In November and January, entrants to this contest set out to create a story opener of a thousand words that would be gripping enough to continue in this part of the challenge, and then follow that with another thousand words of "middle" action. Now it's time for the "Vanishing" conclusion.
Who of you out there is willing to take up the challenge? So far in any of the multi-part challenges, no 1st part winner has ever won the following part. I'm saying both Bill or Michele don't have any lock on this, folks. They're going to have to earn it, if they can. Put your creativity caps on and beat them. I know you can do it, and frankly, after all the smack they've been talking, they deserve it.
It will be fun. Give it a try!
A copy of Michele's and Bill's stories are at the end of this post.
RULES
CHALLENGE REQUIREMENTS: (1) Your story piece must attempt to conclude the saga of "The Vanishing Stone" as written by Michele Dutcher for the November 2010 challenge and Bill Wolfe's continuation for the January 2011 challenge, "Vanishing Returns", as they appeared here in the Aphelion forum; (2) Characters and settings used in the previous parts may be used again by all entrants, but it is not required so long as the reader can see an obvious continuation. (Obvious to me as Judge, that is.); (3) One entry per author; and (4) This is a Rated 'PG-13' challenge. (Basically, think, "Could I see or hear this on CSI?" If so, it's ok.)
FORMATTING: 1,000 words or less, not counting title, byline, or "The End". Give your story a title and a byline. Leave an extra line between paragraphs, just like when you see them in the 'zine. I will allow different colors, but not changed fonts or sizes, artwork, or any other embedded or external links. You are responsible for doing your own formatting.
CHARACTERS & SETTING: No copyrighted characters or settings, or references thereto. Famous, non-copyrighted fictional characters like Santa Claus, or religious figures such as the Devil, named angels such as Gabriel, or gods like Thor, etc. as supporting characters at best and at my discretion. The Wicked Witch and Dracula may be in the public domain, but don't expect me to allow them. No person that was ever a "real life" human being may be used as a character, but can be referred to, as in "President Kennedy had declared it would be so." Except as noted above under non-copyrighted fictional persons, character names may not be copied from fiction or real life, even if changed, i.e. Char-les Darween. All non-copyrighted settings are ok. Famous, unique sites like Stonehenge may be used over and again. No fan fiction, so don't bother putting your story in the Land of Oz or that great place you thought up two challenges ago (unless you're Michele or Bill, in this case).
DISQUALIFICATIONS/REFUSALS: If, in my judgment, any requirement or rule is missed, I won't post the story for voting, but authors are free to resubmit with changes until the deadline. Should a story be initially accepted and posted in the challenge, but then later judged by me to be in violation, the story may be disqualified and removed from contention at any time prior to contest end. Authors who feel a story may be in violation should send me a PM and state their case.
HOW TO ENTER: Stories must be sent by PRIVATE MESSAGE, and NOT posted into a thread. Just click the 'PM' button at the bottom of this post and paste your story in the message.
DO NOT send a regular email to me.
CONTEST PROCEDURE: Stories will be posted "blind"--without the author's name on them. All the story titles are literally tossed into a pith helmet and chosen at in random order. When the poll closes after the voting week, I'll post a list of the stories and who wrote them. The winner is chosen based on total points scored. All entries are reposted in the Flash Archive with the author's byline included after the challenge is concluded.
Entries from new authors are strongly encouraged. C'mon. Give it a try!
NOTE: ONLY REGISTERED MEMBERS who have posted at least one message may submit a story. Without that one post, the system may not let you send a PM.
DEADLINE: Stories should be in by 9 p.m. Central Standard Time (GMT-6), Sunday, March 27, 2011. These story "endings" will then be posted for voting about 10 p.m. Voting will close on Sunday, April 3, 2011 at 9 p.m., GMT-6.
NEW! VOTING: Readers will vote for their favorite. One vote per user (that is, per IP address), and authors may vote for their own story, if they feel it truly deserves it.
If more than two stories are tied at the end of voting, there will be a succession of one-day runoff votes until a single winner is chosen or the number of winners is reduced to two.
WHAT YOU WIN: Writers get improved short fiction skills, increasing their chances in the marketplace, without the lengthy investment in time a longer story would take. That, as well as bragging rights and pride--there is stiff competition each month amongst some great stories.
LEGAL STUFF: By entering this or any challenge you are technically granting Aphelion: The Webzine of Science Fiction and Fantasy perpetual electronic rights only to post and archive your challenge entry. Aphelion would rather not lay any claim on the stories at all, but by posting them on a public site, they'd legally count as being published no matter what.
Ok. A real lawyer would have been less interesting. I tried.
Part I:
The Vanishing Stone
By:
Michele Dutcher
Wenvoe What’s On, monthly magazine
Wenvoe Wales
March 27th; 2013
New Mystery Near Tinkinswood Cairn
Due to unprecedented floods and mudslides Thursday night, strange skeletons seem to have been torn out of the hills near the megaliths, being carried past shocked bystanders this morning. Onlookers had been pointing at the wreckage of homes floating downstream when metallic skeletons were noticed. Policewoman Clement pulled a total of three of the armatures ashore.
They appear to be human-like metal chassis, no more than three feet tall, obviously artificially made.
The metal components were sent directly to the Celtic Research Centre at University in Aberystwyth.
The disturbing discoveries were, of course, the only talk of the local pubs and kitchen tables – giving residents a much-needed break from the sorrow over the recent fire in Cardiff Square which destroyed four turn-of-the-last century row-houses.
Saint Lythans, Wales 1378 A.D.
Miriam rushed up the path towards the monolith she knew was nestled at the top of Colby’s Knob. Holding her sister’s newborn close, she peaked into its blankets and saw the baby was sleeping peacefully.
“You’ll be better off anywheres but here, my little love.” Her gray-green skirt brushed along the dirt path as she grabbed onto the trunk of a small tree, pulling herself forward. “When I was a wee child, I saw my brother put a twig on the stone and watched it be gone away.” She was talking to herself more than the baby she carried, but the girl cooed in her sleep anyway. “The Connells just can’t feed one more mouth. If only you had been born a boy – we could have leased you out for farm-work.”
Miriam stopped suddenly as she reached the crown of the hill. In the cloud-covered moonlight, she could see a dozen men circling the Vanishing Stone. The megaliths that supported the horizontal stone shot twelve feet into the air. The Vanishing Stone itself weighed in at 40 tons. She could hear the men chanting.
“That is not dead which can eternal lie
And with strange Aeons even death may die.
Goat of a thousand young, come to us, we worship you.”
Miriam drew a deep breath, holding it, hoping these devotees would not see her hiding in the midnight mist. She began to back down the path, forcing herself to find her footing. Suddenly the moon shot out from behind a cloud and the baby began to wake. Now she and the men stood face-to-face. By the time she had turned to run, the worshipers were upon her, pulling the baby from her arms and dragging the pair towards the flat hut-like stones, which were snuggled into a manmade hillside.
The small, crying bundle was tossed from man to man until it reached the arms of a town official. He held it over his head as though offering the baby to the stars.
“Behold! We call upon the messenger of doom to slash with grim delight this victim you hath chosen. May your great black shape rise from the brackish pits and vomit forth pestilence upon our enemies and good fortune upon thine faithful.”
The official climbed a herring-bone stone embankment, placing the baby near the center of the crowning stone. All eyes watched as the ground beneath it began to illuminate and hum. The three standing stones were flashing now in synchronicity, faster and faster until the monolith was ablaze with continual light.
Suddenly the bundle was gone as well as the light. The darkness and the sound of crickets were all that remained. Than came brief shouts of victory from the men, and the quiet sobs of agony from the woman. The small band of men slowly left the site, leaving the monolith with its secrets.
But Miriam stayed behind a moment longer, her knees still too weak to hold up her body. And there, in the late night moonlight she saw what seemed to be three small children join hands by the stones and begin to dance with wild abandon. No, no, as she looked again, it became obvious were not children at all, but rather some species of fairy without wings. They danced, circling round and round, till they came to a huge boulder where a doorway suddenly appeared and they disappeared into the base of the mountain.
What appeared to be a small star exploded in the distance.
The End, Part 1
Part 2:
Vanishing Returns
By:
Bill Wolfe
Miriam’s eyes adjusted slowly after the bright flash of light from the sky. She hardly noticed, as her tears had blinded her.
“Poor wee babanod,” she whispered softly into the humid darkness. “What tortures have I caused ‘ye, child? Where did those sons of The Unholy send ‘ye?”.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a low moan from somewhere behind her. She froze, wiped her eyes, and slowly turned toward where she thought it came from. Nothing.
“Is someone there?” her voice was strained, timid. It seemed that the night simply swallowed-up the sound. That won’t do, she thought to herself. Won’t do at all.
She cleared her throat. “Who’s out there? Show yourself.”
The only answer was a rustling atop the Vanishing Stone. Miriam stood straight, smoothed her homespun dress and flicked an unruly black curl from her eyes before she marched-up to the precariously-balanced rock.
What at first looked like a pile of rags, moved. The moon came out again, and she could see that it was a young woman of about the same age and dressed in fine, sturdy traveling clothing. She spoke.
Whatever she said made no more sense to Miriam than a goose’s honking.
The woman noted her puzzled look, muttered an oath of exasperation, then reached into her cloak and touched what looked for all the world to be a small, red, burning ember held inside an oddly-shaped broach pinned to her blouse. It flickered for a moment and then faded-out. She spoke again.
“Allwch ch fy neall, nawr?”
“’Course I can understand you,” Miriam replied. “Now that you’re speakin’ proper.”
“Sorry. Forgot to turn-off my translator.”
“Turn-off?” Miriam’s confusion was plain. “‘Ya make no sense, girl.”
“Nevermind, I understand that something was. . . sent away from here just a few moments ago. Would you know anything about that?”
“Mayhap, I would. And what business might it be, of yours?” The stranger was sitting on the Vanishing Stone like it was no more dangerous than a church piew. And though she looked a bit like her younger cousin, married and moved on to Twyn-yr-Odyn, just down the road, she carried herself like an English noblewoman.
But the most shocking of all, from a sturdy belt around her waist hung a small, finely-crafted sword. She’d only seen one in her lifetime, and that was on a statue of the Archangel Michael, down at the Merthyr Dyfan Church. Not even King Richard’s tax men carried actual swords. She was so dumbstruck that she missed the woman’s next words.
“Beg pardon, Ma’am?” She stammered.
“What do you know of the baby girl who was sent through The Stone, here? And just a short while ago, by our calculations.”
Her tone and regal manner were undeniable. And though the stranger’s accent sounded like it could have been anyone in her family, she commanded, nonetheless.
It took Miriam only a few minutes to tell her tale.
The woman sat still on the stone’s edge, a single tear formed in the corner of her eye, but it didn’t slide down her clean, smooth cheek. Her sad look was replaced with a fierce anger that Miriam knew well from her own mother’s face. Instinctively, she flinched at the sight.
“You’re sure that the village elders said Goat Of A Thousand Young? Those were their exact words?”
“Yes, Lady. I’ll not forget it for a long time, I fear.”
“I believe you.” A look of resolve came to her face. “They will pay for this atrocity. I assure you. But first, show me where the three small faeries went through. There is homage to be paid.”
Miriam showed her the place. The woman removed the broach from her blouse and touched a green jewel on it. It shone in a color she had never seen, but reminded her of the greenish light of the glow worms of summer. The doorway she had seen before, opened without a sound. One moment there was nothing but solid rock, and the next there was an opening.
When three small shapes appeared in the doorway, Miriam lost her nerve, and ran. She stopped at the tree line, peering from the side of the bole of a huge, dead oak, and watched in the bright moonlight. All clouds had passed.
The regal woman sat crosslegged—childlike—upon the ground before the doorway, and spoke in low murmers to the three creatures. Miriam couldn’t catch the words, but she could tell that there was a sadness to the exchange.
Finally, she kissed each upon the brow and watched as they shuffled slowly, painfully, back into their den. Their joyous energy as they danced about the stones, was gone. They moved like doddering ancients. As silently as before, the rock was whole.
“I know you’re still out there, girl. Come here. Now!”
Miriam scrambled and knelt before the stranger.
“Oh, rise, you silly girl. What is your name?”
“Miriam, Ma’am. Daughter of Bekah.”
“We’ve work to do, Miriam. You will take me to your village and show me the men you remember from tonight. They will be dealt with before the dawn, I swear it.”
“And second. I am the child, your neice, that you brought here this very night in an attempt to save me. And I honor you for it. I am grown, now. For time is not the same where I went. Those three you just saw gave the rest of their lives to divert me to the place you would have sent me to, had those would-be minions of Shub-Niggurath not pulled me from your hands.
The Homibots are not alive like you and I, but caretakers for the transportation stones. They burned-out their own power satellite to override the. . .the incantation that those ignorant toadies of C’thulhu tried to use. The Caretakers will deactivate—die—with the dawn, because of it.”
“And your name, Lady?”
“Miriam, you should call me Marwolaeth.”
“Your name is Death?”
“Tonight, Miriam, I am Death. Lead on!”
The End, Part 2
