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Tag: Story on Demand
Quest Complete.
There! All three Stories on Demand completed — I hope to some sort of satisfaction.
I don’t know what it was, but I had a hard time with these three — and I’m not doing my normal level of self-back-patting.
But, there’s a value to delivering a product, even when you’re not in the mood, or feeling inspired.
Right, Gurney?
Most troublesome.
I killed him.
My quill almost snaps in my haste to write it down.
I turned into a mist, slipped under the door and stabbed him fourteen times with my claws. I cracked a nail on his sternum.
It was most troublesome.
He was a Nai-Elf — a mighty shaman of his tribe — come to meet with my employers. He plead his case most eloquently – the poison in the seas, the lowered birth rate of his tribe, the incalculable destruction of the natural world. The glowing tattoos in his blue skin, and the elaborate mirrored earrings and and bangles at his wrists and ankles made him savage and strange to the board — but it reminded me of home.
His breath stank of sardines and aged cheese. I hated to watch him wring his hands, so nervous and uncomfortable. My employers smiled, and laughed behind their hands at him — then nodded and said soft words. It made me angry to see this wise old elf disrespected. I rushed over as he stormed out, determined to salvage some measure of good will from the shaman – Mistress Karis’ derision and anger was a risk, but I couldn’t let him leave totally empty handed.
He was angry, but he heard me – the lines in his face softened. He thanked me for my concern, and placed both of his hands out in front of his face, in a Nai-Elf gesture of respect.
I saw his eyes casually look into the tiny mirrors at his wrist. Then widen, then dart to my face.
Shit.
I whispered the word, completely surprised. He realized that I didn’t have a reflection.
The shaman left , keeping his eyes on me as his hands reached for the door. He knew what I was — which meant his fate was sealed.
I felt regret looking down at his corpse — even as I fed on his strange blood. Just a taste, our of principle.
In short order, the body was discovered , and the captain — a good, decent man himself – put the ship on lockdown, seeking the murderer. My employers were annoyed by the inconvenience, completely untouched by the shaman’s death.
I had guarded my secret for too many years to let if fall now — my sire’s commands ring in my ears as loudly today as they did a hundred years ago.
I am the spawn of Zed – the Neclord himself, and I will not fail.
There is a commotion on deck — apparently a small ship has come alongside, a group of investigators perhaps?
I sit in front of the mirror, and imagine my face — a picture held in my mind. I make the picture smile kindly, I make the wrinkles fade.
A knock at the door – I leave to go make myself helpful.
– The Journals of Enton Blake, 21st of Arrowspan – 1179
[Story on Demand for Steven.]
Suddenly, Mermaid.
The white porcelain shone in the yellow-bulb light. Mark looked down at his hands, they hung over the edge of the tub – the tips of his fingers were white and bloodless. He slapped his hands against the sides, trying to awaken his flesh.
Mark didn’t know where he was. The tub was an older style, all white and round — but the room appeared to be a middle-range motel of some sort. The tub was full of ice, a brittle square line right below his nipples.
He felt his stomach turn. He’d heard the stories. Mark forced his hands down below the ice, feeling glacially for the fresh stitch marks, the gaping bloody hole.
There was no hole. Also, there were no legs.
Unbroken blue scales, starting from below his ribs running down into a trim point — three massive flapping fins at the end.
Mark screamed, hurling grocery-store ice all over the floor. His new tail spasmed, making even more of the cubes fly through the air.
He rocked back and forth in the tub, and finally managed to flip himself out onto the cold terra cotta floor. He could just spy his laptop bag through the cracked doorway, and he wriggled toward it. His new tail was difficult to control — he finally realized that the tail bent the opposite way of his old human knees, and then he was able to scooch more ably.
Mark clawed at the bag, blood and pain returning to his fingertips – and he fished out his cell. With the screen an inch from his face, he updated his status.
Mark Cotton – Best birthday ever!
Mark sighed happily, and pulled the tin of sardines he’d prepared from the side pocket.
[Story on Demand for Jason. As old comedian’s say — ‘It can’t be Christmas every day.’ Sorry that this was the best by beleaguered brain could manage.]
Whiskers and Chrome
Black screen, thunderous fanfare — followed by agonizing squeal of electronic fuzz.
In a world where every dog has his day….
Jump shots of a vast metropolis. Cars honking, police brutalizing a lemonade stand, a nun jumping off a 23 story building, a kid crosses the street and spontaneously explodes.
…and there’s a lot of fish in the sea….
Scientists and researchers mill around a cluttered laboratory. A stereotypically blonde and buxom researcher rips off her glasses and wails with concern.
“Professor, do you think this is wise? Do you think this is morally ethical? Is it right, Professor?”
Camera spins to the Professor, he is wearing a black leather jacket and has finishing a bowl of banana pudding. He throws the bowl to the floor,and rips off his dark glasses — revealing that his eyes glow a bright green.
“Dammit, Charlene — don’t question me. Not now — not you–not ever!”
The Professor’s voice continues over the next few shots.
“We needed something stronger, faster — more cunning. A machine that can bring order and peace back to our world gone mad. This mad world, full to the brim with madness.”
Shots of a machine being constructed. Metal being forged, wires being connected. The shadowy outline of some robotic killing machine.
“Synthesizing the instinctual algorithms of 75 alpha predators was easy — now we get to the hard part.”
The robot is active — quadra-pedal, pacing around a narrow enclosure. A slot opens and a small shoebox is pushed in by a long broom handle. Cut back to the Professor, putting back on his sunglasses.
“Now we need to teach it to be….a cat!”
Cut back to the shoebox. The robot leans over the box, red eyes burning. A quiet “Mew.” comes from within, and an orange kitten pokes its nose out.
Shot of the kitten and the robot touching noses.
When you let the cat out of the bag — you’ll need a little more than curiosity to kill it.
Quick shots of the robot pouncing on a schoolbus, running up a skyscraper, playing with the Statue of Liberty like it’s a ball of yarn. The orange kitten sits on its shoulder and purrs.
FALL 2012.
[Story on Demand for iwaurokoinko – wander over and deface his blog.]
Belated Story on Demand
Sorry that I didn’t deliver last week — so as a way of apology, I’ll write a short piece about all three Story Demands from last week. It may take me most of the week to deliver, but consider it a promise.
Story on Demand
Make me tell you a story. Drop a comment, and I’ll pick the shiniest idea and write a short scene piece of microfiction this weekend — just for you.
Glass Dogs
The latches of his guitar case were brass, but they hadn’t closed properly in years. The case was cracked red leather – an elaborate network of twine kept it shut for travel, and generally he had plenty of time before a show to tease loose the knots.
Running through the midnight streets, breathing hard, with seven ghost-faced dogs on his heels, Max wished he had scraped up the coin to get the latches fixed.
He tumbled over a cart full of purple pears, and watched as the guitar case went skidding across the cobblestone street. He ignored the cries of the cart’s owner, and the blood coming from his scratched hands, and crawled after the case desperately. He laid one hand on it, as the first dog skidded to a stop.
Someone had spent a pretty purse on their construction, brass tubes vented steam, and through its transparent skin Max could see the fierce engine cackling and turning. The dog’s hide was mostly turtle-glass, with strips of steel binding the seams and joints. It opened its crystal jaws, and growled – the sound of breaking crockery.
Max’s face stretched into a smile, and he ran a hand through his hair. It was silver-gold this month, and looked absolutely absurd and didn’t go with the electric blue of his long leather coat. Max had a deep, abiding belief in absurdity. I’ve got to get this damn case open, which means I have to…oh, Sid and Nancy.
He pulled his case close, and barreled his way towards the burning-glass dog, trying to angle his shoulder protectively.
Glass dogs are hard.
Max managed to carom off the construct’s left flank and spin into the street. Just in time to see the other six tear around the corner, and point their glass-snouts at him.
“Aaaaaaaah.” he said, quieter than he would have preferred. He was still sucking in air after hitting the first dog.
Max stumbled forward, and climbed up on the first high point he could find. A jewelry stand, made from a couple of boards stretched across two empty metal drums. The shopkeeper screamed at him, but fled upon seeing the glass dogs. Max quickly dug into the front of his black slacks, and fished out the small knife he kept for emergencies. He sighed as he laid the knife to the first knot. These are going to be a devil to re-tie.
The old guitar case popped open, dirty twine falling on top of his blazing green boots. It had cost a month’s wages to have them actually light up, but Max had never regretted the purchase. Great art, requires great sacrifice.
It was red. Strings and steel, and love and pain. His guitar.
Max pulled the strap over his head, and turned to face the seven glass dogs. He nodded to them, as courtly as a queen — and hung the travel amplifier from his belt. Thumb on the power switch, all the lights turned green.
The bard pulled the pick from behind his ear, and tightened his Gamma string. The lighting on this street was less than optimal, but for an impromptu performance it would have to do.
He could still put on a show.
Max raised his hand to the heavens, then brought the pick down across the strings.
A roar of sound – a beginning. Cracks appeared in the faces of the first two dogs.
A quick arpeggio to loosen up his fingers. One of the dog’s steam engines began to suck in exhaust — condensation and fire forming inside the transparent creature.
A moment of silence, to gather his audience in — the glass dogs howled and leaped forward.
Max momentarily considered his song choice. These were lifeless machines sent to tear out his throat, they didn’t really have a say in the matter. Maybe he should go easy on them.
Then he remembered the cut knots. And he smiled.
Max played ‘Eruption’ and the dogs exploded. A thousand shimmering shards of glass and steel flew backwards from his music. Max played his guitar in the midnight streets, and the glass dogs were no more.
“That’ll teach you to tangle with a rock and roll god.” he said to the rubble, and did his best to correct the tangle of his hair.
“Yeah. A god.” he added, and stepped down off the stage.
[A story on demand for HereThereBeSpiders. I hope you enjoy it!]
[Here’s a link to the Van Halen song I referenced, if you are woefully uneducated. ]
spell-sword.com 