Vote: November '08 Challenge

[kailhofer]

The challenge was to craft a fantasy story with a witch or wizard that is not skilled or powerful enough to handle the situation they’re obligated to face. Entrants had to include a wooden duck decoy.



Dragon



Charles peered cautiously out from the side tunnel in which he'd taken cover. The first thing he saw, naturally, was the dragon; even dead, it was an impressive beast. Around it lay the weapons and armour of a hundred unsuccessful knights, some so old that it crumbled to the touch - the true reason for the oft-repeated legend of a dragon's hoard.

And, on the floor, unmoving, lay the Albert the Mage. Albert Dragonbane now; even posthumously, the feat of slaying one of these great beasts gave one the coveted title.

Charles blinked. Had he imagined it, or - glancing nervously at the dragon again, Charles hurried across to Albert. The mage was still breathing! Still alive!

Carefully, Charles lifted the body of the mage he had followed for a bet. The lads will never believe this story! he thought, even as he checked the older man's pulse. Still there.

The healing magics had never been Charlie's strong point. What he could do, and very well indeed, was invisibility; which had kept him alive throughout Albert's titanic battle. And now, he realised, it was up to him to get the older mage out, to where someone able to heal him from his grievous wounds could do so. With care, he lifted Albert Dragonbane and slung him over his shoulders.

Now, which way is out?

Carefully, Charles carried Albert out along the path he'd come in by; but there were many junctions to navigate. It was only when he found the remains of a long-dead fire that he finally admitted that he was lost. Must have been left by one of those unlucky knights he considered. Though, he added as he spotted something lying on its side in the shadows, what sort of knight goes around accompanied by a little wooden duck?

And then he heard a terrible roar, a scream of heart-rending pain from inside the depths of the Earth. His first thought was Impossible! The dragon's already dead!

And then he realised - the dragon must have had a mate. The mate must have just returned to find the scene of carnage that Charlie had so recently left. No wonder it was angry.

Think, Charles, think. What do you know about dragons? He cast his mind back to his lectures at the School for Magery, and remembered Albert's lecture just last week...

--------------

"Dragons are extradimensional creatures, existing in a seven-dimensional universe that is a superset of our own three-dimensional one - not counting time, which we and dragons experience in the same manner. This gives dragons an impressive array of magical abilities. For one, while they cannot leave our normal three dimensions, they can reduce their overlap with it, effectively changing size. No-one know what the maximum size of a dragon is, but they can shrink themselves to the size of a human thumb quickly and easily. This is why dragons are normally fought in caves; the cave limits the maximum size of the dragon. The second ability that this gives a dragon is the ability to see around apparently solid objects. Never try to lose a dragon in a maze; it can see you, and it can go through far smaller tunnels that you can."

"Aside from this, dragons also possess an incredible variety of natural weaponry as well. They have massive claws and teeth, and are furthermore capable of releasing and igniting an impressive display of flammable gas - the 'fire breath' so beloved of roving storytellers. They also have an incredible sense of smell."

--------------

Fire breath. Claws. Teeth. It can see me, it's probably already coming. It can shrink to fit the tunnel. If I turn us invisible, it can come here and then follow us by scent. It doesn't need to see us to incinerate us.

We're dead.

Charlie put down the mage and ruffled through the older man's pockets, hoping to find something he could use to defeat an angry dragon. All that he found was a small flask of sulphur, a scroll entitled "Habits of the Greater Dragon", and a flask of water.

Think, Charles, think. What can you do with -

He spotted something on the cave roof, reached up, and snapped off a piece. Saltpetre... probably crystallised from bat droppings. I think I have an idea...

With that he cast invisibility on himself, on Albert, and on a hollow wooden duck...

--------------

When the dragon rounded the corner ten minutes later, it was approximately the size of an eagle. It slowed to a stop on the cave floor, and began to snuffle along the ground like a bloodhound. In moments, it had picked up the scent and was hurrying along the cave... when it heard a sudden clatter from the cave wall next to it. With a twist of its head, it faced the sound and released a barrage of fire that could cook a knight in his armour...

What it hit was an invisible, hollow wooden duck, filled with a mix of sulphur, saltpetre and charcoal from the fire. A mix whose explosive properties Charles had found quite accidentally three weeks previously in his alchemy class (it turned out there was a reason for the "no open flames" rule). The explosion did no more than stun the dragon momentarily... but the rockfall which it triggered buried the dragon under several tonnes of rock.

Several metres away, Charles dismissed his invisibility spell. The ceiling fall had been unexpected, but lucky; he'd been counting on the explosion alone to kill the dragon.

"Charlie?" Charles jumped and turned around; behind him, Albert had woken up. "I knew that was you, boy! Whenever something goes wrong you're never far. Aren't you still supposed to be confined to campus after that explosion incident?"

"Um... er..." began Charlie, but before he'd gotten any further he noticed that the old man had slipped into unconsciousness again.

He sighed, and picked up Albert once more. Now I've just got to find my way out of these caves...


[align=center]The End[/align]




The Dragonhorde



How fearful this prophesied night, laced in shadows pierced with slivers of burnt orange, ripping into the darkness like a dragon’s fiery claw. The ground begins to shake as thunderous hooves fast approach the township of Velderon; its people huddled together, gauging the approach of their doom by the graduation of sound, the momentary countdown to a charred oblivion.

Awaiting at the edge of town was a lone figure, a former wizard known only as Xandulun.

It was known throughout the village township that he was once a lowly apprentice to the dark and aged Council of Wizards, until such a time he left the pursuit of the Black Arts and devoted himself entirely to the study of “White Magic” which held for him the enticement of knowledge to the secret powers which lay behind the veil of our human existence. Black magic, the Wizard Council’s sorcery of choice, worked only through the collaboration betwixt the grey wizard’s and their demon counterparts. The wizards, under the authority of the dark principalities removed Xandulun from their council, casting him out from their order. It could be said, that the gift of foresight could not be numbered amongst the sovereignty of the wizards, for they would not have extricated Xandulun from their midst, if they only knew of the holocaustic inferno that would soon engulf them.

Xandulun was often praised as a good man by the townspeople of Velderon, due to his great empathy and kindness, which he would often manifest toward them. His life was lived in stark contrast to the wizard’s insatiable desire for power, who used the dark forces to enslave the good people of the village kingdom.

And now as it was prophesied for thousands of years, the dragons were emerging from their caverns beneath the earth’s core, where they had dwelled since the new days of earth’s first beginnings. And through their reemergence, it needs be they must scorch the earth to acclimate its outer shell to the volcanic environment they have lived in for many millennia in order to make the planet’s surface a livable environment. The abyss from which the Dragonhorde flooded the skies was only miles from the village, which now lay directly in their path.

The sweltering heat from the dragon’s breath was felt by the townspeople of Velderon still miles away. The grey and aged Council of Wizards had prepared to challenge the Dragonhorde at the Silesia River and defeat them through the amalgamation of their combined powers as they had envisaged this moment since the founding of their powerful order thousands of years past.

The wizards were shielded from the intense heat that was searing forth from the dragon’s mouths through spells empowered by the demons they served. Moments hastened quickly until finally the Dragonhorde were upon them, incinerating the rocks, trees, grass and evaporating the river, including a tiny wooden duck decoy that was floating by at the time.

With great haste, the wizards implored the authority of their mystical powers, calling upon the demons beneath the earth and the dark principalities of the air to empower their spell and cast the dragons back into the bowels of the earth, sealing the entrance forever.

Unbeknownst to the wizards and their demon counterparts, the dragons were immune to magic. The wizards and their demons were horrified, but only for an instant, before being devoured by the dragon’s incinerating fire. The approaching speed of the dragons was not impeded as they moved with seemingly unstoppable force toward the village of Velderon.

Xandulun saw the inferno approaching and with great speed girded himself about with the spiritual knowledge of time fragmentation. He had learned of this spell while peering into a black mirror and communicating with spirits of other planes who taught him of this craft which was yet untried. It was his intent to use this craft to pull the Dragonhorde out of time and send them back to the formation of the earth, when the planet was new and it’s surface a sea of molten rock.

With velocity the speed of lightning the Dragonhorde swooped downward from the sky, screeching with an ear piercing sound that vibrated the bones and held their victims motionless with fear. Xandulun was unprepared for their descent and let out a mantra cry he often used during meditation and communing with spirits of the outer plane.

Instinctively he held up his hands and cried out in a loud voice, “Exme, Tridulun, Ex-sa-me, Ian Soondulun, Viva-ce, Ekcre, Xunvundelay.”

Xandulun may have unknowingly opened a connection to spirits of other times and planes, which added the needed power to the spell. The motion of the Dragonhorde began to slow as they were pulled out of time. Xandulun fervently fought to remember the rest of the spell in order to cast them into the time of earth’s beginning, but he could not. The dragon on point, still moving at an infinitesimal rate of speed continued the cessation of movement, finally slowing to an abrupt halt, while still perched in midair, inches from Xandulun’s face.

The Dragonhorde were now living monuments, encased in time, translucent in their physicality, so that the townsfolk could easily walk through the image of their once corporeal form. The dragons were now frozen between two ages, unable to move, imprisoned for time without end.

Xandulun was unable to complete the spell and thereby powerless to fling the Dragonhorde backward in time to earth’s age of fire. Yet it seemed better this way, for the townspeople of Velderon were hopeful now. The terror had passed and the people had a symbol this day that epitomizes the following most somber truth; that any righteous and brave soul, may if they will, deliver others in distress, by conquering first their own fears, which is by all means…the enemies of us all.


[align=center]The End[/align]




CASSIE'S BURDEN



The flashing red and blue crawled on the shop windows like maggots on a carcass.

“Are you sure you don’t want one of these?”

Officer Cassie LaPorte stared down at the hand of her new partner, a grizzled map, lined and weathered with hard edges and rough energy. He offered her the butt-end of a Glock 9 mm, shiny and black like a piece of hard candy.

“I can’t carry, I’m sensitive… thaumaphasia.” The word settled in her throat like an apology, and that angered her.

He grunted and re-swaddled the spare in the small of his back. “Suit yourself. My last partner carried; just couldn’t hit a horse in the ass with the tail between his teeth.”

Cassie stiffened. Obviously Roholt had little emotional attachment to his partners, at least the spell-casting ones. That was fine. Cassie faced the glare of a jaundiced eye before; she was young, she was a woman, and she was a witch. Now she was a cop, so it was unanimous, she was hated in all quarters. But appearances to the contrary, she was as steeled as a bag of six penny nails.

Roholt tipped his own gun twice toward the alley like a top hat, then marched off.

Cassie walked up to the front door of the shop and paused, her hand on the old cold blackened brass of the handle. The cold was electric and heightened her senses. She mentally ticked off her spells, then opened the door. An old fashioned bell jingled and she cringed, but all else was quiet, dust-covered, and death-like.

The shop was called Hex, Tome, Knack and Other Bric-a-brac. The interior was narrow, the outer walls lined with dust-smothered tomes. A narrow aisle ran straight to the back between glassed-in cases, tables, and displays of antiquarian fodder. The lights were out and everything was crouched in shadow. Cassie felt like a decoy. She listened. A distant crackle, like the forgotten too-familiar chirp of a cricket in the corner caught her attention. It came from the back room. She murmured some words of warding and moved forward.

The door to the storage room was ajar, and a faint glow outlined its angles. Cassie could hear a muffled voice speaking in the repetitive chant of incantation.

Slowly she pushed the door and looked inside. The store room was larger than she anticipated and littered with crates and more cases and shelves. But in the middle of the room, poised above an old man on the floor, was a man dressed in robes and a cowl and clutching an antique statuette. Cassie realized it was just some punk, a gang member. Only hoodlums wore wizard hoods: that’s how they got their name. But this wasn’t some wannabe, he was speaking real sorcery.

Training kicked in. She began to speak a spell of disruption. In a moment the punk would be babbling on the floor under her power.

And then the thug cracked the old man across the brow with the statuette and ended his spell with a shrill exclamation. A void opened in the air behind his head and a hideous thing appeared. It floated and was larger than the man. It was a ball of red tentacles, sticky and constantly writhing, like a pail full of worms. And from moment to moment underneath the tentacles mouths filled with needle-like teeth and eyes of odd disproportionate sizes would appear and then disappear again, as if a hundred disassembled faces were palpitating behind a curtain.

Cassie’s spell was lost. She had been surprised by the horror in the room and now she was panicking. This was way over her head. She knew the smart thing to do was to pull out and call for backup.

Then she heard Roholt bark from the other side of the room.

“Police! On the floor. Now!”

The punk turned at the sound and pointed with the statuette. The thing sailed across the room. Roholt fired, then screamed. Frozen, Cassie stared as the thing cracked Roholt’s ribs like a cage of brittle lath. Roholt’s head had lolled to the side, his eyes fluttered, and his tongue hung out dripping saliva. The worm-like tentacles both suspended his body in mid-air and worked methodically to pluck his organs out, like a child pulling apart a clockwork toy. Chunk-by-chunk it fed bits of the police officer’s intestines, liver, kidneys, lungs to the ravenous mouths that surfaced in the mass of tentacles like hungry piranhas each tentacle pausing only long enough for the odd eye to examine briefly each morsel.

The speed of the death buffeted Cassie. Nausea punched her in the gut; a cold sweat slapped her in the face. She wanted to run. She wished she’d taken the gun. It wouldn’t have misfired like she had.

Then she noticed how the hoodlum’s motions telegraphed the motions of the beast, like a puppeteer’s fingers weaving in the air. The implication hit her with another wave of sickness. This hideous thing was just a giant meat puppet. The punk was actually directing its every move. This wannabe piece of shit had murdered her partner; the thing was just his weapon of choice. And then she saw the chance to save herself.

She glanced from side to side looking for something heavy to use as a weapon. She reached out and snatched at a dusty wooden duck from a box of junk on a shelf. Charging, she threw herself with all her might into the room and swinging the decoy, she cracked the thug across the head just as he was turning... surprised. Her body rammed into his, but he collapsed to the floor like a bag of bones completely unconscious.

Cassie looked up ready to face the writhing death with everything she had, but all she saw was a shrinking ripple in the air like a cooling current of convection.

And with that Cassie knew that she would carry Roholt’s death with her every day from then on.


[align=center]The End[/align]




Wiz Bang



Justin sat at his cluttered desk, watching the servant who was building up the fire in his tower chamber. “Jen, you could do that so much easier if you’d let me teach you a few things.”

“No sir, and you know the cook would have my head if she thought I was using cantrips in the kitchen,” the girl replied pertly. She rose to dust his shelves, handling odd knickknacks carefully.

“But it’s so easy.” He wheedled, stepping up to catch her around the waist. She giggled, holding the wooden duck decoy, and turned to steal a kiss. “It’s all in the wrist – see?” With a show of drama, he flicked his fingers at the half melted candles on the mantle, then frowned. “Let me show you that one again.” Irritation turned into badly hidden panic as none of his hand waving created a single spark. He strode to the fireplace. “This is just wrong! You haven’t been… oh, no.” Justin staggered back to his chair, holding a small, crudely made doll.

“What is it, sir?” Jen peered at the queer thing curiously. “Is that was went wrong?”

“It’s a poppet. Someone’s cursed me with a poppet, and crippled my magic, dammit!” His voice rose to a howl. He slammed it onto the desk.

Jen backed nervously towards the door. “I’ll finish cleaning later, should I?”

He waved a hand at her absently, staring at the doll. She grabbed her rags and bucket. “Wait. Jen, please.”

She paused by the door and looked at him nervously. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but this is a disaster. I don’t know who would have done this.”

A loud knock at the door startled them both. “The king wants to see you. Sir.” The sneering courtier sniffed and walked out without waiting.

Justin sighed and swept the poppet into a cluttered drawer. “I think I may be about to find out, however.”

He hurried, as the king’s temper was always chancy. “Wizard Justin, we have a task for you.” The king gestured grandly at the cowled stranger by his throne. “We have a challenger, one who thinks he can demand our throne from us. We know, of course, that you are more than equal to any challenge. As your king’s champion, are you prepared to put this man in his place?”

Justin bowed and declared, “I am at your majesty’s disposal. Would this stranger care to show his face before honest men?”

The tall figure swept the cowl back, smirking. “If I thought there might be any such here, Wizard Justin,” he said with a wealth of sarcasm, “I would not have bothered to come. I do challenge you to a wizard’s duel.”

“I accept. We shall meet in one hour in the courtyard. I am sure his majesty can find you someone to stand as your second – unless you have any friends who might do you the service?” Justin made a show of looking around the room. “I thought not. One hour, then.” Justin bowed deeply to the king, turned on his heel, and walked out.

He fled back to his tower room. “Jen, Jen! You’ve got to help me!” He burst through the door. The girl jumped back, alarmed. “You’re the only person in this pile of stones with even a spark of magic, and I’m about to go into a wizard’s duel at the king’s command. I need you for my second, please!” He grabbed her arm and looked at her pleadingly.

“Your second, sir?” She looked bewildered. “Don’t you need another wizard for that? That’s what my mum’s stories say.”

“Not necessarily, but it does help. You could be a wizard, Jen.” He grinned broadly. “In fact, would you like to be? Wouldn’t you rather be my apprentice than scrub floors?” He kicked her bucket. “Help me and the king would be willing to grant us much more than that!” His face fell. “I’m not sure we can win, though. The only magic the curse leaves me are illusions, and those are hard to pull off against someone who expects them.”

“Sir?” Jen said hesitantly. “What kind of illusions? Like, fire and bugs and things the way it is in the stories?” He nodded, distracted. “I may have an idea.”

The courtyard was empty when the king’s champions walked in, though many couriers peeked out of windows. Wizards’ duels were never a safe spectator sport. The challenger stood arrogantly by the entrance, leaning on a carved staff.

“I was about to give up on you, Wizard Justin. I expected no better from the champion… here.” He waved his hand, encompassing everything in sight, including the terrified priest pressed against the wall behind him.

“I’m not surprised you were about to give up, stranger. I expect no better from you.” Justin sneered, bolstering his bravado. He strode to the center of the yard. Jen trailed behind, staying out of his way. “Let’s settle this before you give up altogether.” He struck a theatrical pose, swinging his staff up to guard.

The challenger laughed, and lunged at him. The next few minutes were a blur of light and shadow as the two sparred, but Justin fell steadily back. The stranger scowled. “You make this too easy, whelp. I am tired of it.” Lightning crackled from his hands, but Justin leaped back and escaped.

As the stranger stalked towards him, Justin yelled “NOW!” and Jen threw the firepot she’d hidden in her skirts. Instantaneously, Justin threw an illusion of the fiercest fire he could conjure as the oil soaked ground under the challenger’s feet burst into flames.

The man hardly had time to shriek before he had become a living pillar of flame, and the pair ran for safety as the priest prudently fled.

Jubilant, Justin swept Jen off her feet. “Already my apprentice has defeated a master wizard – no one can disbelieve that they’re burning up when their feet are on fire!”


[align=center]The End[/align]




DUCK DUCK Mouse



“OK girl, how’d I get myself into this mess? I was working a computer potion to make myself stronger, more agile in order to prove myself. I don’t want to fail.” And, Using The System was forbidden.

“I never listen. I really screwed up BIG THIS TIME.”

NOVA calls for assistance; all she hears is, “meow.”

“Am I in another dimension? It looks the same to me. BUT…… I’m…tiny. I have…. 4 feet and…. THEY’RE ALL FURRY. Where’s a mirror damn it? Oh MY, I’m supposed to be a tall red headed woman/witch not a chocolate brown tabby. No-no-no . I’m asleep and this is a bad dream.”

“Salmon, I smell salmon, yummy.”

“Prurr?”

“What’s all this? I live in a house with some crazy humans?”

“Listen,” I say. “I’m not a cat! I’m a witch. Look, I screwed up and I’m in your cat’s body. God knows what your cat is doing in mine. See, I’ll pull my fur out. What normal cat does that?”

“I’ll wake you up every morning at the same time, even with your idiotic time changes. What cat knows that? “Your computer, I’ll hit the delete key on you. That I can do. PLEEEEZE listen to me. You’ve got to help me get back to my world. I don’t belong here, pleeeeze. I don’t want to die here.”

All that comes out is a screechy MEEEEEEEEOW.

“This is not good.”

“MY” human, a model maker and wood carver looks at me with a questioning face. “Nova, what’s wrong with you? Why are you pulling your fur out? You’re a beautiful tabby.”





“Hey wife, why it is the most beautiful women are the nuttiest? Answer me that. You’re incredibly beautiful and I think you’re nuts”

“She’s a girl and so am I. Get used to it”, comes a reply with a laugh.


He mumbles something about having this crazy cat that keeps playing with his computer, pulling her fur and waking him up at 1 AM and 5:30 AM every morning.

“Get this; she wants me to follow her to the computer! Wacko beast.”

“I no wacko. I’m a witch and I want back home NOW. Boohoo.”

“MEOOOOOOOW.”

_____________________________

“He’s designing some sort of decoy for his computer controlled manufacturing work. I heard him mention that a hunting club liked his one-off decoy of a Mallard. He’s making a bunch of duck decoys for them.

Maybe, just maybe, if he leaves the computer on I can either work a spell, or if I must, leave him a message? The second idea is dangerous. Only select humans are to ever know of our existence. The first has never been allowed. The nature of the computer is such that the emphasis needed in the voice incantations is not possible. He doesn’t have voice activation. All I can do is meow, growl and purr. Sort of like life only less so.”


The head wizard said no computers until we can make it “understand” what is said, what is IMPLIED, and is safe. Yes, we are still in the “stone ages.”

“Give the humans time and we’ll be able to use their tools in way they never imagined. But Now, NO, and I mean it, NO Computer spell casting.” He pointed his wand especially at our table. We were the class screw ups. We all knew it. Remembering, I had to giggle.

“Purr!”

I think about the fact the human knows my name. Co-inkiy-Dinks?






________________________




It’s late. “Let’s see, spell casting words, push ENTER. Careful your paws are big, you goof.” The lights blink and the computer reboots.

“Run, hide.”

“He’s still asleep. That was close. Ok, let’s just play with His system. Let me carve my name on his stupid duck decoys.”

“Pretty bird”
“Yummy”
“ What?

“When I get on the computer maybe I can figure out what to do. I’ll have to try a basic spell: move a pen. I need to see how this is going to work if at all. I sat on his desk while he worked. I have a good idea now. We have WYZARD’s Operating Systems in our world. This is a piece of mouse. Of mouse? I meant cake.”

“OK tomorrow when he runs the first prototype my name should be on the bottom of the duck decoys. I hope it works. I’m tired and need to stretch. He’s warm, let me curl up beside him. It’s 3 AM. I bust his chops in a few hours. HA!”

“Purr!”


I’m in the kitchen eating and I hear:
“Hey wife I must have been tired, I put NOVA’s name is on the bottom of the duck decoys. I think I’ll leave it”.

“Ok that works. Now go out go to your coffee shop while she goes to her job. Good, go. Now I’m free to work this.”

“Ok let’s try the pencil move again.”

ENTER

“It moves!”

“Ok, now a book off the shelf. Damn the whole shelf fell down. I have to figure out how to fix this mess. What was the room cleaning spell?”

“He’s home, hide! I’m going to be stuck here and die a CAT. Why me? Boohoo.”

A yowl is all that escapes my fanged mouth.

“NOVA, You damned cat. What’s got into you?”


______________________


That evening NOVA sneaks into the computer room again.

“OK I have to do this. No usual screw ups. Remember THE spells. I spent all day alone repeating them to myself. I will paw them in; add the new side bar notes and all the while thinking the spell at the same time, WITH FEELING.”

ENTER

______________________________________

“NOVA?”

“NOVA!!!!!!”

“You did it. We figured you’d be the ONLY one to do it especially after we explicitly said not to.

“OR, as usual, you’d be stuck where ever you put yourself,” said WYZARD, “Probably for ever”

“Sorry, but your clothes are in tatters. The cat never got used to your body.”

“What’s with that duck thing?”


[align=center]The End[/align]




The Wicked Witch



The dead wooden eyes of the mahogany mallard seemed to track her as it floated slowly down the meandering river. Dorothea shook her head. The water was calm and gentle here, but just beyond this small, sweet oxbow of the waterway, sharp rocks formed violent rapids. Some poor huntsman just lost his favorite duck decoy, she thought.

“Isn't duck a gamy bird?” asked the old knight as his steel garb squeaked up to her. His huge battleaxe clanked against his back. The old Paladin wore an all-encompassing suit of armor. Small reddish-brown spots of rust marred many of its creaky joints. “I suppose,” she replied.

“Grrr Arrraghh,” came the roar from the lion-man upon the forgotten path they trekked through the woods. Its mangled mane hung in dreadlocks. It bounded upon four legs until it came to her, then it stood, shakily, upon just two. It opened a fanged mouth to speak. “I sniffed out the trail.”

If she could have mastered the four winds, she would have whisked herself home. She was just a simple magic user, the castle's potion concocter, student alchemist at times, and midwife when required. (She knew the herbs that stilled the mother's pain of childbirth without injuring the one to be born.) Prince Brodigan had offered his knights and wizards for their task, but Sir Caspian said he had his own fellowship. Some group – four strangers lost in this enchanted forest. A dark, cold and unpleasant place. Or no longer lost as the lion-man had sussed the way.

“Then we should go,” said the fourth member of their fellowship, a clerk of the chancery. He wore a blue suit with golden buttons and even golder epaulets. A dark Inverness cloak hung down his back.

Dorothea slipped her maroon hood over her blonde hair, and wrapped her cape about her shoulders. We left no breadcrumbs, she thought as they moved.

[center]***[/center]

Four heavily muscled gorillas led them into the witch's chamber. The beasts' wide leathery wings flapped reflexively as they pushed the company to their knees. They had been captured outside the witch's tower. The witch stood before them. A handsome woman, Dorothea thought, but something seemed just left of center about her. The woman wore a flowing black dress. The loose clothing failed to hide the womanly curves beneath.

“I have followed your journey through my eyes of the forest.” The witch rubbed a wooden statue of a ruddy falcon. Dorothea recalled other statues they had seen in the forest: not just the duck, but the 'make believe' squirrel, complete with acorn, that the lion-man had pointed out to her.

The clerk stood up. “We require a love potion.”

“I have nine. What do you offer in recompense?” the witch asked. Her skin was pale, so pale, so nonhuman; it had an olive complexion.

“Forty pieces of Elven silver,” replied the clerk. “Rare in this hinterland.”

“I've seen silver before. And greater treasures!” the witch snarled. “But that may do, nonetheless.” She took a vial from a pocket within her long gown.

Dorothea took the flask and threw its contents upon the witch. “You will love Sir Caspian and wish him no harm!” she commanded with all of her magical power, force and will. The witch cackled back at her.

“But I do love him, my sweets, and I do wish him harm. I have loved since we went upon our own quest in a desert land far away to defeat the Old Wizard Under the Mountain. We fell in love as we trekked and fought our way through. He said his heart was mine. Forever. And today he takes that trollop for a trophy bride?”

Dorothea felt her lips shift into a frown. Not only had the charm failed, but she tried to imagine her lord with this creature before her. What times or perils had thrown them together? What monsters and trials had allowed love to bloom? Though it seemed not to have flowered...

“Clarissa is a princess,” replied the clerk. He spoke the truth; the girl was Brodigan's daughter, and the King's niece.

“A genetic misconception. Her father's lust for a serving wench, no doubt.”

“She is a princess!” replied the clerk. The witch raised her clawed talons. Dorothea stepped forward.

“I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dogs too.” Dorothea felt the cone of force form, the magical call to the four daughters of Aeolus.

“Aire! Slán agat orm,” Dorothea whispered, infusing her fear and hope with the ancient words. Her quickly spun counter-spell shunted the effects away from her. Barely. Her companions had been blown across the room, and into the back, brick wall. How could she combat such magic and power?

“I confess to you our plan failed.” Dorothea paused, glancing at the clerk. “Failed miserably. We hoped to make you love our lord, and wish him well. I see you don't. And that you do. We believed your magics would work, would suffice. For love should not be about harm. Or jealousy. Or hate. Can you say true love cannot do what your charms can do?”

“Yes, my lovely, I can; however I may not. Tell me my dear, have you loved?”

“Yes.”

“Not one of these?” the witch asked disdainfully.

“No. A squire, nearly a knight. He is on the Crusade.”

“Oh, the Crusade. Most impressive. What if some Saracen seraglio girl or Jewess finds his eye? Is more comely? Has his true love?”

“Then, ” Dorothea started, closing her eyes, forcing away briny tears, “his love was not true. I will...” She gasped for a breath. “Will wish him well. Happiness at least.”

“Your words fail to convince; however I can see the conviction behind the syllables.”

“Give dear Caspian this for a wedding present.” She handed her a wooden duck, much like – if not the same – as the decoy she saw on the trail. “Have him keep it in his hunting den, not the master bedroom.

“Now Go!”


[align=center]The End[/align]

[kailhofer]

Voting has now closed.

It's a tie!

Congratulations to Richard Tornello and G.C Dillon, winners of the "Discount Magic" Challenge, for the stories "DUCK DUCK Mouse" & "The Wicked Witch".


For the record, these were the authors of the stories this month:

Dragon by Casey Callaghan
The Dragonhorde by Mark Edgemon
CASSIE'S BURDEN by J. Davidson Hero
Wiz Bang by Larissa March
DUCK DUCK Mouse by Richard Tornello
The Wicked Witch by G.C. Dillon


Thank you to each of these writers. Your continued time and effort makes these contests possible.


Be looking for the "Unhappy Holidays" Challenge on December 5th!

[kailhofer]

One vote per person, no?

RT

Yes. One vote per member.

[kailhofer]

To Nate:

Don't chastise me for my devil's advocacy. We already have a duel pending.

Hero

Hmm... Fine. I believe my second is waiting your second's call to set up the particulars.


I think you had a good point about parodying the Wizard of Oz. You have limited words to work with, so any time you can take a short cut it helps.

However... in hindsight, I wasn't super overjoyed with that shortcut. It could be argued that it was fanfic. Humorous and well-done, I say, but borderline in acceptability. G.C. asked about it when it was submitted, and I allowed it. There was no hard rule against it, and it wasn't the first time in an entry.

In future, if you want a shortcut, it will have to be a stereotype or referencing a commonly used place or situation or some such point. I'm not comfortable with parody in these unless it is to be a deliberate parody challenge. I've changed the rules for next time to reflect that.

That should help keep things more even between all the entrants, so that you all have to build with the same tools.

Nate

[kailhofer]

Mister Hero is quite a detective.

This might help explain why Duck Duck Mouse received 4 votes in one hour the first day of the contest!

It sounds like Hero isn't the only one doing his homework.

Welcome to the forum!

Nate

[kailhofer]

Nate wrote:

It could be argued that it was fanfic. Humorous and well-done, I say, but borderline in acceptability.

Hmm... that hadn't occurred to me. I didn't really consider the story parody as CCC did when I read it. I don't think Dillon was making fun of the Oz characters as you would in a parody, I think he was using a variation of characters who culturally seem to be approaching archetype (maybe that's too strong a word here).

And considering the fact that most of Frank Baum's original Oz stories are in the public domain and that anyone can incorporate those characters into a new work I wouldn't really consider it fan fiction either. If that is the case, then all the steampunk stories out there that like to use public domain Victorian era characters like Sherlock Holmes, or Allan Quatermain most notably Alan Moore's The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen or Kim Newman's Anno Dracula would also be fan fiction.

And Oz has been reused by many accomplished scifi writers in their works such as Philip Jose Farmer in A Barnstormer in Oz and Heinlein in The Number of the Beast.

I suppose in some cases some of these stories could be considered pastiche as in the case of volumes of new Sherlock Holmes stories written after Arthur Conan Doyle, or August Derleth's Cthulhu mythos stories following Lovecraft, but I wouldn't consider any of it fan fiction. I think the term is too pejorative and doesn't apply in the case of G.C. Dillon's story either.

However, it's not really my case to make, and you are the "decider" when it comes to the rules in future flash contests. I just thought it was a fun point to discuss.

Hero

I quite agree, enjoyable to discuss, especially with a full virtual room of compatriots in this great endeavor, all of them interested in the craft required to create the same kind of stories.

Only a great fool completely dismisses the wishes of their marketplace, in this case, you folks. A little dismissal is following your creative vision. Complete dismissal is suicide. Therefore, I think it's wise to not to impose unilaterally without at least explaining. (Honestly, I'd prefer to know there's something like a consensus amongst the contributors.)

I think something like a wicked witch is fine. That's like referencing a superhero. Doesn't instantly make you think of Superman, but gets the point across. People understand that just fine. However, combine The Wicked Witch with a lion man, a woman named Dorothea, and her little dog, too, and I don't think that's pastiche anymore. At some nebulous point in between it crossed a line. Public domain characters or not--it's just not in the same category as all the rest of the stories, which puts things on an uneven keel, IMO, when it comes to voting for a favorite.

As the person making the judgments, I really don't want to have to debate hard on every entry as to in or out. You and your esteemed cohorts already make that difficult enough. Given that, I'd prefer to avoid the nebulosity of that style of writing as much as possible.

However, I'm not a tyrant. If someone can make a good case why this style of writing (whatever it really should be called--fanfic, pastiche, parody, or something else), I'll change the rules back for next time.

[kailhofer]

Nate,

I'd be interested to know if historical persons can be used to write fictional accounts concerning moments of their lives. Like for instance, could I write a story about an unhappy Christmas experience had by Abe Lincoln a month before he was sworn in as president or a special present given to Carl Sagan as a child like a telescope that started his legacy of outer space exploration.

Mark

I would prefer to leave something like that for a separate historical fiction challenge, so the answer would be no. However, trying a historical fiction one sounds like fun, so I've added it to the list for future challenges. Great suggestion.

It never hurts to have some ideas in mind, but trying to guess what the challenge is before it is announced is a risky venture. You may wind up with something unusable, especially without knowing what extra requirements may be thrown in. Suppose I said you had to include a Walmart store. Hard to put Honest Abe there.

In an entirely separate topic, nobody else saw the journey you undertook before coming up with your final version this challenge, so I thought this might be a good chance to tap your fellow writers for some technique advice. I applaud your efforts to include more of the senses and more effectively ground the story. I thought it took a little away in emotional impact, but made the events more real. I also thought you worked really hard on it.

However, since a major goal of these challenges is to help everyone improve their art, rather than discuss this privately, I'm going to throw this out to "the class" for their opinions. I hope you don't mind.

I didn't vote for it because I thought there was too much telling vs. showing. I was curious if others agreed with that, and if so, did anyone have some advice on how it could have been avoided?

[Robert_Moriyama]

Um, how about this?

A passage that says "Joe Blow was a brilliant man, and courageous beyond measure. Everybody loved and admired him." would be "telling". The reader is handed information as third-hand, accepted knowledge.

A passage that says

"Joe Blow needed only seconds to calculate the trajectory of the lava flow and to realize that there was no way that the hospital could be evacuated in time. It seemed that there was no way to save the bed-ridden patients from a fiery death... But then he spotted the backhoe across the street, where a crew installing new sewer pipes had abandoned it in the first moments of the eruption. His heavy-equipment skills were a little rusty, and there was no way to be sure that he could divert enough of the flow in time, but he had to try, no matter what the risk."

SHOWS us that he's bright enough to know or be able to estimate the speed of the lava flow and its likely path, and brave enough to put himself in harm's way for the sake of others.

Or

"She loved him more than life itself." (Telling)

versus

"When she saw the bloody knife directed toward her husband, instinct made her leap into the narrowing gap between the madman and the only man she had ever loved. When the blade slammed hilt-deep into her chest, her only regret was that this might be the end of their time together..." (Showing. Unfortunately, something like this just happened in Toronto.)

Or

The Galactic Empire was founded on evil, and by evil it stood and prospered.

versus

"Commence the bombardment," General Harvus said. "The Emperor wants the rebels to see the consequences of resistance."

"But sir -- there is nothing down there but farmland. Mostly women and children, with so many of the men off to join the fighting."

Harvus nodded coldly. "My point -- and the Emperor's point -- exactly."

(Okay -- all those who think my examples suck, post better ones so ye Editor can finally learn the difference!)

RM

[kailhofer]

Okay, how about this! Can we use an actual person living today and write a fictional account about their life?

Mark

That sounds a little too much like begging for a lawsuit. No.

[kailhofer]

And to follow up Mark's line of questioning to Nate, can we use fictional characters that aren't from literary works like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, or would that be considered Holiday fanfic?

Hero

They would be fine, and Santa made a few appearances in last December's challenge. If you were to ask my children 3 or 4 years ago, the Easter Bunny was not only real, I had spoken to him. (I told them the EB had told me all the eggs were hidden on the main floor of the house, so they didn't need to look in the basement.)

Of course, my kids were the only ones to remember this, so a few years later when someone said just ask the Easter Bunny, and I said, "No one can talk to the Easter Bunny."--I was busted.

[kailhofer]

Any time an extra requirement is given, I'd always try to make it integral to the story. Just a suggestion.

After thinking about it for a couple of days, I think I have gotten into a pattern of writing as a storyteller and I'm not sure what showing a story means.

What are the elements that turns a story being told to a story being shown?

I would really like to know instead of continuing to guess at it.

Mark

Robert had some fair examples, but I don't think they really go far enough. I prefer to "show" by having the characters experience it in the moment (but I'm not perfect at it, either). His last one was best.

Some new ones:

Johanna was cold. (Telling)

Johanna wrapped the shawl tighter over her shoulders and rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. (showing & experiencing--the reader has to figure out cold by themselves, but it's obvious)

Carl was afraid, but cast the spell anyway. (Telling)

Shaking hands opened his thin book and found the spell for opening doors. He placed one trembling hand on the knocker, and the high-pitched squeak that was supposed to be his voice read, "Agor!" (showing & experiencing)

And let's see if I can improve on Robert's...

"She loved him more than life itself." (Telling)

versus

"When she saw the bloody knife directed toward her husband, instinct made her leap into the narrowing gap between the madman and the only man she had ever loved. When the blade slammed hilt-deep into her chest, her only regret was that this might be the end of their time together..."

Knife! Johanna felt her body moving on its own, jumping in front of her husband's unprotected back.

Her eyes bulged unnaturally, locked on the hilt protruding from her sweater. So much blood.

"Bob!"

He caught her as she fell backward to the floor, but before he could begin to shout for help, her hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled him close.

Soundlessly, she whispered, "I hope we can... I--I wish..."

The wish didn't come.

"Johanna!"


Anyhow, that's just off the top of my head.


As to outlining, you have to go with what works for you. I don't. I have an idea of where I would like the story to go (sometimes a definite destination), and then set sail. If I figure out all the steps in between, I stop being able to write the story. It's no longer fun.

Nate

[kailhofer]

Since when does a rabbit lay eggs? Hard boiled ones at that? Have any of your children broached that subject? Mine did.

RT

We told them, "Of course he doesn't lay them. That's why we all color eggs together the day before, so he can hide the ones we colored for him."

Did you color them yourselves and then surprise them? Or were you one of those plastic egg people? (Of course, I could kick myself for not being one of those. Plastic eggs don't spoil, so you don't have to get up extra early in the morning and hide them. Plastic ones could be placed before you go to bed.)

[Robert_Moriyama]

A new twist on the Romance genre...

And, of course, everything is heightened by the setting (a dark and stormy night). Plus she makes one of those "Last Action Hero" incredible recoveries (it was, after all, only a flesh wound) and pokes out the eye of the villain, who is NOT ONLY a crazed knife-wielding killer, but a peeping Tom (or possibly Mark?) to boot.

(Mark left out the denouement where she does boot him, repeatedly, until his remaining eye pops out of its socket. New genre -- splatter-rom! (Not quite as exciting as the zom-rom-com (zombie romantic comedy, of which "Shaun of the Dead" and possibly "Fido" may be the only examples), but close.))

[Robert_Moriyama]

Oh ye of little faith.

'Hero' wife slain trying to save spouse

...Leslie Kelly, 26, was killed as she dove in front of the knife to save her husband's life. Rick Kelly, 29, and two of their three children were taken to hospital with stab wounds.

"She's a hero - I mean, she saved him," said Dave McLean, Rick's uncle, who was also wounded in the attack...


http://www.thestar.com/article/546302

[kailhofer]

"She... frightened by the reality that her love affair would soon end on a blood soaked street during this rainy evening in December. Out of fear and regret for her lack of intimacy with the one true love now soon extinguished, she abandoned her inhibitions and grabbed her lover by the hair in back of his head and forcefully began kissing him...

Mark

You realize this first part is still thick with telling, right?

The rest was much more in the moment. If nothing else, it certainly did take a stab at it.

[Robert_Moriyama]

Mark Edgemon wrote:

Okay, how about this! Can we use an actual person living today and write a fictional account about their life?

Mark

Nate wrote:

That sounds a little too much like begging for a lawsuit. No.

Nate, I know our discussion here is slightly academic about appropriate subjects for the flash contest, but isn't the example which Robert brought us a real life event that the three of you have fictionalized. Have you never written a story with characters based on people in your own life?

Hero

One difference is that I did not use any names, and did not follow the specific details of the real story, so the situation was SUGGESTED by the real event (like yer typical "Law and Order" torn-from-the-headlines story).

If you use a living person, or a relatively-recently-deceased person whose relatives or descendants are still around to object to your speculation, you can get into trouble. Now, Harry Turtledove uses historical figures, but puts them in an alternate-history context, so their actions are clearly fictional. If you have Lincoln smoking opium before he delivers the Gettysburg Address, you are placing a REAL person in a REAL context, and therefore implying that your speculative depiction might also be real. (And, of course, even tighter restrictions apply to copyrighted and/or trademarked characters. Beware the wrath of Disney! Their legal staff are anything but -- ahem -- Mickey Mouse.)

RM

[kailhofer]

Nate wrote

You realize this first part is still thick with telling, right?

No, I didn't realize it. How was it telling and not showing? If I can't see the difference, I will not be able to do it.

Also, can a story have both telling and showing or does it have to be one or the other?

Mark

I see there's already been a number of comments on this so I won't go into the hows and whys.

Absolutely, there will still be telling. None of us can get away from it. In fact, a style or narration point of view may require telling. Plus, all of us need to skip to the good bit from time to time. After all, it can't take 3,000 words to cross a room and scratch your head. Not very often, anyhow.

Showing is a good way to focus attention and absorb the audience into the story as if they were a participant instead of just reading. Too much of either extreme is bad.

[kailhofer]

Nate, I know our discussion here is slightly academic about appropriate subjects for the flash contest, but isn't the example which Robert brought us a real life event that the three of you have fictionalized. Have you never written a story with characters based on people in your own life?

Hero

Yes, I have. "Alligator Tears" in the Aug. '05 issue was rather allegorical. And just a reassurance, "Another Sarah" in the June '05 issue was not.

In the Free Skate Challenge, writers were asked to take a memory from real life and remake it in a specfic way, changing the names and places to protect the innocent. However, that is not the same as taking my next door neighbor by name and inventing a day in his life. Or Poe. Or Lincoln. Or a current celebrity.

I am just razzing Nate a bit.

How did that old commercial go? It's not nice to fool with Mother Nature? Then there was always lightning bolt that followed. Good precedent.

Sure, Nate's challenges, Nate's rules. I've tried really hard to adhere to the requirements of the challenges that I've participated in. That's why I struggled with the (lame Wink ) duck idea this month.

As I recall the duck decoy was picked because my extended family was discussing the ones made by my sister's boyfriend, who happens to carve them as art objects for good money, when I was writing up the challenge in August. (As an aside, my kids & niece suggested all the major elements in my example story, and challenged me to use them all.)

If I made it easy, would you all have tried so hard?

Nate

[kailhofer]

I'm hoping to steal a little time to enter whatever Nate's next nattering nabob of nonsense turns out to be.

Bill Wolfe

Well, it won't be alliteration, but it will be up in a little bit!

[kailhofer]

Nope.

That particular wallflower read it right after it was read, and liked it. Plus, I was still in college. What did I know back then?