeing the water around it.
“No!” she screamed. Kieran raised his hand in a mock salute, looked once more at his victim, then turned and scrambled up the rocks.
Patrick’s body tumbled against the stone, slowly, slowly turning as the water pulled it, dragged it. She hadn’t wanted him dead. Not like this.
She hadn’t meant the words literally, words spoken in anger, words seared on her memory. Theirs had been crimes of subtlety, thefts seen only on paper. Not of violence. Never of violence.
One final tug of the grey ocean pulled the corpse off the rocks, tossed it in a macabre dance, then sucked it into the murky depths.
Patrick had been wrong to turn state witness. But she hadn’t meant the words. “Who will get rid of that traitor?”
Thanks for your entry, Jane.
Cannelloni
Finishing his dinner sitting at the kitchen counter the dog next to him as it always did, looking up expectantly at his emptying plate, one of the overhead fluorescent lights flickered, ignoring it he forked the last of the food into his mouth, the dog fidgeted,
Beans, white cannelloni beans with mussels, his Monday specialty, she used to make the dish after a trip they’d both made to Italy years earlier. Taking over the recipe and adapting it to his own tastes, each batch differing slightly, never quite matching her results but mostly to his liking.
The light flickered again, the dog without getting up was sitting in a different place still looking up at him. When he’d finished he let her lick the plate. Staring into the rocking surface of his wine glass he saw a figure, standing. Draining the glass before looking up his hand around the stem slowly lowering it to the counter.
His mouth opened. Almost translucent, standing at the opposite end of the kitchen, wearing a lavender robe she smiled then gestured at the dog.
Usually silent it barked just once.
Transfixed, trying to make the figure real his eyes locked onto the apparition. She moved silently towards where he sat, with each step becoming more transparent, holding his palm up trying to get her to halt, she continued, reaching out her hand towards his she was gone before they could touch.
Thanks for your entry, John.
Hi Jo
My entry for Contest Round 10
The young man balancing on the castle ruins explained it to Rita and Michael.
“According to legend, Princess Juliana walked the ledge nightly to prove her fidelity to Prince Oscar.”
Rita observed the fall down the steep cliffs to the rocky shore. “So you’re proving yours?”
The young man nodded.
Michael was incredulous. “Are you mad?”
“Mad with love.”
“And your lover?”
The young man pointed to a figure in a distant field. “She awaits.”
Rita looked at Michael.
“Oh, no,” he said abruptly. “I don’t need to prove anything.”
“Come on, old chap,” said the young man. “She’ll never doubt you afterward.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Rita leaned toward Michael. “Hiding something?”
“I’m hiding nothing.”
“I knew I couldn’t trust you.”
“What? This is insane.“ He stared at Rita. “You’re insane.”
“Do it or it’s over.”
“I’ll tell you what’s over.
“Come on, chap, best to get on before the wind picks up.”
Michael pulled himself up onto the ridge, trying not to look at the rocks and water below. Just then, the young man jumped down, landing beside Rita.
Michael shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Already walked it, old chap.”
Rita shouted to Michael. “Don’t chicken out now.” Then softly so Michael couldn’t hear. “He’s not going to make it, is he?”
“Saw it in his eyes. Guilty as hell.”
“Had a feeling.”
“You’d have stayed?”
“I’d have forgiven him.”
“Naive.”
“Your girlfriend really in the field?”
A trickle of stones from Michael’s misstep.
“You name again, luv?”
I love the natural banter in this and the way the dialogue carries the story.
Thanks for your entry, Vincent.
My entry:
The castle ruled the cliff above the beach.
Ancient armies had tried, but none could capture it. The nearby cemetery hosted dead knights who had failed. Their names were barely legible on crumbling gravestones.
“Castle will surrender,” the guide said. “Can’t go inside. Dangerous. Rising waves attack the cliff. Castle falling onto beach.”
“Like a sand castle,” Jim laughed.
“History,” his mother said. “Respect this battlefield.”
Wind-driven cold rain slapped the mini-bus windows.
“Castle will fall, cemetery will stay,” the guide said.
“They died over stacks of rocks,” Jim said.
“Show respect,” his mother said. “Heroes must be honored.”
Angry waves attacked the grey beach.
Rain flooded graves in the cemetery.
Jim silently praised the ocean’s coming victory.
His mother worshiped heroes and medals.
So small, he thought.
The guide steered the rusting mini-bus through the cold rain toward Calais.
He prayed for safety, hot coffee and warm bread.
Thanks for your entry, Ray.
Ghosts:
Suzanna followed the tour guide through the arched stone wall of Dunluce Castle ruin. While the the tourists oohed and ahed at the half-standing tower keep, Suzanna pressed the nodes on her YFT One-Shot bracelet and saw something else.
The walls were whole, the cobbles smooth-laid, the straight tower capped by shale and red pennants. Two laughing children, a boy and a girl, sprinted out of the stables, a pack of dogs racing at their heels.
Are these the ones?
Suzanna’s legs went weak. She sank onto a tumble of stone, nauseous with the overlay of past and present. She adjusted the nodes and the queasiness eased a little.
The girl, dark-haired and shoeless in the summer morning, suddenly turned to stare at her, breaking into a torrent of old Irish. Suzanna pressed the nodes again. It would use up the charge faster, but she needed to know what the children said, who they were.
“Bryn, a ghost!” the girl squealed. Suzanna held her breath as the boy, Bryn, (remember that name) heeled the dogs.
“Don’t be silly, they only come out at night, Gennie.”
That was it, the name she’d hunted for the last six months—the name of her great, great, great, great grandmother. With a flash, the bracelet died and the ruin came back into focus. Suzanna rubbed her wrist where the nodes had burned her pale skin. As soon as she got back to the B&B, she’d sign up for the full services at YourFamilyTree.com.
As a genealogist, I enjoyed that the present person was the “ghost”
Thanks for your entry, Nancy.
Rowena looked out what would suffice as window. She spotted the boat that would take her to freedom.
Squeezing through the window of what at one time was a castle but had fallen into disrepair; she landed with a thud on the mossy but soft ground.
Rowena could hear the sounds of the waves crashing upon the shore even though she could not see the ocean, but she knew she had to head that way and got up from the mossy ground and worked her way down a slippery, moss covered slope.
After reaching the bottom she could see the small pier through the hole in the bridge crossing and began to run towards the pier. She knew she had only minutes to make her way to freedom and to the man she loved. Stumbling she fell and skinned her knees upon a jagged rock but she was undeterred and increased her speed. She knew she had to get away from Rockwell and his devious, demented ways.
Finally, the pier was under her feet and she all but fell into her Spanish lovers arms. Raoul was her one and only love and she began to cry as he held her. Rowena knew that all the pain and torment she had endured with Rockwell, Raoul would erase from her memory.
The boat quickly put oar to water and they made their way to Raoul’s ship.
The Rowena.
Thanks for your entry.
The Queen of Snakes
He’d brought me here to the edge of the sea from my home as a spoil. Had he known how spoiled I was he may have tossed me over the side of his boat. Our wedding night was when he caught me asking a snake how many children we’d have. Slicing the head off the serpent before it could answer, he then ordered me never to use the magic again.
My love for my King was too great to obey him. He’d forbidden me from listening to the hisses, but as his navy sailed past the horizon my strength went with them all. A day passed and then a week and I did nothing. A month faded darkly and I called out.
“Will my King return to his castle?”
“Hiss…No…Hiss”
A night drowned in many tears. I wailed so loudly the wolves in the hills answered me. All my thoughts turned to ending my life. I wanted to fling my body down on the rocky shore below my window and have my pain end in an instant.
Lost I tried a new question the following day.
A new snake came.
“Hiss…He will live…Hiss”
With new hope I stayed alive. Each day asking one more question from one more new snake until I knew the hour of my Kings’ return.
Seeing every inch of his home covered with my slithering betrayal he orders the castle put to flame.
Thanks for your entry, James.
Thanks for a fun contest prompt!
The gate obviously wasn’t the best route. I snuck away from the others toward the castle’s windward side to seek my treasure, creeping far enough to be out of sight; any further the ground became too steep.
A deep divot near the wall indicated the spot. I dropped to my knees to pry up the moss, knowing only a few inches of dirt lay between it and the rocks.
I didn’t look up when the sword pressed into the small of my back. “I told you not to bring that thing. Here, help me.”
My son plopped next to me, laying his cardboard and duct tape sword on a ledge. “But I did scare you, right?” he said.
“Scared the pants right off of me.” Over his shoulder, the next bus disgorged tourists in white sneakers and a rainbow of windbreakers. “Here, dig.”
He grunted and rocked back on his heels. “Other kids get to go in the castles.”
“Other kids’ moms aren’t sequencing bacteria growing in ammonia rich soil. Guards peed from that parapet for 100 years. The breakthrough microbe might be right below your rump.”
He poked the turf. “My mom, bacterial missing link hunter. Are there any castles that don’t have a restraining order against you?”
“This one. But if we’re slow, that’ll change.”
He eyed me. “If I help you can I go inside?”
“There is a gift shop,” I said. “With plastic shields.”
“Let’s dig,” he said, tossing his towel-cape over his shoulder.
Thanks for your entry, Marie.
My Only Son
He was nice, in the beginning. A simple man courting a simple girl. Young, carefree, we shared stolen kisses in fields of laughter. Traced our future around the clouds. I thought he’d steal my heart but your father is no thief. So I gave my heart freely, filled with secrets and dreams. He promised to guard my treasure to the end of his days.
I trusted him.
Not all clouds are white. Some are black. The promise of a storm to be weathered. I bowed my head to the wind and bore the brunt of the storm’s fury but I was caught in the eye and lulled by calm waters. Had I known he would strike down his only son, I would have thrown myself back into the raging turmoil and carried you safely across the sea. But my heart, my anchor, dragged against the bottom of the ocean and snagged on a bed of promises.
I believed him.
Like the castle on the cliff, I am in ruins. But my foundations are strong. So I cast your ashes across the place where you became. So you will know you were not born into hatred. You were born into love. Where he was my King and I was his Queen and we carved our hearts into the rock. But though the stone lies crumbled, you are forever our Prince and it is here I will always find you.
But it is only here, I can forgive him.
Thanks for your entry, Pauline.
The Redemption
“Oh, aye, Sassenach. I am your master . . . and you’re mine.” Pausing, Drew peeked up at me from under his long black eyelashes, a mischievous smile on his face. Reading Outlander aloud on Sunday mornings had become the unanticipated romantic catalyst we needed. I leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. His ardent response was more than I expected. Setting the book aside, he lifted my nightgown over my head and tossed it onto a nearby chair. Taking his time he slowly awakened me to him before sliding his hand down over my belly to the inside of my thigh. Melting into him, I pushed my hands into his hair as he pleasured me with purposeful attention that assured my utmost satisfaction. As we lay together in the aftermath, Drew’s lips brushed mine tenderly, “I love you so much, Beth. I don’t ever want to lose you…”
“Drew, I’m sorry for everything I put us through this year…” I murmured.
“Shhh, I don’t want to talk about it…” Pulling on well-worn grey sweats he headed for the kitchen.
Following him, I persisted, “I can’t imagine what you must think…I never intended on becoming obsessed with my yoga instructor. It’s as if he bewitched me…and I even encouraged his flirtations. I don’t recognize myself anymore…But, I promise nothing happened….”
Drew pulled me to his chest “He’s come between us, Beth. I hope you finally disentangled yourself from him.”
“I wish it was that simple…” I mumbled.
Thanks for your entry, Isabel.
Echoes
The sea rose and fell, waves murmuring against the rocky shore with an almost eerie tranquility. The past rose and fell around us as well, whispering stories inside our minds.
We stood on the shore, gazing up at the tumbled down walls. Once a laird ruled here, and soldiers searched the horizon for signs of war ships, ready to raise a warning cry.
Now everything has fallen—walls, armies, laird. Now there are only whispers and memories, and even the waves are quiet, at least for today.
It’s a hard climb, but well worth it. We walk arm and arm through the deserted courtyard, ears straining to catch an echo of ancient voices, stilled long ago. But all we hear are the whispers in our minds, and a tugging at our hearts.
This castle is part of our family’s history, a history we couldn’t fully connect to back home in America. But here we can literally touch the past, our fingers brushing over the rough stones, the tang of sea air evoking ancestral memories … and we listen to the whispers in our hearts, and remember.
Duncan presses me against the crumbling wall, and kisses me tenderly. I feel the child growing in my belly gently kicking. I turn my face up to the sky, following the path of a hawk across the deep blue canopy arching above. I feel the circle closing … past, present and future.
We are coming home.
Thanks for your entry, Veronica.
The day was gray, the slopes were green, and Aldo’s lips were blue. He stood shivering on a ridge overlooking the crumbling ruins of Castle-by-the-Sea. Its edges were softened by relentless weather; its life eaten by years.
A voice crackled in his ear. “Are you ready, Dr. Meander?”
Aldo Meander nodded and then remembered that the University folks could not see him. “Yes,” he croaked. “Yes, it’s all set.”
Aldo lifted what looked like a magnifying glass. Peering through the trembling glass, the scene changed dramatically. Sun played down across a sharpened castle, catching red and orange banners that flew from the drawbridge. When Aldo leaned away from the glass, only crumbling stone remained.
“Doctor, we have you dialed in. You should be seeing 1453.”
“I see the castle in the past, Control, but I can’t tell what year it is…”
“Copy. Proceed when you are ready.”
Aldo took a deep breath and pressed a button near his thumb. For a second nothing happened, but then sunlight seemed to shimmer from the glass, bleeding out to surround Aldo. The light grew brighter and burst through Aldo with an intense pain that made him drop the glass.
When the flash drained away, he was no longer by the ruins, but stood above the bright expanse of a castle that was young and alive, flags waving. Aldo heard hoofs galloping hard behind him. He turned as a large sword descended swiftly toward his neck, and Aldo thought, “History hurts.”
Thanks for your entry, Kris.
Deirdre and I stood on the bridge with our backs to the ruined castle and watched the American newlyweds approaching from the village, with their backpacks and walking sticks.
“Did you tell them about the legend?” I asked.
“Pooh. Of course not. It isn’t true, anyway. Siobhan, you are so timid.”
“But what if it is true? They trust us. And they’ve paid in advance, right?”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Deirdre. “Here’s your share: one-third. Mine is two-thirds for setting it up.”
That was Deirdre, always managing to get more for herself. Always saying “pooh” when I expressed an opinion, or suggested a better way to do things at the inn where we worked. If I hadn’t mentioned pay, no telling how long she would have “forgotten.”
The Americans were tramping over the bridge now, smiling and happy. We escorted them inside and showed them places on the uneven floor where they could spread their sleeping bags. The young bride ran to the open window. “What a gorgeous view!”
They were so nice, so innocent, I couldn’t help but speak. “There’s an old legend…Just be careful not to touch the stone walls at sunset. After dark you’ll be safe.”
They looked alarmed for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. Deirdre frowned at me and leaned casually against the wall. “See?” she said. “It’s almost sunset now.”
In the next minute she was gone, pulled into the stone wall by the hungry ancient dead: cold stone themselves.
Thanks for your entry, Anna.
I am so new to this, but enjoying the challenge! So many fabulous stories…I am humbled and not a little intimidated. But here goes offering #2:
Nature Rules
by Linda N. Merryman
“Bring the prisoner!”
The summons echoed down the vast hall, filled with soldiers and workers. Queen SeangÚn ignored them all as they ushered in Luch the Grey, a miscreant caught pilfering castle storage.
“What defense ha’e ye, thief?” snarled Broc, the royal marshal. He always spoke for the queen. She never bothered with petty intrigues.
“I dinna ken…” stammered Luch.
“How can ye no ken this be the castle and these the property of Her Majesty?” Broc nudged the pile of withered bilberries with a long toe.
“They be castoffs. I dinna take many, only enough to feed m’bairns!” He wiggled his nose against a persistent itch.
Broc poked Luch in the chest with a sharp talon. “Royal stores are nae fer the likes o’ you! Ye ha’e admitted yer guilt and are condemned by Her Majesty’s court to die!” He licked his lips in anticipation. “Bind the prisoner!” he bellowed.
Damhánalla, the weaver, moved from her tapestry in the corner. She secured Luch with cord of her own making.
BOOM. The thundercrack silenced the court. Wind gusted, shredding Damhánalla’s web as a torrent of rain slashed down into the ruins drenching the moss-covered flagstones.
Broc Badger waddled on stumpy legs to dive nose first into his sett. The ant colony piled themselves into a raft to save their queen.
Luch gnawed at his bonds until they parted with a snap. He snatched the bilberries in his jaw scurrying for the safety of his burrow where his hungry mouslings waited.
Thanks for your entry, Linda. Glad you found the courage to post a second story. :)
Thanks, Jo. I wanted to try something different. This has been a terrific learning experience for me! I’m so glad I found Writer Unboxed.
Typical.
She had a date.
And she had a massive pimple.
Well more of a scar really. The remnants of something nasty.
The thing had looked bad enough when it was new, and now it looked even worse – jagged and rough. Her fault probably. She had tried to get rid of it, buffeting and scraping and blowing.
Give her a bit longer and it would be gone completely, but now, it was obvious and ugly.
She hoped the lighting would be soft and subtle, or that her date would be interested in her personality.
She suspected he wouldn’t.
She had seen this guy circling around before. He seemed to just cruise wherever he wanted. She figured he was only interested in one thing.
Oh well, she thought, there weren’t that many out there to choose from. Most guys were taken or off in another galaxy.
She had checked the lunar schedule and in Ireland the sun wouldn’t go down until nearly midnight. Damn that northern hemisphere summer. There would be no opportunity for twinkling fairy lights and soft lighting. No, it would be the full belt of the sun on her castle scar.
Then the Earth sighed, she took one last look in the mirror and turned to show her best profile to the distant galaxy. The Comet was coming by tonight and scar or no scar, she only saw him a couple of times each hundred years.
She wasn’t going to let that ruin on her face stop her.
Thanks for your entry, Janet.
“Welcome to my family’s island sailor. What brings you here?” I asked. I don’t have many visitors anymore.
“Trying to get home across the sea” The man replied.
“I’m afraid you’re not likely to find passage from here. How did you come to my shores?”
“There was a storm. I was swept overboard. Where am I? Who are you?”
“My name is Agatha and I am the caretaker of my family’s estate.”
“Caretaker? But the castle’s in ruins?”
“It got away from me over the centuries” I admitted.
“Centuries? How’s that possible?”
I had not pondered the status of my family’s castle in years. It now sat decaying upon the hilltop where my great grandfather Cornelius had built it. I inherited the castle from my late father, and my husband Jonathan and I made it our home. For a time we routinely hosted guests and employed over a dozen servants. When we learned of my pregnancy, we were both ecstatic.
Our happiness was cut short when Jonathan’s ship went missing. Soon after I lost the baby, and I withdrew from everyone and retreated into myself. The servants tried to console me, sweet Beth spoke such kind words, but none of it mattered. I wasted away until sickness took me one night. Everyone left but I lingered in this place. Even in death I never recovered from the torment of my losses.
“You’re free to haunt these shores for all eternity if you like” I offered my new companion.
Thanks for your entry, Tim.
Thanks again, Jo! Here’s my tale, Trespassers:
“Did you see a sign?” Rhonda slipped over the castle’s crumbling wall.
“You didn’t give me time to look.” Mark dumped his rucksack alongside Rhonda’s and followed her into the stony stronghold. “We’ll get arrested.”
“Quit worrying.” She pecked his cheek. “You’ll ruin the ambiance.”
Her sly grin chased away his thoughts of police or protest. “I did ask for an adventure.”
“What else is life for?”
After a second kiss, Rhonda led through arched doorways and by arrow-slit windows draped in shadow. History hushed them both, leaving their sneaker’s crunch of pebbles to interrupt thundering waves and squawking shorebirds wheeling across blue sky.
“Can you imagine living here?”
“It’s a little big for my taste.” Rhonda left a honeycomb of chambers and tiptoed up a set of grooved stairs.
“Careful.” Mark trailed her. “This place is falling apart.”
“But what a view.”
Gusts carried the sea’s briny scent, a bank of dewy fog, and then the bitter smell of char onto the parapeted defenses.
Mark sniffed and sought the source. “Is that smoke?”
From the castle’s heart telltale wisps coiled and, atop a nearby tower, a banner with a golden harp on a field of green unfurled.
“That’s impossible.” Mark scrubbed his eyes but the sights didn’t change.
“But how?” Rhonda took his hand. “There’s no one else here.”
Metal clanged, a hundred voices murmured, and the smell of humanity and damp earth soaked the fog.
“Halt!” Behind them, boots thumped and a blade unsheathed. “Who goes there?”
Thanks for your entry, Kate.
Hi Jo – entry number two for Round 10 – thanks
Sir Leyland Wright, last of his line, crossed the castle’s weed-strewn courtyard to pick up a discarded candy wrapper. He still hadn’t gotten over the vicious slur against the family name someone had painted on the crumbling north wall’s outer surface. His second in charge had dialed the police, but Leyland stopped him.
He considered his options, tired of defending long-gone, hard-hearted ancestors. Their stone hearts, untouched by the plight of others, the scent of the sea, or even the warmth of the light that graced this height, had made him a pariah in his own country.
Back in his office, the afternoon spent telephoning dozens of contractors, he realized demolishing the old castle was as impossible as repairing it.
Something needed to be done. He’d spent most of his life and nearly all his money trying to heal this legacy. And he’d failed. Both the castle and his life were in ruins.
“Care for some tea, sir,” it was his second in charge.
Leyland smiled at the gray-haired Nigel standing in the doorway.
“What I’d like is the name of that graffiti artist.”
“To jail him?”
Again Leyland smiled.
“The slurs across the castle’s walls were painted out of an artist’s anger, not malice.”
“I’d hardly call–”
“Anger,” my friend, “is a poison. As is guilt. Both leave only ruins. It’s time to channel the anger, the guilt into something positive. I’d appreciate your locating this graffiti artist. And if there’s time, I’ll have some tea.”
Thanks for your second entry, Vincent.
Paddy’s Castle
“My God! It’s Paddy’s Castle!”
The picture quivered in Marion’s trembling hand. The happy chatter of three generations of women gathered for a bridal shower was silenced. With everyone now staring at her aunt, Sharon sat down next to her, gently cocooning Marion’s free hand in both of hers.
“This is where we’re hoping to get married. It’s in Ireland. It’s called Dunluce Castle.”
“I understand, sweetie,” Marion said, still staring at picture. “But, this is also Paddy’s Castle.”
“Who’s Paddy?”
“You know I spent my childhood summers traveling with Great Aunt Lexie, and great-grandmother, Nanny?”
“Dad told me.”
“Well, we always stayed at hotels with pools, so I could swim, and when I was about nine, we stayed at a hotel in LA where we met Paddy. He lived in the hotel. Aunt Lexie said he had been an actor in silent movies. He had wavy white hair and spoke with a thick Irish accent. He used to sit with Nanny and Aunt Lexie while they watched me swim. He called me ‘a wee little fish.’ One day we went to his room before dinner. There were pictures everywhere, including a black and white photo of this castle. I asked him what it was, and he said it was heaven.”
Still staring at the castle, a tear slipped.
“Aunt Marion?”
“If your heart doesn’t ache a bit every day, you’re either dead, or you should be,” she remembered him saying.
“At least I’m not dead,” she whispered.
Thanks for your entry.
La Citadelle
By Ray Pace
La Citadelle commanded the cliff above the rain-swept beach.
Ancient armies tried, but none could capture the castle. Fallen knights were buried nearby, their names crumbling on hundreds of mossy gravestones.
“Dangereux,” the tour guide said. He steered the mini-bus through the puddles forming on the broken cobblestone. He stopped in front of a wire fence strung across the road, several yards from the castle.
“Can’t go in castle,” he said. “Dangereaux!”
Surf was undermining the cliff, the guide explained. La Citadelle would surrender to the ocean, piece by piece.”
“Like every sand castle on Waikiki Beach,” Jack said.
“Respect,” Jennifer whispered back. “Heroes deserve honor.”
Icy rain assaulted their mini-bus. Wipers groaned.
“Castle disappear soon,” the guide said. “Cemetery will drown later.” Through the rain-streaked windows they could see massive waves attacking the cliff.
Off to one side, rain flooded the cemetery. Several gravestones were leaning, ready to fall.
Jennifer thought about the once magnificent castle falling to the onslaught of waves. The indifferent ocean would swallow the knights, drowning their nobility.
She grabbed Jack’s hand.
“People are such fools,” she whispered. “Our well-constructed lives ultimately mean nothing.”
“But everything while we’re living them,” he said.
The guide wrestled the rusting mini-bus down the hill through windy sleet toward the road to Calais. He worried about his bald tires and the icy roads ahead.
He prayed for hot coffee and a pack of Gauloises cigarettes.
#
Thanks for your entry, Ray.
Nine Days in July by Kathy Ausflug
Sure it looks dreamy… the towers, walls of stone, drawbridge, rocky cliffs, a true mountain fortress, perfect for a medieval re-enactment of knights in shining armor rescuing damsels in distress, perfect for playing out a younger and more stylish Miss Marple fantasy, eavesdropping on conversations, discovering secret passageways, perfect for breathing in the history of it all.
But I just can’t go back there again this year, Nick! I can’t spend one more precious vacation pretending that I’m the damsel or that you’re the guy shining in that armor, or that I’m an amateur, yet well reputed detective. I respect and admire your passion for architecture, history and country settings, and I do enjoy a good cup of tea, but I’m bored with the whole medieval scene, tired of the cold, clammy walls, the dark shadowy hallways, the small windows and remote locations. It’s not dreamy for me anymore, Nick. It’s a travel brochure, and to me it’s dreary.
Take me to the seaside this year. Please. Let’s soak in the morning sunshine and sparkling sand, let’s lunch and nap under a ruffled red umbrella. Let’s stroll the boardwalks, sip lattes at the café and kiss under the stars. Take me to the seaside this year, Nick. I’m dreaming of the seaside.
Thanks for your entry, Kathy.
The Visitor
A herald stood before Robert, the Duke of Corderoi. He wore finery they had only seen once before at court.
Placing hand on hip, the herald announced, “The Viscount of Warneroust awaits your permission to enter the castle gates. We bring offerings from the land of the Saracens once again in return for your valiant acts of saving the Viscount’s life. And he requests a hunt.”
That canker Jens is here, again from Egypt! The Duke thought, making eye contact with Kimble, his secretary.
During the last Holy War, Robert had saved the Viscount’s life five times, but the Viscount had saved his four. Robert had considered the score even, when five years before Jens had trudged to Corderoi to bestow tokens of gratitude to Robert before the Viscount returned first to his own homeland.
Jens had delivered dyed linens and robes so blue you could touch the sea bottom, scents—too intoxicating for a man to wear, nonpareil sweetmeats of figs and dates, and wines drank by kings. However, he also presented a horrible animal called a monkey. The half-human dwarf escaped his captor, bit half of the servants the next day, and stole the duchesses’ prized silver comb. They didn’t find it until ice from the north turret melted and sent it to ground.
Let’s see what the knave is about, Robert thought, knowing he’d regret it.
“Allow the Viscount enter.” Robert told the groom to saddle the black steed, and he’d welcome the Viscount himself at the gatehouse.
The Duke’s party arrived and watched the attendants display a cask of brilliant star-cut stones, fine silks, spices, and lastly an empty cage with metal chains and manacles fit for subduing a man. Kimble gestured thus. “What is this?”
The herald proclaimed, “We brought a magnificent creature for you, a lion. With piercing teeth and claws that shred leather.”
“Where is it?”
“He was last seen a day’s journey hence—a sow in his great maws.”
Jens leaned into Robert and flashed a dazzling but apologetic smile and said, “About that hunt, Robert.”
Thanks for your entry, Janice.